"And we never got tired. And we never got old. We just ran through the streets forever. And everything was perfect."

- Zac Gorman


The Party: Part 2

Holly's house wasn't far from the school, a two-storey place with cedar panelling and a sloping, tiled roof. A couple of neatly-trimmed trees flanked the doorway, as did some brick pillars. Music drifted through a half-open window.

The seven of them walked down the street, towards the entrance.

"So what's the deal with Holly's party?" Joe asked again.

"I heard," Alice began, "from Phoebe Schweiber, who heard from Violet Evergarden, who I think talked to Neal Oakley who's friends with Holly's brother, that their parents are away on a business trip so Holly's brother organised a party for his friends – he's in like, eleventh grade – and Holly totally blackmailed him into letting her invite her friends as well. I think she threatened to snitch to her parents. Half the people I've talked to are going."

"So there'll be old people there," Preston said. "Older kids, I mean."

"Maybe? Phoebe said that Violet heard there was an arrangement."

"An arrangement," Preston repeated.

Cary skipped ahead, shouting over his shoulder. "I heard from Cameron Loveland who talked to Dan Anderson who's best friends with Kim Pine who's nearly-best-friends with Holly and he said it was a make-out party."

Charles stopped in his tracks. "A make-out party?"

"Yeah."

"Nobody told me it was a make-out party."

"I'm surprised," Rachel said.

"Why?"

"You didn't know something."

Charles gave her a long, funny look. "I can't tell if that's a compliment."

Rachel shrugged.

"At least Alice and Joe will fit in," Martin said.

"Uh – what's that supposed to mean?" Joe said quickly.

"It means you make out a lot, right? Like, that's what you do. I've seen you."

Alice nodded, dead serious. "Every night's a make-out party with us."

"Oh god." Joe stared at his feet.

Preston nudged him. "You're not going to French kiss Alice, are you Joe? French kissing's gross. I wouldn't French kiss in a million years."

"And why the hell not?" Charles asked.

"Um, hello? Germs, spit, mucus, old bits of food… that's just to name a few, there's a lot of things in there. I mean, why d'you have to use your tongue anyway? Aren't you supposed to kiss with your lips?"

"Because it's not a real kiss unless you use your tongue," Martin said.

"Why?" Preston asked. "What's the point? What are you supposed to do – lick the inside of her mouth? Are you supposed to lick her teeth?" He frowned. "Do you make your tongue hard or soft?"

"God Preston, enough!" Cary interrupted.

"What? I wanna know, since everybody seems to think French kissing is so great."

Alice stopped him. "Okay. Preston. Listen. You put your tongue against her tongue. That's basically it."

"…But what if she puts her tongue too far into my mouth?" Suddenly, he was struck by a sickening thought. "What if I throw up? What if I throw up all over her? What if I throw up in her mouth?"

"Shut up, Preston, that's disgusting!" Charles retorted. "Just stop—"

The front door of the house swung open and a harried-looking girl emerged. She was tall, thin – not far from being too thin – with long brown hair, and the type of eyes that squinted whenever she smiled. She wasn't smiling now. This, combined with her elaborate clown costume, made for a strange first impression.

"Hi Holly," Martin said. "What's up?"

"Stuff. Lots of stuff." She sighed. "Can you help?"


And that was how Martin found himself smuggling a beer keg up the stairs. He crouched down, pushing with both hands, while Cary tugged the other end with as much force as he could muster (which wasn't much, because the squat steel cylinder weighed near as much as he did).

"Push!" Cary hissed.

"I am pushing. It's heavy."

"Careful! Watch my foot!"

"Hey, it's your foot – you can watch it too, you know."

Holly led the way, keeping watch. Although the hallway was currently deserted, sounds of the party echoed from the other side of the wall. "I don't want the house getting wrecked," she explained quietly. "I didn't realise my brother would organise alcohol – I didn't think he knew how to get alcohol! But the older guys are already WAY too drunk and if somebody breaks something and my parents realise we did this then I am super grounded. Forever." She picked at the strap of her clown overalls. Her face was painted the traditional solid white, with a red nose and pencil-thin eyebrows. Her makeup was slightly… off, though, as if the clown was a bit sad, and had been sad for a very long time, and maybe wanted to murder someone?

That's basically all clowns, though, Martin thought. Which makes me very uncomfortable. "Isn't – isn't everyone already drunk?" he asked. "They sound pretty drunk." In response, a girl whooped loudly, followed by a chorus of muffled cheers. Empty bottles clinked against the table.

Holly winced. "They are. But they have two kegs, so I figure if we hide one… it might not get any worse?"

"Sure."

Cary kicked a chip packet out of the way. He tapped the keg. "This is beer, right?" he asked casually.

"Yeah. Cheap stuff, I think."

"Cool. Cool."

They reached the top of the stairs. Holly poked her head around the corner. "It's clear," she said. "Come on. We'll hide it in my bedroom."

Martin grunted acknowledgement. He kept pushing. The carpet underfoot was nearly thick enough to hide in, and the hallway had the sort of soft, yellow lighting that reminded him of an art gallery. The whole house was like that, actually – lots of weird paintings on the walls, shelves with fancy vases on them. "Nice house," he muttered.

"Thanks," Holly said. "My parents have- hurry, someone's coming. In here!"

