“It’s not up to me,” my mom says stiffly, taking the phone to her ear and sitting cross-legged on the pile of dirty clothes she hasn’t dealt with yet. “Nurse’s code says respect human dignity, that the primary commitment is to the patient.” I can’t hear what my aunt is saying anymore. I hear the spin cycle instead. “No, it isn’t,” my mom argues. “Well, I’m sorry you can’t get your donation back, but—”

Now the sound of tears, or a dripping faucet: my mom, the leaky sink, all of us part of a house that needs repairs.

“Fuck!” she suddenly shouts, startling me so thoroughly that I crouch down more. “Fuck!” she yells again. Then her cell phone hits the tile floor. Smack. I don’t know what to do. Fortunately, my organs function very well on their own: Throat swallows spit, heart keeps pounding. A few seconds later my phone vibrates, lighting up the darkness in my room.

A You coming?

H We’ve been out here so looooong

sry yes! C

I make sure my mom’s back is turned, and then I sprint on my tiptoes for the stairs. It’s not an easy feat, being fast and quiet, but I manage stupendously. I’m just another animal that has to survive somehow.

Dear Universe,

Do you ever feel like you live in two universes? I guess that doesn’t really apply to you, but it’s okay. I’m talking to me anyway. One universe is the sick stuff, and the other universe is school and parties and boys and best friends. I’m getting whiplash from traveling so quickly between them. Maybe I need a body double. Or something to bring them together, but not worlds colliding. Please, God, not that. It ends up being that I’m one-third in one universe, and one-third in the other, and one-third here with you. It’s just a little unfair, you know? I didn’t ask to be part of two universes, but given the options, can you guess which one I’d choose to set up camp in?

“Oh my god, look at Jared’s tight little ass,” Abigail squeals as we pull up to Gene’s house and park behind the cars lined up along the road. To our right, Jared is mooning the basement window, beer in hand and pants down by his knees.

“Looking good,” Abigail calls. Then we all sink into the seats and laugh.

“Ready for this?” Hilary asks.

“Really freaking ready,” I say.

After we give our car keys to Gene’s parents, we head for the basement, “Come on!” Abigail says, linking her arm in mine and leading me down the stairs. There’s an energy in the room, where a lot of people are already seeming a little drunk. It’s a silly We’re gonna get loose tonight type of energy that feels contagious, like malaria or insecurity. I can’t wait to catch it.

The recently finished basement smells like new wood and a clean carpet. There’s a dartboard and a foosball table and a TV in the corner with a wraparound couch. Gene and Doug are dragging a folding table to the center of the room and putting the alcohol underneath it. Gene comes over when he sees me.