“God.” Lola shook her head. “Men.”

When our respective love interests returned, La stood and kissed Georgia on the cheek and said, “Come, my darling, we must go see a man about a dog.”

And then, finally, it was just us. Just us, and the universe.

Grace pulled me to my feet and we wandered, holding hands, through the crowd for a few minutes, waiting for the alcohol to seep back into our bloodstreams and return us to the blissful haze we’d been in thirty minutes ago.

I don’t know who led who, or if we both had the same idea, but suddenly we were in the dark corridor that ran up the side of the house. I leaned against the bricks to steady myself, and before I had time to really comprehend what was happening, Grace was on me, her mouth moving against mine, her fingers in my hair. And my first thought was, Damn. I don’t even know what song’s playing, but soon that didn’t matter, because Grace Town was kissing me and it was everything I thought it would be. The weeks of Does she even like me? melted away because she did, she must, she had to.

My drink was sloshing in one hand but I didn’t want to interrupt the kiss, so I wrapped my free arm around her waist and tried to keep the red soda from spilling down her back. We moved against each other like tessellating shapes. I wanted to pick her up and for her to wrap her legs around my hips but I was aware that people could see us and I didn’t want to be the couple that practically had sex in public.

The kiss went on for two songs, both of which I didn’t know, then Grace broke away and bit her bottom lip and looked at me like she wanted to tell me something, her palms pressed into my chest, but eventually she just said, “I should go home.”

“I can walk you, if you’d like.”

“Okay.”

I grabbed our bags and coats from Heslin’s little sister’s bedroom (there was a NO SEX IN HERE YOU FUCKING HEATHENS sign taped to the door) while Grace called her parents to let them know she was walking home, like she was trying to make it clear that when we got there, I wasn’t coming inside. Which was fine by me, really, because I’d never had sex before and I didn’t think being this drunk would be very conducive to giving a great performance, virgin or not. So I walked with her in the cold, not touching her, not holding her hand, the both of us brainstorming inane themes for the newspaper (“school spirit”? “the story so far”? “leave your mark”?) like we hadn’t been making out.

When we got to her place, she waved good-bye and said she’d see me on Monday and that was that.

Still drunk enough to be courageous, I messaged her as I wandered toward Murray’s house, which was easy enough to break into and way closer than mine.

HENRY PAGE:

Okay, Dusty Knupps. It’s probably pretty obvious by now that I kinda maybe sorta think you’re a babe.

GRACE TOWN:

Well, that’s good to hear! I wouldn’t have chased you if I didn’t feel the same way.

Good to hear, Knupps. Good to hear. I’ll keep you posted on stuff and things and whatnot over the weekend.

Haha yeah. Be good to hear about all the stuff and things.

Excellent. I shall ensure you’re well informed. Adieu, Mrs. Knupps. It was a pleasure.

Indeed it was, Mr. Knupps. Indeed it was.

“Muz,” I whispered when I got to Murray’s house and started tapping at his bedroom window. No one came to answer, so I lifted the window, hauled myself inside, and fell asleep, alone and fully clothed on Murray’s bed, thinking of Grace Town and how, if people really were assembled from pieces of the universe, her soul was made of stardust and chaos.

OUR PARENTS HAD become entirely accustomed to coming into our bedrooms in the mornings and not finding their own children there, but someone else’s. Murray’s dad, Baz (short for Sebastian, not Barry—he was always sure to tell people this when he introduced himself), roused me from sleep with the smell of bacon and coffee. I came to with my brain detached from its tethers. Whenever I moved, it moved, too, smacking around the inside of my skull like an angry jellyfish, stinging as it went.

I carried my thumping head out to the dining room, where Murray’s mom and three younger sisters were already sitting around the table.

“Morning, Henry,” the girls sang in unison, giggling as they went. They all looked like Muz, all blond perms and blue eyes (minus the seedy teenage ’stache, of course).

“Hush, hell beasts,” I said to them as I sank into a dining room chair and laid my forehead gently against the wooden table, which only made them giggle more. “Why is the sunshine so bright?” It seemed to be streaming in from everywhere, searing my vodka- and punch-soaked veins, burning through me like wildfire. “Maybe Dracula wasn’t a vampire, just a raging alcoholic who was constantly hungover.”

“Now, that is a story I would read,” said Baz.

“I don’t suppose you know where our child is?” said Sonya, Murray’s mom. Keeping my head on the cool wood of the table, I checked my phone. There were three messages:

LOLA LEUNG:

Right on goddamn schedule.

This was followed by a picture of a very drunk Murray, half-conscious and crying violently on Lola’s kitchen floor, hugging what appeared to be a plush kangaroo toy.

LOLA LEUNG:

(I put the kangaroo there for effect, but I’m not going to tell him that when I show him this picture in the morning.)

And then, at 4:03 a.m.:

MUZ FINCH:

I escaped Lola’s despotic rule. Your dad let me in to your house. I’m about to have drunk reconciliation sex in your bed. Hope that’s cool!

I closed my eyes and groaned. “That Australian bastard.”

“Henry,” said Baz, nodding to the girls. “Language.”