And this is when Brodie looks over at me. And even though it's dark, and the moonlight a cool blue, I think he can tell that my face is Pink-Panther-insulation-pink. "It, um-" I start, feeling even hotter than before.

"Somebody's drunk," Kellen says to Brodie.

"It doesn't look like a dick," I finish.

And Brodie's face falls.

"Yet," I add, and pick up the tape gun.

Brodie stops directing the operation, stands out of the way while I work. I wrangle the column of insulation in with more rounds of tape and then have Kellen add another layer around Abe's top hat and secure it in place.

An audience gathers: Challis, the Redneck, Michael, Holland, Ashley Quincy, and Hailey Beth Johnston.

"That's my dick," Brodie announces. "True to scale."

This gets the girls giggling and Challis gagging.

"Man, if that's your cock," the Redneck says, "I feel sorry for your girlfriend."

Brodie takes this as a compliment, and Ashley turns cherry red.

But it wasn't meant as a compliment, and the Redneck tells him so. "The head's all deformed."

Kellen and I step back from our work-well, he steps and I totter.

"It still don't look like a dick," he tells me.

He's right. There's a tuft of pink fluff sprouting from a corner of Abe's hat like a cancerous growth.

"I can't reach that part," I defend my work.

"And the chicks like big head," the Redneck suggests.

"Not me," Challis chirps.

But I doubt her vote counts.

So Kellen adds more stuffing to Abe's head and hat area, and I tape it down in a generous manner.

"It's still got a disease," the Redneck advises.

I roll my eyes at Kellen.

"And it kinda needs a slit," Kellen whispers.

My face bushes hot.

"Get on my shoulders," Kellen says, crouching down like he's on the line of scrimmage.

I just stare at him. This isn't a football game and I don't have a ball. Just a tape gun.

"Climb onto my shoulders, dude. So you can reach."

"Oh," I say, then silently wish I had a crush on Kellen and his shoulders-which I was about to sit on. Sit on!

I'm not a cheerleader and not used to climbing on people. So I put the tape gun down, for safety purposes-not wanting to knock Kellen unconscious with it. Then I swing one leg over Kellen's back, and he shifts under me. I grab at his head for balance, get my other leg in place.

He stands without a grunt, as if my weight were simply the first rep, easy as pie on his massive quads.

I gulp down a wave of nausea as my perspective on the world changes and my stomach lurches. "Tape gun," I say instead.

"Tape gun, Brodes," Kellen echoes, pulling Brodie from a lively conversation about the details of his dick.

From my perch on Kellen's shoulders, which are most certain to win awards for steadiness, I sculpt the top end of our sculpture to a dome of perfection.

"Sweet," Brodie calls up.

"Now it looks like my cock," the Redneck informs us. He has an audience-the others, Mason included, have returned from chalking the gym wall and have formed a half circle around the masterpiece.

"Naw, man. It's mine," Brodie counters.

"Looks like mine," the Redneck says. "Right, babe?" He nudges the girl next to him who shoots him a look of daggers.

"I modeled for it," Brodie says.

For a minute I think they both might just whip them out.

Kellen reaches up for the tape gun and then bends his knees so I can slide down.

My Chucks hit the ground and then, surprisingly, my ass does too. Which triggers a giggle fit that sloshes the contents of my stomach. I grab Kellen's outstretched hand and let him pull me to my feet. Now standing, I look up. See Kellen's beautiful, square-jawed face, messed-up hair, and a giant phallus almost growing from his head, and burst into another fit of laughter.

"You okay, Jamie?" Mason asks.

I stagger a few feet. Nod.

The motion doesn't help the dizzying concoction of thoughts, vodka, and red Gatorade.

Mason touches my shoulder.

I clutch my stomach, trying to stop the spin.

"Jamie," Brodie's voice swims toward me. "You gotta put the condom on."

This is so out of context-and so far in the gutter-that everyone joins in laughing.

But my stomach isn't game. It spins like a carnival ride. And I lose an epic battle to keep the contents inside. Mason sees what is happening and jumps back just before my stomach heaves and a fountain of liquid gushes out, sickeningly sweet and bitter at the same time.

