Becky loves him, she says. She wants to marry him someday, she says.

But then, she says, there are times I wish he weren’t so nice. We never fight, so we never get to make up. It’s kind of boring.

The houseboat is rocking from the weight of the people (which is a lot) and the weight of the weather (which is threatening to turn ugly) and the expectations of the partygoers (which are as high as they are, considering that the cloud of pot smoke hanging over the deck is thick enough to blot out the moon).

Someone shoves a Bartles & Jaymes wine cooler in my hand but disappears before I can thank them. James appears out of nowhere with an open bottle of Asti. He grabs my drink and sets it on a counter. Then he takes a slug of the bubbly wine before handing me the bottle and gesturing for me to drink.

Before I take a sip, he says, This year you will create music. You will fall in love. You will find your place. You will be happy.

Only James can say things like this without sounding sloppy drunk.

Yeah? I ask, daring him. And how exactly do you know?

He leans in close. I can smell the alcohol mixed with cigarettes on his breath. It’s not at all unpleasant. His mouth is up against my ear, his words only for me. This is your year, Michael, he says. Trust me about this.

And the silly thing is, I do.

Last night’s snow didn’t stick, and now there’s a loud Trivial Pursuit drinking game happening up on the roof deck. I’m about to suggest that James join in, because I don’t know anyone as good at remembering obscure facts as he is, but then a bunch of guys throw the host overboard.

James winces and says, You can’t even fish in the Hudson; everything here is contaminated.

The guy surfaces, sputtering. He’s hauled up from the freezing river by the same people who threw him in. They’re all drunk and hooting, while he’s laughing and dripping water and who-knows-what-else all over the floor.

I watch the guy strip off his wet coat and clothes. The alcohol and pot have dulled my reflexes, and my gaze lingers on his abs long enough that James has to cough to get my attention.

Do you think he knows about the pollution? I ask.

I doubt he cares; it’s the danger of being young, James says, as if he weren’t just eighteen himself. You think you’re invincible.

The conversation spreads through the party like the wave at a Yankees game.

He’s queer, how did I not know…? I mean, he doesn’t look like a fag… Well, I knew… Shut up, you did not… Well, I do now…

Acid rises in my throat. I forget sometimes.

Forget that I’m not transparent.

Forget that if I just stay silent, no one will know this piece of me.

Forget that, unlike James, I can hide in plain sight and let them assume what they want. If I take Becky’s hand, they’ll think we’re together. That I’m one of them.