I've been at Wallingford five years-since I got expelled from the seventh grade for making a knife in metal shop. But I wasn't being psycho like the girls here think. If some a.s.shole jock threatens to jump me after school because I made him look stupid in homeroom, I'm not going to just take the beating like a good little geek. My skinny a.s.s wouldn't have exactly won in a fair fight, so I didn't play fair.

My mother says that I don't think about consequences until it's too late. That might be true.

But seriously, most of the reasons why Wallingford girls think I'm crazy are stupid rumors. Like it wasn't my fault that after the school trip to France, everybody said I brought back the head of some guy who got into a motorcycle accident on the Rue Racine. Come on, anybody who believes that is a moron! How would I have gotten a head through customs? They won't even let in some Anjou pears. And painting my fingernails black is a cosmetic choice, not a symbol of my eternal devotion to Satan. It's also one of the only things I can do to get around the dress code-make-up is allowed and the handbook doesn't specify only on girls.

Yeah, so I guess you picked up on my lack of school pride. Want to know what Wallingford is really like? Each year, they have a fundraiser to restore Smythe Hall-that boarded-up eyesore I mentioned earlier-and each year the only thing that gets built is an addition on the Dean's house. That's also why we have to have our prom in our own banquet room. Sure, it's better than a gymnasium, but the public school kids get to dance and eat rubbery chicken in the ballroom of a Marriott.

It's not like I don't do any extracurricular activities, though. I'm the founder and president of the Wallingford gaming club-The p.a.w.ns. Our shtick is to break into empty cla.s.srooms and project Playstation games on the whiteboard or jerry-rig Doom 3 tournaments with our laptops. Sometimes we even go old-school and play paper-and-dice Dungeons and Dragons. It's my job to decide. That pretty much makes me Lord of the Losers. Which is great if you want a Phantom Blade with a Fiery Enchantment, but not so great if what you want is a date to the prom.

Luckily, my best friend, Danny Yu, V.P. and secretary of the p.a.w.ns, doesn't have a date either. There are many reasons why I love Danny, but the biggest one is that he's the only person at Wallingford as crazy as me.

Like one time, when he was home sick, he saw some daytime talk show that had a bunch of KKK members on and gave out the official website. So Danny flips open his laptop and sends them an email: I am very interested in starting my own chapter of the Klan. Can you tell me what thread-count sheets we should wear? I am very interested in starting my own chapter of the Klan. Can you tell me what thread-count sheets we should wear? A half hour later, he sends another one from a different account: A half hour later, he sends another one from a different account: Do you believe that white bread is racially superior to other breads? Do you believe that white bread is racially superior to other breads? They never emailed him back. They never emailed him back.

Come on, you can't blame that s.h.i.t on DayQuil. That's plain genius.

So it's the week before prom and we've already been shot down a couple of times. We're in Latin cla.s.s and we're supposed to be translating something about Dionysus. He's going over our seriously limited choices instead.

"I could ask Daria Wisniewski," he says. "She likes comics."

"She has that creepy doll with the goggles she takes everywhere. Odds on her putting it in a matching prom dress and bringing it along."

"It could be your date, then," Danny says. "Perfect."

"What about Abby Goldstein?" I list off the reasons this is a good idea on my fingers. "Hot. Redhead. Talked to me twice without actually needing to."

"Dude, she'd never go out with you. Not even if she had a nasty fetish and you were the only one discreet and desperate enough to take care of it."

"Very vivid-that fantasy of yours. Weird that it's about me, though."

"Boys," says Ms. Esposito. She's tiny, shorter than a sixth-grader, but not someone you want to p.i.s.s off. She drinks coffee all day long out of a thermos that has a French press built right into it. "How about you tell me what the Baccha.n.a.lia were?"

I stutter something, but Danny turns nonchalantly on his chair and smiles his most a.s.s-kissing grin. "The festivals of Bacchus, called Dionysius by the Greeks. People got drunk and had big orgies."

Some of the cla.s.s laughs, but not Ms. Esposito. "He was called Dionysius by the Romans and Bacchus by the Greeks, but otherwise essentially correct. Now, can anyone tell me what the Maenads were?"

We can't.

"No? Well, if we're going to continue reading the story of Orpheus, it's important to know. It was said that the mysteries of Bacchus inspired women into an ecstatic frenzy that included intoxication, fornication, bloodletting, and even mutilation. They would tear those not engaged in celebrating Bacchus limb from limb."