Fast as they could, Cary and Martin waddled into Holly's bedroom. (The décor could best be described as 'traditional', with rather too much pink and a string of fairy lights hanging from the ceiling.) They rolled the keg inside as Holly shut the door behind them.

Martin wiped his hands on his vampire cape. "Where d'you want to put it?"

"The closet?" Holly suggested. "Thanks a lot, by the way – if this works, I owe you, big time."

"That's OK." He focused all of his acting talent on looking casual. Cool, calm, collected. That's me. "No problem. Happy to help."

Holly smiled with ghoulish red lips. He shivered involuntarily. "…Holly?" he asked.

"Yeah?"

"Question. Why'd you dress up as a clown?"

"I've always been afraid of them. Plus I thought no one else would go as one, so that's a bonus."

"Unique costumes are the best," Cary agreed, wiggling his shark fins.

"Right. And clowns… there's something weird about 'em. I reckon it's the makeup." She patted her pockets. "I had a fake knife, too, so I could smile at people and pretend to stab them."

"Mmm. Great." Martin thought about clowns, with knives, coming to stab him in the dark. Smiling – ALWAYS smiling. I swear I used to have nightmares about this. Holly pushed some clothes aside and together, Martin and Cary manhandled the keg into the gap. They could barely manage between the two of them, and it was a tight squeeze.

"Is it in all the way?" Martin asked breathlessly.

"That's what she said," Cary giggled.

"Shut up. Get out the way."

"You get out the way. It's your leg blocking it."

"Fine – ready? Let's drop it on three, two, one—"

Cary dropped on one. Martin dropped on zero, thinking about clowns. The keg clunked on the wood with a gong-like sound and a brief jet of beer escaped from the nozzle. Cary leapt aside just in time but Martin's reflexes weren't quite so fast. Splat!

"Oh, man…" He groaned miserably at the sudden dampness around his crotch.

"Ha! Good work, Smartin. I didn't know you still wet your pants."

"This is YOUR fault for dropping it early!" On top of being uncomfortable, and wet, the beer had created the most embarrassing stain possible. He nearly turned to face Holly but thought better of it, instead looking over his shoulder. I hate myself. "Uh… can I use your bathroom?"

"Yeah, sure – down the hall."

There was a knock on the bedroom door, followed by a girl's voice: "Everything OK in there?"

"Argh, shitwaffle," Holly hissed. "Yeah, just looking for something! Be out in a minute!"

Cary giggled. "Shitwaffle?"

"Use your imagination." Holly grinned then opened the door, disappearing into the corridor. They heard her chatting to someone animatedly, the voices close, then gradually growing softer.

"I'm gonna go clean my pants," Martin said glumly. "Can you guard the keg?"

"Yeah, sure." Cary rolled his eyes. "…Sorry."

"…what was that?"

"I said sorry."

Martin blinked. "Cary. Cary. Did you just apologise? Is this a thing you do now?"

"God, Martin, you're making it weird! Why do I put up with your shit?"

"What? Hello!? Why do I put up with YOUR shit!"

"'Cause I'm dressed as a shark."

Martin frowned for a moment. Then he shook his head and left the room.

Cary shrugged, and stared at the beer keg.

The keg stared back.


Summer loving, had me a blast

Summer loving, happened so fast

I met a girl, crazy for meeee

Met a boy, cute as can be

Summer days, drifting awaaay to oh-oh the summer nights

So far, the party had been confined to the ground floor (and the basement, where some of the younger crowd had holed up, sheltering from the tornado of increasingly-rowdy seniors). People lounged against walls or on sofas, sitting on cushions with plastic cups in hand, chatting over the static-y tunes of a Grease Lightning mixtape. Occasionally there was a splash from the pool in the yard as another person dived in – or fell in, depending on the amount of yelling afterwards.

Holly dodged through the crowd, collecting vases and anything remotely breakable. She noticed one of her brother's friends sitting on the coffee table and tapped his shoulder nervously. Was his name Steve? It was probably Steve. "Um – could you – could you not sit on that? Please? It's glass."

A couple of feet away, in the kitchen, Charles was busy arguing – or debating, if you wanted to be charitable – with Daniel Anderson and Phoebe Schweiber. Dan was African-American. Phoebe was Jewish. This, in fact, was the current debate topic.

"I'm telling you Charlie-boy, I get it every day," Dan said, unzipping his puffy jacket and laying it on the bench.

"What are you talking about?" Charles retorted. "Dan, you're one of the most popular kids in school—"

"Nuh-uh! Nuh-uh! It's like REVERSE discrimination." He spread his hands. "See? I'm a novelty to everyone."

Phoebe shrugged. "I could live with that."

"Nah, Phoebe, you wouldn't want to trade places, believe me."

"I dunno… I mean, I'm Jewish. That's no cakewalk either. I was elected school treasurer last year and I didn't even run."

"Right right right right, but see, my people were kidnapped from our homeland and brought here to be slaves. That's heavy."

"My people were slaves too," Phoebe said. "We built the pyramids."

"Sure – three thousand years ago!"

"Which doesn't make the bricks any lighter, does it?"

"…guess not." Charles wondered whether to bring up the fact that his own grandparents had fled from Nazi-occupied Poland, but decided against it. Let's not make this the oppression Olympics.

Suddenly, Alice appeared beside him, ducking behind a group of seniors. "Hi Phoebe. Hi Dan."

