This year’s valedictorian is standing on the roof of a pickup truck parked next to the fire. Allegra was salutatorian. He holds a bottle up and watches the fire through the glass. He tips it back, and as he starts to guzzle, a bunch of guys jump into the bed of the pickup and start rocking it. The crowd starts to clap in unison. “Chug, chug, chug,” they chant as the guys in the bed keep rocking the truck. He empties the bottle, throws it into the flames, and holds both arms up in victory. I turn away to keep looking for my friend. If I don’t find her, there is no point in my being here.

Headlights snap on, illuminating Claudette Mizerak and Angel Ciaramitaro, sitting right in front of me on the hood of a pickup truck. They’re passing a bottle of wine back and forth. We freeze when we see each other, like we know we don’t like each other but we can’t really remember why. Then the headlights snap off and leave us in darkness again.

“Slut,” one of them says.

“Bitch,” I say back, and keep going.

It takes me a while to find Grimshaw, or rather, her shoes, because that’s what I see first, placed neatly side by side next to the passenger door of the ugliest car on the planet, the ultimate in losermobiles, a metallic gold mid-’80s Corvette. A small knot of older guys, last year’s football players, are standing in front of it. The passenger-side window is open about three inches. I knock on the side of the car.

“Bee-yootiful,” I exclaim. “What an echo!” From the murky depths of the car, I hear her giggle. “It’s Serena!” I hear her say. “She found us!” On the other side of the car, Mike Lyle gets out, slams the door, and lumbers off into the shadows. The window comes down, and a lit cigarette comes out in Grimshaw’s hand. A menthol.

“No thanks.” I give it back. “When I want more fiberglass in my diet, I’ll chew on the insulation. Move over.” I open the door and squeeze into the passenger seat with her. The car smells of sweat and cologne and cigarette smoke and beer.

“How old is that guy, anyway?” I whisper. “He’s not very friendly.”

“He says he knows your mom. He was in her English class back in the day. Schnapps?”

“Ew. Liquefied grasshopper guts.”

“He likes it,” she says. “Take off your shoes, too. He doesn’t want to mess up the car.”

“You better make sure he doesn’t have a stroke. These old guys are kinda fragile, you know.”

She blows a smoke ring and admires it as she turns up the radio. “He says he knows a lot of people where I can get a job.”

The door opens. Mike Lyle is back, shoving the front of his shirt into his pants. He gets in on the other side of Grimshaw. It’s impressive how quickly and easily such a big guy can fit into such a small space. He leans forward and stares at me.