The cla.s.s is silent.

"Xavier, can you read the first paragraph in Latin?" Ms. Esposito asks. She looks satisfied, like she knows she can freak us more than we can freak her. As Xavier starts to read, Danny turns to me.

"Let's not go," he says.

I'm still thinking about wild women, streaked with mud and dried, black gore. In my mind, it's kind of hot. "What?"

"Let's get into our rented tuxes, take pictures with our parents, pretend we're off to get our dates, score a bottle of booze and do something dumb, something different." His kiss-a.s.s grin has not faded and I realize something about that smile. It's kind of smug. Charming but smug.

I'm torn. On one hand, it sounds like a pretty good plan. On the other hand, it's a plan I didn't come up with. "Let's break into Smythe Hall. Do some urban exploring right on campus."

"Genius." His grin widens into a smile and the naked, crazy girls fade from my mind.

The night before we're supposed to go, Danny calls me. "Um, dude. I feel like a d.i.c.k, but I have a date. I'm going to the prom."

I'm in my dorm room, downloading torrented episodes of Veronica Mars Veronica Mars and googling the old school. I was going to tell him that there were photos on Weird NJ of the place. I was going to tell him that supposedly someone remembered having a prom there. I had maps and everything printing in color off my inkjet. and googling the old school. I was going to tell him that there were photos on Weird NJ of the place. I was going to tell him that supposedly someone remembered having a prom there. I had maps and everything printing in color off my inkjet.

My hamster, Snot, runs on his wheel and I hear only the clack, clack, clack of the wire because I'm not speaking. Snot's been hiding the choice bits of seeds from his food bowl for the last half hour but now he's finally decided to kick his night into high gear. Lucky him.

"Who?" I ask.

"Daria," he says. "She asked me, man. And she has a friend who could go with you-"

I don't wait to see who the spare friend is that Daria Wisniewski's willing to throw in to sweeten the pot. I don't ask if it's her stupid doll. I just hang up the phone.

He calls back twice, but I just let the phone buzz. I look at the tuxedo hanging on the door of the closet. Inside, underneath the floorboard I pried up myself, is the half bottle of Grey Goose left from the ones I took from a pile of my parents' corporate gifts during the holiday break. Now it seems like there isn't nearly enough.

My roommate left for his dad's house this afternoon. He and his date are taking the SATs in the morning and then going straight to prom. I'm not sure if he thinks that's like foreplay or what. Anyway, I'm glad he's not here, because my eyes burn like I just got dumped.

I know I'm not supposed to cry over a guy standing me up. So I don't. But I have to practically break my knuckles against the brick wall outside my window to manage it.

By the time I get to the abandoned part of the school on prom night, I'm already drunk.

The good thing about living at a private school is that you already know how to break into places. You learn how to break into other guys' rooms to take their hot cocoa mix and soup cups. You learn how to break into unused cla.s.srooms because that's the only place you can really set up a bunch of computers for a tournament. If you're like Danny and me, you learn how to grappling hook out of your dorm room and break into the cafeteria because sometimes what you really need is a sandwich.

So, basically, I take off the hinges. No problem if you're sober, but it takes a while for me and I have to set down my bottle. Then I almost knock it over. It makes a hollow sound and sc.r.a.pes over the concrete. I s.n.a.t.c.h it up by the neck and stumble inside, leaving the door just leaning there, sagging from the k.n.o.b.

Inside, the dust is so thick that the cuffs of my pants are already white with it. The walls are wainscoted in wood, and along the water-streaked boards I see the outlines of where paintings once hung. I take another sip. The vodka no longer burns as it goes down. I feel like I'm drinking water.

I loosen my tie and a kind of giddiness comes over me. It's much cooler to be here than at the prom. I bet Danny forgot to get Daria a corsage and she's already resenting him. I bet they're taking stupid posed pictures in front of some kind of draped cloth and a vase full of red, red roses. I bet that the chicken is rubbery and the music is bad. I bet he's forgotten that we were going to wear tuxedos on our little breaking and entering expedition and had to rent whatever was left. I imagine him in light blue with a ruffled shirt. That makes me almost laugh out loud, but my smile turns sour when I realize that it would actually be funny funny and I see us both in them, exalting in our dorkitude. and I see us both in them, exalting in our dorkitude.