"Hey."

"Hi."

"Have you seen Rachel?" Alice asked.

Charles frowned. "No, why?"

"I haven't seen her for a while. Someone said she looked sick."

"Sick? What? Why? Uh-oh. Bad sick, or just normal sick?"

"I don't know, Charles, that's why I'm looking for her."

"Right." He clenched his fists. "I'll help. She's probably fine, right? She's probably fine. I mean, she's the kind of person who just… wanders off sometimes. I think – I'm pretty sure I last saw her near the pool table? Yeah, the pool table. She was watching from the corner."


Alice wandered down the hallway, past the kitchen. Rachel has to be around here somewhere. This house isn't that big. She rubbed her eyes, and sighed when her hands came away covered in zombie eyeshadow. Whoops. When Holly had said 'party', Alice hadn't really been expecting… whatever this was – Holly probably hadn't either – but she couldn't deny it was interesting. Alcohol. Seniors. A bunch of fourteen-year-olds hanging around making it awkward. Yay.

When she entered the games room, she saw Joe standing by the billiards table, gingerly holding a cue. Next to him were three older students whom she vaguely recognised as twelfth-graders. She was pretty sure the tallest was the student council vice president.

Joe leaned forwards, stabbing at the ball. She heard a clack! Nothing much happened.

"Joe."

He spun round, vaguely terrified. "Alice?"

"Can I talk to you for a second?"

"Sure. Yeah. You totally can." He handed the cue to one of the boys like it was a burning poker, then hurried over to her.

"I didn't know you played billiards."

"I don't," he whispered. "I'm really bad. I'm SO bad. But I walked in here by accident and they needed another person and then they asked me to play and I couldn't say no. They're… big."

"They're seniors." She glanced over. "They're not monsters."

"Yes, but I think they're drunk. Please help."

She pretended to think about it, then rolled her eyes. "Fine." Time to put that 'ditzy-blonde-girl' smile to use. "Hey guys, looks fun. Can I try?"

Student-vice-president sipped his beer. "Uh – sure."

Alice took the stick, flashing a grin. "Which one do I aim for?"

"Any of the smaller balls. Oh, except the black one."

She leaned down, finding an angle. Half-a-dozen balls remained on the thin green felt. Yellow looked promising, sitting right next to the far-left pocket, and she brushed her fringe out of the way. Aimed. Drew back.

"You need any help?" vice-president asked.

She held her breath. "No." Clack!

The shot spun dead-on, knocking hard into yellow, which dropped into the pocket with a satisfying clunk. Angles, she thought. That's all it was. She stood up, handing the cue back. "You're welcome."

"Uh – thanks. Huh. Cool." The boy drank some beer, then gave the other team the finger. Alice grabbed Joe's arm and dragged him to freedom.

"You're the worst," Joe said.

"What?"

"You're the worst."

"It isn't my fault my dad likes billiards."


Holly had emphasised that guarding the beer keg was an extremely important job. She'd been very clear on that. Extremely. Important. Cary wasn't sure he agreed, since it meant hanging out in her bedroom while everybody else had fun downstairs, but whatever. Holly was cool. Martin still hadn't come back from the bathroom either and it'd been ten whole minutes. Ten. What was he doing in there? Having a baby?

Cary stared at the keg, bouncing slightly on the bed.

He had a thought.

He jumped off the bed, crouching by the keg. There was a small black nozzle on the side. He lay down, shuffling along until his mouth was directly under it. He gripped the nozzle. Grinned. Opened it for a split-second.

Foam splashed down his throat. "Eugh!" The taste hit him like a brick – sour, bitter, like somebody had mixed Coke and lemon juice and that disgusting dark chocolate adults liked. He coughed a few times, turned sideways, resisting the urge to spit. People LIKE this stuff? He punched the keg petulantly. It wasn't very effective.

But people did like it. His parents liked it. Movie stars liked it. The guys and girls downstairs DEFINITELY liked it. Maybe – aha! – maybe the trick was that he hadn't had enough of it. Because from what he could see, cool people drank beer.

I'm cool, Cary thought. Right?

I'm totally cool. Screw Charles and Joe and the rest. And screw Martin, wherever he went. There was a glass of water on Holly's bedside table and he picked it up, chucked the water out the window, and filled it to the brim from the keg. The deep brown liquid sparkled invitingly. Bubbles popped and hissed.

Cary took a breath, gritted his teeth, and drank.


Martin stared at his hand of cards. Three kings and a five. Was that good? Three kings had to be okay. He shrugged inwardly. (Martin had never technically played poker before, but it seemed simple enough – all you had to do was collect certain patterns – and his own pile of plastic chips was already bigger than most others around the table.) The players pondered their hands in silence with varying degrees of poker-face. The only two still in – apart from him – were Kim, a ginger-haired girl who'd been his lab partner in biology once, and Holly, who'd finally finished hiding all of her parents' breakable objects. Every time he saw her he had to stop himself from twitching. That stupid clown-face is actually going to haunt me. The eyes were the worst, he decided. Or was it the mouth? No, the eyes, with their empty scarlet stare.

One by one, they drew another card.

Kim narrowed her eyes, then sighed disgustedly. "I fold… wait." She peeked at her cards. "Nope, still terrible."

"Aww, I thought you were having fun," Holly said, sounding vaguely condescending.

