“What have you decided?” I ask. She’s already past tipsy, and she’s leaning most of her weight on me.

“I have decided—why don’t you have a drink? Let’s get you a drink.” She yanks me by the arm through the crowd of kids. Most of the party has gathered in the living room, where the sofa has been shoved to one side to make space for a kind of dance floor. In a regular house it would have felt ridiculously cramped—half of Bramppath seems to be here. Luckily, Florence’s “rental” is a mansion by another name, so it’s basically like being in a club. At least, I think it is, if the movies are anything to go by. She’s even hired a DJ, who’s set up his spin table right next to the sprawling archway that connects the kitchen to the lounge room.

The kitchen is where Eleanor drags me. “I’ve stashed a bottle in here,” she yells over the music. “You good with vodka?”

“I think I might just stick with soda,” I say. “The warning on that permission slip rattled me a little.”

Eleanor blows a raspberry. “What, the zero-tolerance thing?” she asks. “Everyone in this house is drinking. What are they gonna do, expel all of us?”

Well, she has a good point. Safety in numbers, right? So, I shrug, and she grabs one of about a dozen half-empty Coke bottles littered over the counter and pours some vodka in a red plastic cup for me. “I’ve decided I’m over Santi,” she says as she mixes my drink.

“What? Why?”

She gives me a funny smile. “Because he doesn’t like me. Obviously.”

Well, I thought the last time I saw them together he seemed kind of interested. And she’s always coming back from play rehearsal with little stories about him saying hi to her, or picking up something she dropped. But if Eleanor has a gut feeling, who am I to argue? Maybe the guy has no taste. His loss.

She passes me the cup, and I try it. It’s too strong for me, but that sad, bitter feeling from earlier hasn’t really gone away, and if I’m going to have to avoid Rose all night, I’d rather not be sober for it. So, bottoms up. “Screw him,” I tell Eleanor. “He’s not meant for you.”

“Agreed,” Eleanor says, raising her own cup.

“This is good! Now you’re making space for The One to come along.”

“I don’t want anyone to come along,” she says. “From now on, my priority is my friends. I don’t need a boy in my life to be happy.”

“Wow. You’ve grown up so fast in the last … week,” I say.

“I think I’ve had a growth spurt.”