Maybe I should have just sucked it up and taken the pity date. I wonder if Danny is p.i.s.sed that I hung up on him, if he thinks that I'm afraid of girls. Suddenly, I'm morose. Being drunk by myself in an old building doesn't seem as edgy as it did moments before. It seems sad and a little pathetic.

Just then, I hear a sound down the hallway. I get up, clumsy with booze. My fingers and tongue are so numb that it's almost pleasurable to stumble. I know that it could be one of the rent-a-cops the school's probably crawling with or even one of the administrators but my drunk brain can't help conjuring up a girl. In my fantasy, she just got dumped by her jock boyfriend, she's stunningly beautiful, and she goes back to the prom with me on her arm.

I walk in the direction of the sound and I see candles flickering there. In the center of a large room, six robed figures funnel dark liquid into silver flasks. At their center is Ms. Esposito. I'm so surprised that it takes my brain long moments to catch up with what I'm seeing.

I stumble a little and they all look at me. The whole thing is so surreal that I start to laugh.

"Ave," one of them says. I walk a little closer and I see Xavier. He's second board in the chess club, which makes him a member of the p.a.w.ns.

I salute him with my almost empty bottle of Grey Goose.

"Potestatem obscuri lateris nescis," he said. Some of them laugh nervously.

I frowned, trying to figure out what he was saying. "Did you just tell me that I don't know the power of the dark side?" More laughter.

Xavier grins and turns to the others. "He's okay," he says. "He pa.s.sed the test. Besides, I can vouch for him. He's down. And besides, cornix cornici oculos non effodiet cornix cornici oculos non effodiet."

A crow doesn't rip out the eyes of another crow. Nice.

Looking at their faces, I suddenly realize I know them. It's the Latin Club. Diego, Jenny, Ashley, Mike, and David. And their advisor, Ms. Esposito. Geeks, one and all. My people.

"What are you doing?" My words come out slurred.

"Bringing Baccha.n.a.lia to Wallingford," said Jenny. "And you're going to help us."

I picture Jenny streaked with mud and blood, rolling around in an orgiastic frenzy, but the image doesn't stick.

"Quomodo dicitur Latine?" says Ms. Esposito.

I know that one. She wants Jenny to only talk in Latin.

"Paenitere," Jenny tells her.

It's then that I notice sequins at Ashley's throat under the robe and Mike's gleaming dress shoes. A crazy grin grows on my face as I realize they're wearing prom clothes. All this creepy s.h.i.t aside, I finally get it. They're going to spike the punch. This is a prom prank of epic proportions.

Danny won't be part of it. He'll be slow-dancing like an idiot. He'll feel left out.

"In vodka veritas," I say and tilt back my bottle, pouring the last of it down my throat. I choke a little, but I swallow anyway. In vodka is the truth. I'm sure I declined that wrong.

Ms. Esposito doesn't smile, but she does hand me a vial of the whatever-it-is. I'm thinking Everclear. "Nunc est bibendum," she says. Now it's time to drink.

They snuff out their candles and strip off their robes near a closet. The gleaming wood and lack of dust points to them meeting here before, maybe lots of times.

"Wow," I say drunkenly to Xavier as we cross the quad. "This is pretty awesome. I had no idea Latin club was so cool." And I hadn't. I'd always pictured the p.a.w.ns as the big geek rebels. I'm actually a little intimidated. I kind of want to join.

He grins. "Quidquid latine dictum sit, altum videtur."

That one takes me a while, but I finally figure it out. Everything's better when you say it in Latin. I restrain myself from rolling my eyes.

As we're about to enter the banquet hall, Mike turns to me and says, "Cave quid dicis quando et cui." Basically, be careful what I say.

My plan is to be careful where I stand. I'm sure I stink of vodka and I bet that my eyes are gla.s.sy. Any advisor gets a whiff of me and I'm going to get hauled out of here.

"Look," Xavier says, leaning close to me, and I'm startled to hear him speak English. "The rest of them probably don't care what happens to you, but I want to make sure you understand. That stuff in the vial is an antidote. Take a quick sip and you won't be affected."

"But . . . aren't we just spiking the punch?" I ask.

He laughs. "No way. Look around. People are drinking water and soda and energy drinks. No one drinks punch out of a central punch bowl any more. That's out of some eighties movie."