Kim gave her a corpse-like stare. "Do I look like I'm having fun?"

"Honestly? It's hard to tell with you."

Martin looked down. He'd drawn a five. Three kings, two fives – that was decent. Very decent. He pursed his lips; for some reason, he thought he was forgetting something. "I guess I'll stay in?"

"You're staying in," Holly replied.

"Yeah. I think so."

"You don't sound very certain."

"Am I supposed to?"

Holly pinned him with an inquiring glare. Martin ignored it, rubbing his glasses. Clown, clown, ignore the clown. I swear I'm forgetting something. Did I leave anything in the bathroom?

"…I'll stay in too," Holly said eventually. "All in." She shoved her chips into the centre of the table. This was followed by the requisite amount of 'ooooohs'.

Martin shrugged. "Sure." Gratifyingly, his pile of chips was slightly bigger.

"Okay," Kim intoned. "Both of you, show us your cards. I'm very excited."

Holly grinned. "Has anyone ever told you you're basically 100% sarcasm?"

"Yes."

"Just checking." Holly flipped her cards, with pauses for dramatic effect. "Three of spades! Five of spades! Seven of spades! Nine of spades… and king of spades! That's right, it's a flush."

Martin turned his over. "Are these good?"

"Oh, what the heck?!" She slapped the table. "I thought you were bluffing!"

"…What? Did I win?"

"Course you did, that's a full house!"

"Oh, OK. Cool."

"Nobody can look that confused and still know what they're doing. Nobody! Argh!"

"Sure. I'll take these." He swept the pile of chips towards him, which was swiftly becoming a small hill. Then he saw Alice, walking across the room. Joe was following her. He waved.

"Hey. Have you seen Rachel?" Alice asked.

"Uh – nope. Sorry."

"Looks like you're winning," Joe added.

"It turns out that if you're confused the whole time, you can do really well at poker." Martin coughed, looking at the other players. "Or maybe I'm pretending and I'm actually an expert. Who knows."


Preston sat on the plush white sofa. Behind him, a group of seniors were crowding the TV, cheering occasionally whenever 'sports' happened. Hooray! He's kicked the ball. Now the ball's over there. That man has it now. That's an interesting development. Maybe he'll throw the ball. He has indeed, and apparently that deserves a round of applause. Thankfully, the stereo in the next room had ended its Grease Lightning rotation and transitioned into Led Zeppelin. A ghost and a serial killer were dancing to it in the doorway. Someone had given him a cup of something. He'd tried it; hadn't liked it. Weird sort of taste. He placed it on the coffee table with the other half-empty cups, and looked around for people he recognised.

Two more people sat on the sofa, at the far end. Girls. He gave them a quick peek.

It was Phoebe Schweiber and Violet Evergarden, both his grade at school. Phoebe was student treasurer (which immediately put her in Preston's good books), and her dark eyebrows always reminded him of very expressive caterpillars – not in a bad way, but they could move. Violet was a cheerleader. Short, though, and she seemed to hate being short. Very bouncy blonde hair, 'specially when she danced.

He pressed his knees together, arms in his lap, staring anywhere but their direction. You were supposed to say things in these situations, weren't you? When girls sat next to you, there were things. Things to say. Conversations. He became all too aware of his Egyptian mummy costume, which was gradually falling to pieces around him. Toilet paper: not the soundest material, structurally.

"Hey Preston," Phoebe said brightly.

"Oh – hi Phoebe. I didn't see you there." He swivelled to face them. "So. How's it going?"

"Pretty good."

It wasn't much to work with in terms of conversation topics. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

"Where are all the cute guys?" Violet asked. "Holly said she invited the cute guys."

"Wha?" Say something. Say something. "The bus… hasn't arrived yet?"

Violet frowned, then chuckled. "Right. Of course. Hey, you play piano, right?"

Preston blinked. "Yes, I suppose that's accurate. I'm not amazing but I've been learning for several years."

"Well, there's a piano" – she pointed to the lounge room, where most people had gathered – "right there. Can you play any cool songs?"

If by 'cool' you mean Beethoven, then yes. Out loud, he said, "Probably."

"Okay. Come with me." Violet grabbed his wrist. Her fingers were ice-cold.

"Ummm… what are you doing?"

"Go and play something," Phoebe said. She grabbed his other arm, dragging him to his feet.

"That's not – I don't think that's a great idea – I haven't practiced—"

"It'll be fine."

He tried to pull away, but embarrassingly they were stronger than he was. They pushed him towards the piano. "Come on."

"No – wait, I don't—"

"Come on, Preston. I bet you're really good."

"No. No. No no no no no—"


Joe wandered into the living room, just in time to see Preston being manhandled through the doorway by a pair of very determined girls. Preston kicked at the carpet, slipping futilely, sheets of toilet paper soaring into the air.

"Huh," Joe said.

Alice spared him a glance but kept walking. "He'll be fine. It's not like Phoebe will eat him alive." She tilted her head. "Violet could, though. If she wanted to."

Joe hurried to catch up. "When you say 'eat him alive'…"

"Literally. No metaphors involved. Do you think Rachel could be upstairs?"

They entered the hallway, aiming for the stairs. A body was already snoring in the corner – an older girl, slumped over a cushion, legs curled at a funny angle. Joe stared, carefully avoiding her shoes.

