Except, the Thompsons’ house was huge, one of the biggest in Green Creek (next to Shianne’s), making supervision this fluid thing. Either the parents stayed in the exact same room as us at all times, or they didn’t exist. Mister Thompson vanished to the golf course early. Missus Thompson lost track of time with her friends over a bunch of margaritas waaaayyy upstairs. And, wouldn’t you know it, the basement door locked from the inside.

Tanisha set it off with the Spin the Bottle app on her phone. That escalated to Truth or Dare. Nobody even fronted like truth was an option, so when Shianne was up, her challenge came directly from the hostess herself.

“Shianne, I dare you to lock yourself in the bathroom with . . . Del! And don’t come out until you’re a woman!”

Shianne hit Tanisha with a wide-eyed, horrified look I’d think of later when it got around school their relationship had morphed from sorta friends, to frenemies, to outright enemies (something that took all of a day). But, in that instant, I was horrified, too.

Was Shianne hesitant (Angry? Disgusted?) because it was my name in the dare? Would she have jumped and cheered if it was Qwan, or Mason Miles, or Rashad Jackson?

Though I was braced for a refusal, that horror went away when Shianne hopped to her feet without a word, grabbed my hand, and led me to our assigned location. She closed and locked the bathroom door behind us.

New hope and fear collided: was this happening? I patted my back pocket, confirming the lone condom Dad insisted I carry at all times was there.

Shianne looped her arms around my neck, tilted her chin up, and brought her face close to mine. Not a kiss; she shifted left, and put her mouth to my ear. “Don’t even think about it, Del. Here’s what’s going down . . .”

For five minutes we rustled the shower curtain, and I thumped the door with my sneaker at odd intervals while Shianne issued the occasional Moan of Ecstasy. When the nosy a-holes on the other side of the door applauded, we giggled into cupped hands. Soon, the crowd outside dispersed to what we’d later learn were their own “encounters.” But we hung out in the space we claimed for a whole hour, talking in whispers, enjoying each other’s company in the stress-free wake of fake sex.

When someone knocked—they really needed to use the bathroom—we made our pact. Die with the lie.

After that party, me and Shianne bonded over the ultimate in-joke. We found it hilarious how people spoke about us like folk heroes. The couple that set off the Tanisha Thompson orgy. There was even this short-lived shipping situation—“Shi-Del,” which had no ring to it—that died a quick death once upperclassmen took notice of her.

I’d only ever discussed the bare-minimum false details about our time in the bathroom with Qwan, yet the stories I heard about my own deflowering were way more . . . limber than I could’ve ever concocted. Some of it was flattering, but most of it was about her. How good she was supposed to be at things that never happened. Shianne went from mostly unnoticed to coveted sex goddess.