I look around. The theme of the prom is Under the Sea. Blue, white, and gold streamers hang from the ceiling and the tables are covered in sea-green chiffon cloth. Someone has spray painted real sh.e.l.ls gold and scattered them on the tables, hot-gluing them around napkin rings. Stenciled numbers mark the round tables. I think I see Danny across the room, sitting at one of them, next to Daria. He has his arm draped over her shoulders.

But Xavier's right. Servers are clearing plates of cake, but there's no table with a cake on it. No punch bowl beside it to spike. "Wait, so what are we doing exactly?"

"Dude, aren't you tired of the beautiful people lording over you?

Of course I'm tired of it. I nod.

He tilts his head toward the stage and the DJ. The shimmering lights of the dance floor reflect in the lenses of his gla.s.ses, obscuring his eyes. "They think they're so smart, but all they do is screw up, screw around, and screw off. Tonight, they'll see their own true natures. You'll love it. One steaming hot plate of revenge coming right up."

Across the room, I see Ms. Esposito lift her hands. She starts chanting and next to me, Xavier starts chanting too, with a wink in my direction. They're speaking low and I can't make out the words over the music. I feel weird, violent and too hot. I want to yell at Danny; I want to feel my knuckles bruise against his jaw.

Xavier smacks the side of my arm. I look at him and he's miming drinking something. I remember the vial in my pocket and take a sip. It tastes too sweet, like fortified wine. Immediately, I notice that I'm been breathing like I'm already in a fight. I shake my head. Everything's fine. I'm fine.

I turn toward the dance floor. Couples are grinding against one another, hands roaming over satin. Boys start unlacing their ties and shrugging off jackets. That's funny, I think.

Across the room, Jenny and Mike are leaving. Ashley takes a picture of the head master as he leans down to kiss Ms. Perez, our newest and youngest English teacher. Surprisingly, neither of them seem to notice the camera.

Behind me, Xavier laughs. I start walking toward where I saw Danny and Daria last.

Couples are no longer dancing-they're kissing and groping. A few have moved to lying on the floor together. The captain of the football team knocks the sh.e.l.ls and plates off the table and throws Missy Carthage on it. He climbs on top of her.

It's all happening so fast. Someone hits someone else. I don't see how it starts, but there is a sudden knot of fighting.

The music has stopped and only human sounds fill the silence. The camera flashes again.

"What's happening?" someone asks. There's a girl in a shimmering green dress with one sleeve and a heavy ruffle on the bottom. Her hair is spiked up and saturated with glitter and her eyes are heavily outlined in black kohl, but her skin looks blotchy around the neck like she's getting hives. She slouches against the doorway.

She doesn't even go to this school.

"You should leave," I say, but then a boy catches her hand and pulls her into a kiss. She groans.

I grab her hand and pull her back to me. The boy lets her go and she slides into my arms. Her mouth comes against mine and we're kissing. I've only kissed three girls before and none of them kissed me like this, like they never wanted to stop, like they don't care about breathing. I pull back from her and she frowns, like she doesn't know where she is.

I shake my head, but that just makes me dizzy. The floor is carpeted in sequined gowns and black tuxedos. On top of them, bodies move together. I see the math teacher, Mr. Riggs, among them, writhing around with Jacob White and Nancy Chung. Amy Gershwin's purple bra is around her waist, like a belt, as she crawls toward them.

Across the room, three cheerleaders corner another cheerleader and swipe at her with their long, manicured nails. Scratches mark both her cheeks.

I stumble forward and see Danny. He's lying half-underneath a table, kissing Hannah Davis, who turns and kisses Daria Wisniewski. None of them are very dressed. Hannah is wearing Wonder Woman underpants.

There's a part of me that figures Danny deserves whatever happens to him at that point. I know it's an a.s.shole thing to think, but isn't this what he hoped would happen at one of the prom afterparties anyway? Would he really have turned down a threesome with two girls? I mean sure, everyone is going crazy, but aren't they just giving in to what they really desire? Isn't he?

And it's not like I could stop him.

Then I think of the vial in my pocket. There's still some liquid in it. But then, maybe he wouldn't want me to stop him.

"Danny," I say, still not sure. I want him to do something that will make him familiar again.

He turns toward me and his face is blank with desire.

I take out the vial, because I don't care what he wants or if he deserves it. I just want him to be Danny again.

"Drink some," I say, but he's kissing Daria and not paying any more attention. I get down on the floor. Someone is pulling off my jacket. I let it go.