"You're doing that thing again," Alice said.

"What?"

"That thing where you stare real hard at something with your mouth half-open. You look like a postbox."

"…that's the weirdest thing anybody's said to me today. A postbox?"

"You do, though. Your mouth's like the slot you put mail in. It's very square."

"Huh." Joe clamped his jaw shut. They climbed the stairs, Alice leading the way, two steps at a time.

"What were you thinking about, anyway?" she asked.

"Boring stuff."

"Boring? Now I really need to know."

"As long as you promise not to laugh."

"I won't laugh."

"Basically, when I get home, I was thinking I should wash my legs. Because this costume's really sweaty." He pinched the fabric, stretching it, then let it snap back in place.

"Yep, that's pretty boring. Not to get too far into hygiene habits, but is that implying you don't usually wash your legs?"

"Um… nope, not really."

Alice stopped. She spun to face him. "You don't wash your legs?" she asked, incredulous.

"No – why? Water falls on them anyway."

"You take showers and you don't wash your legs."

"Am I meant to? Like, bend down, and… wash them? That'd take ages. No time."

"Yesterday you spent the entire fifth period drawing a maze!"

"An awesome maze," he said defensively. "And I had time because I didn't wash my legs."

Alice stared at him, eyes narrowed. Joe pressed his lips together in a 'what-are-you-gonna-do-about-it?' pout.

"You're the worst," she said. "Not me. You are." She trudged off down the hallway.

The first room they checked must've belonged to Holly's parents, with a neatly-made double bed, untouched. The next was a chilly bathroom that smelled faintly of beer. Third was Holly's bedroom. Alice knocked quietly. "Is anyone in there?"

There was a burp. "Uh… nope."

Alice paused, then pushed the door open.

"We have a problem," she said.

Cary lay spreadeagle on the floor, surrounded by crumpled bits of shark costume. He still had a half-full cup of beer in one hand; he sat up suddenly when they entered and it sloshed messily onto the carpet. Somehow, he'd lifted the keg onto the bed, where Joe noticed quite a few damp patches. Holly's going to be so mad. SO mad.

Cary raised his glass at them. "Hey! Heyyouguys – you wanna – you wanna try some? Ish really good. Realgood!" He burped again, then lay back down. "Ugh."

Alice smiled grimly. "I'll go and get Charles.

Joe nodded. "OK."

"You look after him. Make sure he doesn't have any more."

"What? How do I—" He turned to Cary, who'd rolled over and started crawling feebly towards the keg. It was like watching a particularly gawky snake. "Hey. Cary. Hey."

Cary grinned, glassy-eyed. "Joe. Duuuude. You want shome? It's… wass the word. It's cool. We're cool dudes, Joe. Shuuuper coooool."

"No, Cary, you have to stop. Let's go outside."

"Nope!" He belched, then darted towards the keg at possessed-demon-child speeds. Joe ran in front to block him, seizing his shoulders, pushed him back; Cary tripped over his own legs and flailed to the deck. "Ow!"

Joe winced. "Sorry."

Cary gave Joe an accusing glare. He half-got up, then lost his balance and tipped over again. "What was THAT for? I'm having – I'mhavingfun and you pushed me!"

"Just… don't drink any more! Let's, uh… let's sit over here." He steered Cary towards a pile of plush toys in the corner.

"Hey Joe."

"What?"

"You're nice. But right now you're being MEAN."

"Sure, Cary."

"Hey Joe."

"What?"

"Haveyouever— atchoo!" He sneezed violently, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Have you ever thought about setting Alish's hair on fire?"

"Uhh…"

"Or anyone's hair on fire. Wouldn't that be awesome?"

"No! No, that could seriously hurt them. Don't do that." He positioned Cary near the window and made him sit, propped against the corner. He was floppy as a fish, bones turned to mush. How much did he manage to drink? He's small, but he wasn't alone for that long. Three glasses? Five? How quick does beer make you drunk? Too many questions.

"Oh my god," Charles said, coming through the doorway. "Oh my god."

"Heeeey Chaaaarlesh," Cary muttered. "Wassup?"

"You making a giant scene is what's UP!" Charles stalked towards him. "You're such an idiot! Seriously, it's like we can't leave you alone for five seconds! Why?! Ugh." He looked genuinely pissed.

So did Cary. "Caush I'm cool. Charles, you should try shome of this. Iss good."

"No!… Uh, maybe later."

"Thash tha shpirit!"

Charles gave them a despairing look. "Guys, what are we going to do – we can't leave him like this. He's wasted."

"We can, actually," Alice said coolly. "I mean, it's his own fault. Not our problem. Plus it's kinda funny. Cary, stand on one leg."

"One leg? Al-right." He got to his knees unsteadily, then tried to stand, using the wall for support. "I'm funny. I'm veeeery fun— funny. Whoaaaaaops!" He keeled face-first into the carpet.

Charles winced. "Don't people get sick from this stuff? God, Cary, I can't believe you actually did this! You always mess things up. This is serious!"

"Lay off, it's not that bad," Joe murmured. "We'll just have to look after him for a bit. Cary? How are you feeling?"

He lifted his face off the floor. "I think I'm gonna throw up."

"Please don't."

"Okaaaaay."

"Can you remember how much stuff you drank?"

