Her mother still hasn’t come home. Atlanta’s spoken to her a few times. Hasn’t told the woman about the money, because when Arlene hears that, she’ll be throwing open the front door fifteen seconds later. Atlanta doesn’t want her to come home. Not now. Not in the middle of all this. Meantime, Arlene told her a story about how Harley and his wife Tuyen (she’s Vietnamese) have twins and were having a helluva time watching those rambunctious little rug rats, so while Harley went over Mama’s “case,” she figured she could stay there and help out, and that’d pay for the legal consultation. Atlanta told her it was fine even though it was most certainly not fine, told her to have a good trip even though she felt pissed to high hell about it. She may not want her mother to come home, but she still wants her mother to want to come home. Atlanta hung up on her.

So tonight, she’s having a party.

That’s what kids do. They have parties when the parents are gone. They trash the house. They smoke and drink. They have sex in the parents’ bedroom. Atlanta’s never done any of that, and she figures it’s high time to start.

She envisions one of those parties where it’s wall-to-wall people, where the bass is booming and some wasted cheerleader is doing body shots out on the back porch, where somehow the couch ends up on the lawn and by midnight the dang thing is on fire—burning bright, bringing the cops, woop-woop.

Thing is, Atlanta is Atlanta. So the “party” ends up being six people and her, sitting around a small campfire, drinking peach schnapps and vodka and Yuengling beer. Oh, and one dog—Whitey snoozes at her feet. Sometimes on his back, showing his balls to the moon.

(Not exactly in fighting shape, this one.)

She invited Jenny, but no go. Jenny said she “doesn’t really like people anymore.” Which is a shame. Though just the same, Atlanta gets it.

Well, whatever. Party’s on.

Guillermo holds up a baggie. By the orange firelight it almost looks like a bag of little candies, and at first she thinks that’s what it is because he announces, “Yo, I brought trail mix if anybody wants any.” He shakes it at them. “Not sure what’s in here. Got Vikes. Oxy. Perks. Ehhh . . .” He shakes the bag, peers into it. “Maybe some Vitamin R?”

Eddie Peters—of the school’s Gay Mafia—makes a “hmm” sound, and he hops off the folding chair. He sets his beer down, then goes and lets Guy pour a couple pills into his palm. With a finger he starts poking through. He holds up a little blue pill that looks like home plate at a baseball game. “Is this Viagra?”

Guy squints at it. “Think so.”