“Merci.” Lili shot him a kittenish smile. And then Dan realized. She’s playing you, and probably playing him. The French have a word for this . . . yup, she’s a croquette. Dan took another sour gulp of Pepsi and vodka and tried to wade back through the crowd to warn Reek.

Just then, Josh Barlow’s psycho younger brother, Jayson, threw a long string of Black Cats near the fridge, which exploded close enough for Dan to feel the sparks on his ankles.

“Jesus Christ!” Dan turned and ducked through the sliding door to the backyard. Jayson thought this was the funniest thing ever, but it was soon trumped when senior linebacker and all-district dipshit Trevor Kowalski streaked. He came running around from the front of the house, hurdling the gate buck naked in a modified Fosbury. He rolled onto the grass and then ran straight at a gaggle of girls. The flock dispersed screaming, and Trevor raised his arm in victory like the happiest caveman rapist of the Pleistocene. He smacked a fleeing damsel on the ass and got a punch in the neck in return.

“Someone throw me a towel.”

“Kowalski, it’s not really cold outside,” his teammate Jamie Allred yelled, tipping his beer can toward his southern hemisphere to accentuate the point. But that was just bullshit teasing. As everyone gave the naked guy a wide berth, Dan found himself standing next to his old friend Emma Wesselman.

“Hey, Dan.”

“Hi, Emma.”

Their eyes met, mortified in their mutual realization—Trevor had a huge dick, and he knew it as he went into Attic poses to “Sledgehammer.”

“Uzfuck, bring that shit over here.” Putt Uzbug, another Mensa member of the class of 1988, held a bottle rocket, which he gave to Trevor. Then Trevor bent down into a three-point stance. His hand—and the rocket—slid behind his back.

“Light that bitch.”

Seconds later, Trevor Kowalski shot a bottle rocket out of his ass. Everyone howled with laughter as he patted out the shower of sparks that had landed on his hind side.

“Unbelievable.” Emma shook her head. “Now it’s a party.”

“Yeah, Caligula here almost set fire to his taint.” Dan stared down at his red Solo cup. Emma was not a drinker.

“Crazy to see you here.”

Emma—Again, not a surprise—looked good. Her hair teased in cute tortoiseshell barrettes, wet lip gloss, a careful smile.

“I know, private school party.”

“No, I didn’t mean—”

“Rich kids, Highland Park douchebags . . .”

“Stop, I wasn’t saying that.”

“What are you saying, Dan Malone?”

“I don’t know.” Dan felt this sudden surge of honesty. “Listen, I should apologize to you.”

“What? Why?”

“Emma, I just wish . . .”

And as Dan was about to pour out his Song of Songs to Emma Wesselman, Brady Bennison, the hotshot varsity wideout, came running out onto the patio.

“Cops are here! Everyone get the fuck out of Dodge!”