"Nup! Lotsh though. Wass the word? There's a word… a word…Hey, this floor feels weird. Uh-oh, still gonna throw up." He yawned, rolling over. "Shleepy! Shleepy shleepy shleepy."

Joe giggled. "He is wasted."

Charles stared to the heavens, wiping his face with his sleeve. "Ugh, what the hell, I guess we gotta do something. I'll move the keg somewhere if you two can keep watch. Let's just hope we don't have to take him to the hospital." He glared at Cary. "And YOU. Don't do ANYTHING. If you move even a single muscle I swear I'll skin you alive."


The chords to My Sharona weren't terribly hard, and Preston had heard it on the radio enough times to know how it went by heart. The main bit – dah dah dah dah da-da-da-da dah dah – was all octaves anyway. He started low on the left hand to give it some bass, the other hand near the middle of the piano for the melody, still blushing as the first notes rang out.

Ooh, my little pretty one, my pretty one

When you gonna give me some tiiime, Sharona

Ooh, you make my motor run, my motor run

Got it coming off o' the liiine, Sharona

It was honestly a catchy tune (though the lyrics were slightly suggestive). Were people singing along? It'd been quiet at first, just Phoebe and Violet making encouraging noises that totally didn't make him feel any better, but now there were voices building in the background. Singing. Then lots of voices. He needed to keep looking at his hands to make sure he got the notes roughly right, but he heard them. He was concentrating too hard to smile. Chorus!

Never gonna stop, give it up, such a dirty mind

I always get it up, for the touch of the younger kind

My, my, my, aye-aye, whoa!

M-m-m-my Sharona

He inserted a glissando with his right hand just for fun, winced as he accidentally smashed an E-flat. Don't be fancy. You'll mess up. The mummy costume continued to be a regrettable decision, bits of paper coming loose and tangling and actually making it very difficult to play properly. Toilet paper swept around his face. Whoops! Another E-flat. The people behind him didn't care, though, too busy singing and/or drunking – not a real word, Preston – to notice.

M-m-m-my Sharona!


"Do you think Cary will be OK?" Joe asked.

Alice nodded. "Charles'll look after him. He acts like he's angry, but he does care." She vaulted onto the balustrade, sliding down the last few steps. "Charles enjoys helping people – partly because it makes him feel important, but he does."

"That's sort of cynical."

"It's true, though. Right? We help people because we want something out of it ourselves. Like when I kept pressing you about your mom – I was interested, sure, but I got involved partly because I felt…"

"…guilty?"

"I guess. Basically, humans are terrible."

Joe flicked a piece of fluff off her shoulder. "You are cynical."

"I'm realistic. Cary vomited half his stomach up, so he'll be fine. And look, Preston's fine too." She pointed. They could spot his black curls through the crush, shaking his head frantically as people shouted song requests at him. Violet leaned on the edge of the piano wearing a self-congratulatory smile.

"Still have to find Rachel, though," Joe said. "Maybe she went home?"

"She wouldn't have left without saying anything."

They wandered towards the other side of the house. Even if half the guests were older and intimidating and strange, it was still entertaining to watch – like a performance. There was one guy who'd taken his shirt off who kept telling people to 'punch his stomach'; another two playing a drinking game with a funnel and pipe, beer going everywhere except their mouths. The house phone rang suddenly, making everyone jump, and Holly leapt to answer it before anyone could mess things up. Martin had apparently defeated the rest of the world at poker and moved on to table tennis. Someone shouted that the keg was running low. When you get drunk, what happens? Joe wondered. Does it transform you into who you really are? Or does it mean you're pretending extra hard?

There was another hallway on the far side of the house, similar to the one upstairs. The first door looked like a guest bedroom. Alice pushed it open – froze for half a second – then turned and walked straight back out, her expression distinctly unimpressed.

Joe peered through the doorway. A figure was on the bed, face-down in a weird position. There was a lot of skin showing. Oh, and there was a girl underneath them. Oh, and she was moaning—

"Oh gosh," Joe said involuntarily.

The boy's head whipped around. "Fuck off! We're busy."

The sheets rustled. Legs spread. He couldn't seem to move. "…Oh gosh."

Alice seized his arm and marched him into the hall, shutting the door behind her with a businesslike kick from her boot.

"Gosh," he said again, eyes wide.

Alice frowned. "Rachel definitely isn't in there. Maybe we can try outside?"


"Charles?" Cary asked, with the tone of somebody whose brain feels really, really, wobbly.

"Yeah?"

"Haff you ever wanned to set thingy on fire?" He hiccupped.

"What?"

"Yaknow – thingy."

Charles sighed. "Quiet. I goddamn hate you enough already." He peered through the living room blinds, creating a gap with his fingers. Amidst the party's awful karaoke session – now fallen silent, thank god, as Preston had a very limited repertoire of pop songs, a.k.a. two – he'd heard people yelling. He squinted, peering into the yard.

There were dudes there. Four of them. They were old, hard to tell how old, exactly – the leader had stringy blonde hair down to his shoulders, wearing a crusty denim jacket. His face had the leathery appearance of a roast that'd been left in the oven too long. Plus, the guy behind him had the sort of moustache that probably meant he should be in jail.

