Not quite so neat and tidy as the saying would have you believe.

But I said, “I might have a drink or two,” because I had a feeling Grace would be drinking and I wanted to do that with her, to watch her as she sipped her alcohol and observe the way it changed her. I wanted to know what kind of drunk she was. Angry? Probably. Flirty? Probably not. Sad? Almost definitely.

“I can get us drinks,” Grace said, and I said, “Cool,” again and then the bell rang and she packed up her stuff and left without another word.

One thing was clear: only five short weeks after I’d met her, Grace Town was already stuck on repeat in my head.

• • •

Fall had kicked into high gear by the time Friday afternoon rolled around. The sunshine had a hazy quality to it, tinted by the gold and orange leaves that sifted down from the trees whenever the breeze blew. Everything for the party had been organized: the booze, the location (Heslin’s parents were out of town for the weekend—so cliché, but whatever).

All there was to do was tell my parents my plans for the evening, which went something like this:

Me: “Father, I intend to engage in illegal underage drinking again tonight.”

Dad: “Good lord, Henry. It’s about time. Do you need a ride?”

• • •

Someone had decided it was a good idea, and our rite of passage as seniors, to drink on the school football field before migrating to Heslin’s for the party. By the time I arrived, around sunset, half a tub of punch had already been consumed by the stumbling attendees. And when I say tub, I mean a legitimate bathtub that someone had bought or stolen from somewhere and filled with a concoction of cheap vodka, even cheaper wine, and “fruit drink” (high schoolers don’t have the cash for actual juice).

Grace was there when I arrived, sitting cross-legged by herself against a tree at the edge of the field, her cane resting across her lap. There were two plastic bottles in front of her, one empty, the other half-full of some strange pastel yellow liquid.

“Henrik,” she said when she saw me. I don’t remember at what point we’d assigned each other Germanic/Russian nicknames, or why, but we had, and I loved it.

“Evening, Grakov,” I said.

“I procured you an instrument of intoxication.” She handed me the empty plastic bottle and nodded toward the tub of punch, from which Murray was drinking with his bare hands while he gave a demonstration to a small crowd of onlookers on the correct safety technique of drinking from crocodile-infested billabongs. When attending public gatherings, he tried to wear as much “safari clothing” as possible, in an effort to evoke Steve Irwin and support the notion that he was some kind of bushman. Tonight his hair was tied up in a messy bun and he wore a large tooth on a necklace. A lot of girls looked very impressed.

“So when you said, ‘I’ll get us drinks,’ you actually meant, ‘I’ll search through my trash for a used bottle’? I feel betrayed.”

“Two used bottles, my friend. It took me all day to track down these babies. Plus I scored this,” she said, pulling a silver flask from inside her bra (lucky flask). “Now go get a beverage.”

The punch was already a little worse for wear. Several bugs had come to a tragic yet poetic end in it, not to mention the log Muz had floated in its sickly yellow depths to represent his reptilian nemesis. But I didn’t care. I sank my empty bottle in and waited for the bubbles to disappear. I took two huge gulps—almost half the bottle—then sank it back into the punch again for a refill. I didn’t want to get “salmon eggs” wasted, but I wanted the alcohol to loosen me up a little.

Lola came bounding over to me as I screwed the cap back on my bottle of hooch, her girlfriend, Georgia, at her side.

“Touch me, Henry Page,” Georgia said, grabbing my free hand and pressing it to her cheek. This was her standard greeting, which tells you pretty much all you need to know about Georgia McCracken except that she a) was a pocket-sized redhead with a spray of freckles across her pale face and b) somehow had the lilted remnants of an Irish accent despite never having lived in Ireland.

“Hey, G,” I said, hugging her loosely because she was so small, I feared a real hug would snap her spine. “How’s small-town life treating you?”

“Watch Swamp People. It’s pretty much a documentary on my life.”

“Yikes.”

“Oh boy. It’s gonna be an interesting night,” said Lola, taking a long swig of her drink, then nodding at something behind my shoulder. I turned to spot Murray talking to and clasping the hands of a very unimpressed-looking Indian girl. Sugar Gandhi. “That boy does not know when to quit.”

“Shit,” I said. “Somebody set their alarm for a one-a.m. emotional breakdown. La, I believe it’s your turn to provide support? I handled the last one.”

“Fuck” is all Lola said, which meant she knew it was her turn. She took another large swig of her drink, entwined her fingers with Georgia’s, and said, “Let’s intervene now before he starts singing Bollywood love songs to her again.”

“Why? What’s more romantic than a little casual racism?” said Georgia as Lola dragged her toward Sugar Gandhi, who was now glaring at me like I was somehow accountable for Muz’s terrible behavior. I shrugged and tried to look apologetic and then walked back over to Grace. By the time I sunk to the ground next to her, I’d downed another quarter bottle of punch and could feel the strange yet familiar warmth of intoxication radiating from my chest down to my thighs.

“It’s going to be a good night,” I said. I leaned back against the tree, my shoulder pressing into hers, my words sparkling on the tip of my tongue, my mouth already feeling a size too small for my face.

I was sufficiently drunk by the time we walked to Heslin’s, so I don’t actually remember how we got there or who carried the bathtub (with Murray in it).