"You should probably sit down," Mason says, steering me away from the damp spot I made in the grass. He sits next to me, close enough that I can feel the heat coming off his skin contrast with the cool night air.

I watch Kellen and Brodie wrap my masterpiece in a condom of immense proportions made from clear plastic bags and packing tape.

"Dude, you need to lay off the booze," Mason says.

"I didn't know," I protest.

"Just joshing you, Jamie," he says, and drapes an arm over my shoulder. His hand rests on the back of my neck, his thumb on my bare skin.

"You don't think I'm a total wuss?" I ask, keenly aware of his touch.

"Nah," he says, and moves his thumb across my skin in the slightest caress.

I attempt to ask a second question, but his touch and my thoughts swirl together in a dizzy, drunken mess, and I imagine we're dancing to "Kiss Me Slowly," his arms around my neck, my arms around him. I real-life lean closer to him, catch his eyes with my own.

He doesn't back away.

I have half a buzzed thought to kiss him before I snap back to reality. God, I so shouldn't drink alcohol. It makes me crazy. Mason is not gay-he very clearly said so. Okay, not said, but kissed a girl. With tongue. He does not want to kiss me.

Mason looks away, or rather, up.

I follow his gaze and find Challis standing over us, one eyebrow arched.

Mason's hand falls from my neck as if we were really up to something.

Challis sits and hands me a half-empty bottle of water. I take it but give her a questioning look.

"It's water," she says.

I unscrew the cap and drink.

"You didn't drive here, did you?" she asks.

"Nah," I say. I didn't want my car at school if the cops showed up. "My car's at Mason's. We walked."

"We're gonna crash at my place," Mason says.

Challis's eyebrows shoot up.

"Let's just say my mom has no clue I'm here." I shoot her a look to explain that she's reading way too much into this.

"No, I-" She starts to apologize, then stops. "You shouldn't be driving tonight. That's all."

"Yeah," I agree. Then together we say, "No more Jordan Polmaskis."

Challis takes out a pack of cigarettes. She shakes one out and offers them us, but Mason and I shake our heads.

The finishing touch to the sculpture is a single sticker, classically black-and-white by design, reading: Just wear it.

My giggle fit strikes again when Brodie won't let Kellen put additional stickers on the sculpture. "It's a work of art," he says. "It only needs one plaque-art speaks for itself."

"But-" Kellen says, a sticker without a backing in his hands.

"Here," Brodie says, and takes it from him. Then with a mischievous grin, reaches around and slaps the sticker across Kellen's ass. It lands on one pocket, the condom shape pointing suggestively at its target.

Kellen's face flickers with annoyance, but he's too much of a man to be scared off with a little gay reference.

I burst out laughing.

"I love you, man," Brodie tells Kellen.

"And that"-Kellen points at Abe-the-condom-covered phallus-"looks like you, dude, not your dick."

"I can't believe we're doing all of this and we're not going to be at school tomorrow," Challis tells me. "We won't see everyone's reactions."

I fold up my knees and wrap my arms them. It's suddenly cold.

"Yeah," Mason says. "I'd like to see Mr. Purdy's face when he sees Abe."

"Totally," Challis agrees.

"Eden will tell us," I say.

"Eden's going to school on senior skip day?" Challis asks.

"Yeah, her parents. Hey, you wanna be in the pictures?" I ask, pointing to the gathering crowd.

"Why not?" she asks with a smile. She stands up, puts her cigarette between her lips, and offers me both hands.

I take them and she pulls me to my feet.

The three of us join the crowd around the pink, condom-ed sculpture. We lean into the frame while Hailey Beth takes a photo.

"Jamie!" Kellen shouts. "Get in the middle, man. This is your work of art." He tugs me front and center and wraps a beefy arm across my shoulders.

TWENTY-SIX.

"Wake up, sunshine," someone says, shaking my shoulder. "Road trip!"

I roll over and look up. Mason is peering down at me because I'm lying on the floor of his and Gabe's room in a sleeping bag. I flop one arm over my eyes. "I've got a headache."

"Too much Gatorade?" he asks. "Or not enough?"