They were arguing with Holly's brother, who was blocking the path. It seemed fairly obvious what was happening. Old creeper dudes heard there was a gnarly party. Old creeper dudes wanna come in and… creep. Old creeper dudes aren't allowed. Moustache-guy thumped his chest. You wanna fight? Holly's brother pointed back to the house, miming a phone. I'll call the police. Charles reckoned that wouldn't be hugely intelligent, given all the underage drinking going on, but he supposed it was an option.

He closed the blinds again, stepping back. Not much I can do about it.

Cary had, of course, moseyed off somewhere. The living room was still crowded, full of people chatting and drinking and various other things that came under the heading of 'mingling'. Charles spotted Preston by the piano; he'd closed the piano lid and walked towards the coffee table, ripping irritably at his costume. Every step of the way it tangled more around his legs. I don't know what he expected, Charles thought. I mean, he wrapped himself in a year's supply of toilet paper. For a smart guy, Preston can be really dumb sometimes.

And there was Cary, next to the coffee table too, staring with intent at all the half-full plastic cups. Charles groaned inwardly. Typical! He went to cut Cary off, then noticed he also had his Zippo lighter out, its flame flickering innocently in his fist.

Cary was smiling. It was his 'I'm gonna burn something!' smile.

Charles drew a breath. Uh-oh. "Cary! Don't you freaking dare!"

Cary spun around… but spun off-balance, arms held wide, one of which smacked into Preston's face.

"Ow!" Preston stumbled back. His hands were full of scrunched-up toilet paper and when his knees hit the coffee table he couldn't stop himself from falling. Wham! His butt slammed into the shorter edge of the table and, through the magic of levers – in one beautiful half-second – the table flipped up on its two closest legs, a profusion of cups and plates of potato chips launched elegantly towards the ceiling.

Holy crap! Charles wished he could've seen the debris cloud in slow motion. Stuff hit the roof – bang! – the table swung back down, then light globes shattered and instantly the room went dark.

Someone screamed. "Aaah! I'm bleeding!"

"What? Where?"

"There's – there's glass in my leg!"

Cups rolled and scattered across the carpet. The room was a mess of indistinct bodies. Stuff crunched underfoot. Charles, his brain still processing what'd happened, noticed that a single source of light remained – the tiny flame, dancing in Cary's hand.

As he watched, the flame dropped.

It hit the floor.

The substantial amount of toilet paper beneath it went up like – well – toilet paper, flames racing across the floor, a snake of fire whooshing round the room. People leapt out of the way, suddenly illuminated – Preston, shocked as a ghost, Cary, dazed against the sofa, the bleeding girl leaving a trail of red droplets. Preston screeched and kicked the last of his costume to the floor.

A clown appeared in the doorway. Holly, to her credit, reacted quickly. "Get water!" she shouted. "Hurry!"

Phoebe sprinted to the kitchen. Charles saw a blanket by the window and snatched it, whipping it against the flames like he'd seen someone do in a movie once. A few flared out. Most didn't. Cary tipped some beer on the nearest bit of toilet paper, which sizzled like a steak as Holly started stamping on it with her clown boots.

Martin came running from the hallway, drawn by the commotion. He froze as he took in the scene – the fire, the mess, the bloody carpet, the churning smoke – and in the middle of it all, a sobbing clown, gazing at him with red, desperate eyes.

He screamed.


Alice stepped into the yard, ignoring the yelling from inside. Whatever the problem was, it could fix itself without her. (There was a lot of yelling, though.) Holly's backyard contained a well-kept lawn, rosebushes along the perimeter, beyond them the pool fence and a small paved area. Newly-planted trees had dropped a carpet of leaves by the water, thick and crackly and the colour of fire, which was nice if you didn't have to rake them up later. She wrapped her jacket around her shoulders, shivering a little. A brisk wind was coming over the fence, making the leaves dance, creating quivering ripples on the water's surface.

Hey! There you are. Rachel was sitting by the pool, cross-legged, swirling her hand through the water. She was alone. The swimmers must've been abandoned it, driven off by the wind.

"Hi," Alice said.

Rachel looked up. "Hey."

"Watcha' doin'?"

"Nothing much." She shrugged. "Sitting outside. I suppose that's obvious." It was a very Rachel response; the kind of thing she said when she was busy thinking one thing while people bothered her with something else.

"Never would've guessed." Alice knelt beside her, sweeping away leaves. "Someone said you were sick, so I thought I'd look for you."

"Did they?" She seemed surprised. "I'm fine. I just – hm." She gazed across the water. "I needed a break. From people. So I came here."

Alice nodded. "I know what you mean. I get the same feeling, sometimes, when it's crowded. Water's pretty." House lights glimmered on the surface. A discarded tennis ball bobbed and dipped.

"Yes."

Alice waited for another couple of moments. She pushed her fringe to one side, tucking it behind her ear. "Had enough of a break?"

Rachel smiled a little. "Sure."

"Sorry to push you, but Charles needs someone to talk to. He's in the middle of freaking out."

"…Give me a number."

"Uh – seven. It's a seven-out-of-ten freak out."

"Seven? You aren't making this sound very attractive—" Rachel coughed, bending over. It sounded wet. After a couple of breaths, she clutched her chest, and spat something into her hand.

"You sure you're OK?" Alice asked. "It's cold out here."

"Yes. I'm fine." She wiped her fingers on the grass. "You're right, we should go in."

