“Bottoms up!” says Shamir, and he hands Chase a cup. They clink their drinks, and I watch Chase down his and look like he’s gonna puke. While I pray vomit isn’t in my future, it’d probably be worth it to hear “You are a very cool girl, Larissa Bogdan” over and over again in my dreams.

Never mind it’s Jasmine who taught me how much it can mean to offer to be DD.

I am definitely not thinking about that.

I am not thinking about her at all.

Chapter Five

I get home fifteen minutes after my midnight curfew, but the deal is as long as I text before twelve to say I’m fine and running late, I’m OK. I’d texted at a quarter to, when it was obvious that driving a plastered Chase home in his car with Shannon following in hers to bring me home afterward wasn’t going to be without time delays, so I’m in the clear. But when I let myself inside and find my mom up and waiting on the living room couch, I worry that I’ve misstepped.

I’m even more concerned when she asks, “How was Jasmine’s party?” as soon as I close the door behind me.

“Good,” I say cautiously, positive I never told her exactly what I was doing tonight. “How’d you know it was Jasmine’s party?”

My mom has a very knowing smile that I absolutely hate, and there it is. “You think she planned that whole thing on her own in a single week? Please.”

“Ugh.” I drop onto the other end of the couch and pry off my strappy sandals. “You being involved in my social life to that extent is officially weird.”

“But it was a good party, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” I grudgingly admit. I should’ve guessed my mom had something to do with it when I spotted the pickle-flavored potato chips. My mom is always trying to make those happen. She’s convinced if people just tried them, they’d fall in love. So far, she’s converted exactly no one. I’m pretty sure that bowl was still seventy-five percent full when I left, and I’d eaten most of it. What can I say? I’ve gotten used to the taste. My mom loves pickled everything and her Russian genes run strong. “But it would’ve been better at Hunter Ferris’s house.”

“Because I wouldn’t have had anything to do with it?”

“Because Jasmine has been kind of a bitch ever since she got to Stratford.” Somehow, without any drinks in me, the words I’ve been dying to speak come loose. “She’s trying to pretend we were never friends—don’t ask me why.” No, really, don’t ask me. “She’s barely acknowledged we’ve met before this.”