He picks a bottle of vodka up off the counter, slugs down several gulps, then walks away from the girls. He doesn’t look at me at all, like he forgot I was even there.

The Queen Bees have forgotten about me, too. They’re staring after Nero, wistfully.

“He’s such an asshole,” Beatrice says.

“But he’s so fucking gorgeous,” Bella whispers, her voice low and determined. She’s staring after Nero like he’s a Birkin bag and a Louboutin heel all rolled into one.

While Bella’s consumed with lust, I take the opportunity to head off in the opposite direction, looking for Vic. Not seeing him on the main level, I have to climb the stairs and start peeking into rooms where people are either hooking up, snorting lines, or playing Grand Theft Auto.

The house is huge but run down. This obviously isn’t the first party it’s seen—the woodwork is gouged, the walls full of random holes. From the look of the bedrooms, I’m guessing several people live here—probably all dudes. The guests are a weird mix of slumming socialites like Bella and a much rougher element. I don’t like that my brother is mixed up with this crowd.

I finally track him down in the backyard, playing ping pong on an outdoor table. He’s so shitfaced that he can barely hold his paddle, not making contact with the ball at all.

I grab him by the back of his t-shirt and start dragging him out.

“Hey, what the hell!” he yells.

“We’re leaving,” I snarl at him.

“I don’t think he wants to go,” Andrew says to me.

I really despise Andrew. He’s a cocky little shit who likes to dress and talk like a gangster. Meanwhile his parents are both surgeons, and I know he got an early acceptance to Northwestern.

His future is secure. He gets to play around at being a bad boy, and when he’s tired of that, he’ll sail off to college, leaving my brother behind in the gutter.

“Get out of my face, before I call your parents,” I snap at him.

He smirks at me. “Good luck with that. They’re in Aruba right now.”

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll call the cops and report you for underage drinking.”

“Alright, alright, I’m coming,” Vic says blearily. “Lemme get my bag at least.”

He grabs his backpack out from under the pool table, almost tripping over his own feet in those ridiculous sneakers.

“Come on,” I say, impatiently hauling him along.

I drag him through the side gate, not wanting to walk through the house again and risk another meeting with Bella.

Once we’re back down on the sidewalk, I relax a little. I’m pissed at Vic for getting drunk though.

“You’re still going to work tomorrow,” I tell him. “I’m waking you up at seven, and I don’t care if you’re hungover.”

“Man, I hate that fuckin’ place,” Vic complains, shuffling along after me.

“Oh, you don’t like bagging groceries?” I snap. “Then maybe you should pull your act together and get a proper education, so you don’t have to do it the rest of your life.”

I stuff him into the passenger seat of the Trans Am, slamming the door to shut him in. Then I go around to the driver’s side.

“You didn’t go to college,” Vic says resentfully.

“Yeah, and look at me,” I say, gesturing to my filthy clothes. “I’m gonna be working in that shop forever.”

I pull away from the curb. Vic leans his head against the window.

“I thought you liked it . . .” he says.

“I like cars. I don’t like changing people’s oil and fixing their shit, then hearing them bitch and complain about the price.”

I turn onto Goethe, driving slowly because it’s getting late and the street isn’t very well lit.

Even so, Vic is starting to look a little green.

“Pull over,” he says. “I might puke.”

“Hold on a second. I can’t stop right—”

“Pull over!” he cries, jerking hard on the wheel.

“What the hell!” I shout, yanking the wheel straight again before we hit the cars lined up along the curb. Before I can find a good place to stop, red and blue lights flare up in my rear-view mirror. I hear the short whoop of a siren.

“FUCK!” I groan, pulling over to the side of the road.

Vic opens his door, leaning out so he can puke in the street.

“Pull it together,” I mutter at him.

Before I can do anything else, the officer has gotten out of his car and is knocking on my window, shining his flashlight in my face.

I roll down the glass, blinking and trying to moisten my dry mouth enough to speak.

“Have you been drinking tonight?” the officer demands.

“No, I haven’t.” I tell him, “Sorry, my brother is sick . . .”

The cop shines his light on Vic instead, illuminating his bloodshot eyes and puke-spattered shirt.

“Step out of the car,” the officer says to Vic.

“Is this really—”

“Out of the car!” he barks again.

Vic opens his door and stumbles out, trying to avoid the vomit. His foot catches on his backpack, pulling it out into the street as well.

The officer makes him stand with his hands on the roof of my car.

“Do you have any weapons on you?” he says as he pats Vic down.

“Uh-uh,” my brother says, shaking his head.

I’ve gotten out of the car too, though I’m staying on my side.

“I’ll just taking him home, Officer,” I say.

The cop pauses, his hand on the outside of Vic’s leg.

“What’s in your pocket, kid?” he says.

“Nothing,” Vic says stupidly.

The cop reaches into Vic’s jeans and pulls out a little baggy. My stomach sinks down to my toes. There are two pills in the bag.

“What’s this?” the cop says.

“I dunno,” Vic says. “It’s not mine.”

“Stay right where you are,” the cop orders. He picks up Vic’s backpack and starts rooting around in it. A minute later he pulls out a sandwich bag full of at least a hundred identical pills.

“Let me guess,” he says. “These aren’t yours either.”

Before Vic can reply, I blurt, “They’re mine!”

Shit, shit, shit. What am I doing!?

The officer looks up at me, eyebrow raised. He’s tall and fit, with a square jaw and bright blue eyes.

“Are you sure about that?” he says quietly. “This is a lot of product. A lot more than personal use. You’re looking at possession with intent to distribute.”

I’m sweating and my heart is racing. This is a huge fucking problem. But it’s going to be my problem, not Vic’s. I can’t let him destroy his life like this.

“It’s mine,” I say firmly. “All of it’s mine.”

Vic is staring back and forth between me and the cop, so inebriated and so scared that he has no idea what to do. I look him in the eye and give him the tiniest shake of my head—telling him to keep his mouth shut.

“Get back in the car, kid,” the cop says to Vic.

Vic climbs back in the passenger seat. The officer closes the door, shutting him inside. Then he turns his attention on me.