Before Kyle can respond, the doorbell rings. “I’ll get that!” Alex says, and moments later a flood of vaguely familiar people we’ve all sort of known since kindergarten trickle in.

“Make yourself at home,” Kyle says, but his voice is drowned out by laughter and banter, and soon, our new guests have found the kitchen and the beer.

After that, it’s a near-constant stream of people coming through the door. Some ring the doorbell. Others don’t. Someone helps themselves to Kyle’s parents’ sound system, and soon music is pumping through every room of the house.

Me, Hannah, and Clem laugh ourselves silly as we watch Kyle try to rope off the upstairs using an old winter scarf.

A few people from Prism seem a little startled by the crowd at first, but apparently underage drinking and the end of the school year are the ultimate unifying factors for teenagers everywhere.

“Am I at the right party?” a voice behind me asks.

I turn to find Tucker, freshly showered with still-damp hair and a six-pack of root beer dangling from his fingers.

Kyle rushes between us, one second away from asking someone to take their shoes off in the living room, when Tucker hands him the soda. “I wasn’t really sure what to bring, but I thought I should contribute.”

Kyle gasps, momentarily distracted from his mission. He clicks his tongue. “A host gift! How thoughtful! Let me put this on ice.”

Tucker shrugs and Kyle’s off again.

“Well, he’s going to love you forever and ever as long as you both shall live,” I say. “If you leave now, there might still be time to escape him.”

“Nah,” says Tucker. “I’ll take my chances.”

A swarm of guys led by Bryce walks past us and someone pats Tucker on the back.

“What’s up, man?” he asks, and bumps fists with basically the whole football team.

Once they’re gone, I hold my fist up. “’Sup, bro?”

Tucker goes to bump my fist, but instead his fingers snake around my wrist. He tugs me toward the back door. “Come on, let’s see what’s going on out here.”

He drags me behind him and I think my whole heart is in my throat, because a boy—no, Tucker Watson—is holding my hand in front of practically our whole class. I guess technically he’s leading me by the wrist, so maybe it doesn’t really count as hand-holding, but it mother-freaking counts for something, because from across the room where Clem and Hannah sit curled into each other on the couch with red cups in their hands, my sister points at me, her jaw slack.

Holy shit, she mouths.

Twenty-Five

Outside on the patio table, the umbrella has been removed, and there is a very intense game of beer pong happening. And if my eyes don’t deceive me, at the center of it all, Alex is surrounded by half the baseball team as they cheer him on. “I’m going to kick so much beer-pong ass in college!” he shouts.

In the deep end of the pool, a few guys are competing to see who can land the biggest cannonball while two girls sit on the edge, giving scores on a scale of one to a million. And in the shallow end, the cannonball waves lap over Callie and Mitch while they make out partially clothed. Like me, Mitch has a flabby chest that is clearly visible through his T-shirt, but that’s definitely not stopping him now.

“Get a room!” someone shouts.

Tucker and I settle onto a set of lounge chairs in a darker corner of the yard, where a small cluster of people are passing a joint. It’s shocking to me that this whole side of high school has existed right under my nose. What else have I missed out on? I feel like I’ve only been with these people while we’re under adult supervision, but something about being at this party levels the playing field, so it’s almost not even a shock to see Alex reign over a whole bunch of jocks and Mitch getting it on with one of the hottest girls in school.

“You want a drink?” Tucker asks. “I’m going to grab a soda. You can drink around me, by the way. I just . . . don’t. Save my seat?”

“Yeah, sure. I guess I’ll take a beer.”

The moment he’s gone, Clem comes out of absolutely nowhere. “Um, hi,” she says, her breath warm and boozy. “What aren’t you telling me? Did something change on the way home last night?”

I cover my face with my hands. “Nothing.” I shake my head. “Everything, but really nothing. But go, go, go before he comes back.”

Hannah tugs at her hand. “Don’t ruin your brother’s game. Come on.”

Clementine pouts. “Fine, but I want details later.”

“Details later,” I promise. “Go, go, go.”

“Okay, but first.” She holds my head and presses our foreheads together. “You’re a badass. You’re perfect. You’re a work of art. You’re fierce. You’re probably Mom’s favorite. I’m a little bit drunk. And there’s oregano in your teeth.” She boops me on the nose with the end of her braid and disappears into a crowd of people.

“Shit,” I mutter and rub my thumb over my teeth, hoping that does the trick.

When Tucker returns, he hands me a red cup and stretches out beside me.

We lean back and I sip on my beer, which I’ve never really cared for, but tonight the crisp frothiness of it feels just right, and I think I might be getting a contact high from the cluster of stoners. Being here with all of these people makes me feel microscopic. Almost like I did at the Hideaway. Like I’m a tiny part of something much bigger.

“I have an idea,” I say after a few minutes of staring at the canopy of lights until they become one massive starry blur. “I think we should dedicate one whole wall on campus to truth. A place where anyone—absolutely anyone—can write a secret or a truth or a wish or a hope.”

Tucker swings forward so that he’s straddling his lounge chair and raises his soda can. “Okay . . . that could work. We could even have a group of students sign up every semester to repaint the wall.”

“A clean slate,” I say. “And you can write anything. A misconception about yourself. How you wish people would treat you. Who you really are.”

“Yes! We gotta get with Mrs. Leonard on Monday. I love this idea. It’s so simple.” He clinks his can against my cup and then takes a drink. “Cheers to us.”

“To us,” I say. The word us catches in my throat.

“About last night,” he says, his voice fragile. “I’m sorry if my dad was rude. He’s not himself when . . .”

“It’s okay. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“He hasn’t been himself since . . . you remember that my mom died back in middle school, right?” he asks softly, and almost like he’s a little embarrassed to be doing this at a party. “I always expect people to just know and sometimes they don’t, so it’s easier when I ask even if it’s a little awkward.”

“Oh,” I say, suddenly remembering him being gone for a few weeks and a few different churches in town raising money for expenses and Mom signing up for meal trains. “I do remember now. . . . Wait,” I say. “It was a car wreck, wasn’t it?”

He stares down into his soda can, swishing it around, and his lips curl into a sad smile. “Eighteen-wheeler swerved. She died instantly. He lived.” He sighs and his jaw twitches. “And because he feels so bad about the living part, he’s slowly drinking himself to death.”