I manage to escape Tim long enough to help Rack pay the band. The four of us are the last to leave the gym. When we get up to the Mizeraks’ farm, the party is already in full force. Two pickup trucks with MY SON IS AN HONOR STUDENT AT MINNECHAUG REGIONAL HS bumper stickers are there. A fight between Junior Davis and the other team’s quarterback has broken out in the driveway. A bonfire is blazing where I think Mrs. Mizerak’s rhododendrons used to be. The band is there ahead of us. There are even some trick-or-treaters, guys with panty hose pulled over their heads, sticking people up for beers. It’s still snowing, soft and wet, melting as soon as it touches the ground.

My heart sinks when Tim emerges from the crowd, opens my door, and lays claim to me. He takes me away into his truck, but then starts talking about his early decision application to college and how he can’t wait to get away from a depressing redneck pit like Colchis before his brain atrophies. It’s warm in the cab of the truck, and I haven’t slept much lately. He talks about the rock-climbing camp he goes to every summer and how everyone there is from private school, which would totally rule, and he never really knew what good drugs were until he went camping at Mesa Verde. As I doze off, he is making the case that I am definitely college material, and I should consider distancing myself from some people who will just drag me down.

“Jesus, look at that old Corvette,” Tim says suddenly. “Who owns a cool car like that in this town?”

“Oh my God, is it gold—where?” I’m half out of the door before I’m even awake. By the time I fight my way through the bodies to the Corvette, Mike Lyle is just getting out. A small crowd of admirers flocks around.

“Nice car,” a voice says.

Mike turns around. “Anyone touches this car, they’re dead.” He shoulders his way through the crowd. He looks like he’s been lifting weights. He hasn’t seen me.

With great authority, I step forward. Just because it’s after midnight doesn’t mean I’m not still the queen. Everyone’s staring at me. I point at Martin.

“Not so close to the car,” I bark at him. “You heard what the guy said.”

“Yeah?” Martin challenges me. “What if I piss all over it?”

I draw a line across my throat. “He’ll kill you,” I whisper.

“Go for it, Martin,” a guy behind him whispers.

Martin snaps his fingers. “Somebody get me another beer,” he orders.