They stood up. Rachel's white dress fluttered in the night, pale and somehow barely-there, like she might float away any second. "Look – shooting star." Rachel pointed.

Alice spotted it just in time, a quick streak of white that curved above the trees. She waited for a second to see if there'd be another but the rest of the twinkling lights were still. "I used to like shooting stars," she said. "Make a wish, and all that. But now I can only think it's…" She shook her head. "What's the word?"

"Ominous?" Rachel suggested.


It turned out that the basement was the best place to hide from all the weirdness (at least once the fire was extinguished, which Holly was now furiously trying to think up excuses for). It was a plain, L-shaped room, with white walls and a steel grey carpet. Old cardboard boxes and a broken washing machine were stacked at the far end, next to a few mysterious doors which Holly assured them were 'closets'.

"Not murder dungeons?" Kim asked.

"Like, I'm 90% sure they're closets," Holly replied.

The basement was actually quite well-furnished, with a fridge, a few chairs, even a hammock hanging from the beams across the ceiling. A hint of music was still audible from above.

"We should play truth or dare," Violet said suddenly. Joe suspected she was also a little drunk. Maybe half-way between a little and a lot.

"Uh – let's not," Phoebe replied. "It's a recipe for awkwardness."

"When did you last play?"

"Um… summer camp?"

"Exactly. Jew camp, right? Of course you didn't have fun, you need to play with the right people."

Phoebe snorted. "And we are?"

Violet rolled her eyes, judging the room. "Well it's not ideal, but – c'mon, let's play truth or dare. Who's playing? Everyone?"

Joe counted 'everyone' as twelve: himself, Alice, Charles, Preston, Martin, Rachel and Cary, plus Violet, Phoebe, Kim, Holly and Cameron Loveland. The other kids their age were still wandering around upstairs.

Joe had never been quite sure what to think of Violet. She'd always been one of those ultra-confident girls who led things, who grew up before everyone else, the centre of attention in her group of friends. That had made her… scary? Intimidating? Unknowable, in a way.

Kim was scary too but Kim wanted to be scary. She enjoyed it, as far as Joe could tell. Charles had called her something funny once – 'a short, red-haired ball of sarcasm and anger' – and she'd very nearly killed him with a look.

Phoebe was nice, though. Sorta nerdy. Wore glasses sometimes. Almost like a girl version of Preston, if Preston had been more… mainstream. And more confident. And just better, really.

Cameron was one of those people who roamed the outskirts of their friendship group – mostly because he had his own, cooler set of friends, but was still nice enough to do things like invite them to play sport at lunchtime.

"I'll sit out," Rachel said quietly.

"No you won't," Violet said, putting an arm around her shoulder. "It'll be fun. And seriously, I feel like I should get to know you better."

Rachel glanced at Charles, who shrugged helplessly.

"What about Sealy?" Kim asked, pointing at the snoring shape of Cary in the corner.

"Sealy?" Martin frowned.

"Sealy. C-lee. Because his name's Cary Lee. God, I've been explaining that for years and you people still don't get it."

"I get it, I just don't think it works—"

"Sealy," Alice said thoughtfully. "I like it."

"He can play too," Violet said, "we'll wake him up when it's his turn. Holly, have you got some paper? And pens? OK. So, what we do is, everyone writes down two truths and two dares on four scraps of paper – then we put them in a hat, someone spins a bottle, and whoever it lands on draws a paper at random. I know those rules are different than the usual but it's more fun this way, trust me. Holly, do you have an empty Coke bottle or something?"

Cameron removed the hat he'd been wearing as part of an Addams Family getup. "Will this work?"

"Yes, great, everyone put your dares in Cameron's hat! And please, make 'em good."


DARE #1

"Woo," Kim said. "Go Preston! You win."

Preston groaned. Violet – of course – had spun the bottle first, and the stupid thing had landed on him.

Do I have to? he thought.

Of course I have to. Stupid probability. The hat lay in the middle of the circle, and forty-eight scraps of paper waited inside; he closed his eyes and fished around at random. Though the dares he'd submitted had been fairly tame, he figured some of the rest would be very mean. I can deal with mean, as long as it isn't embarrassing. The other players watched closely.

"Give it to somebody else," Violet said. "They read it to you."

He found a messily-folded paper at the bottom, passed it to Joe opposite him, then shuffled back to his spot on the carpet. Joe unfolded it… and couldn't quite conceal the tremor that passed across his face.

Uh-oh.

"OK," Joe said, clearing his throat. "So there are two options. One: take off everything except your underwear for three rounds."

Preston froze.

"That escalated quickly," Phoebe murmured.

"…Or two: go shirtless for the rest of the game."

It was quiet, for a moment, except for the sound of Martin trying desperately not to laugh. Preston made a mental note to re-break his leg later.

"Sorry dude," Cameron said. "I was kinda hoping that'd land on a girl."

Holly glared at him. "Really."

Quickly, Preston weighed the pros and cons of each choice. There were mostly cons, to be honest. Underwear: embarrassing. Only three rounds, but who knows how long that'll be. Also, they're the blue pair with the spots which are slightly too small. Shirt: marginally less embarrassing. Longer duration, but arguably similar to going to the beach. Arguably. Possibility of getting out of this dare altogether: very low.

"So what'll it be?" Violet asked, with a distinctly predatory smile.

Preston sighed. "…Shirt. You can have my shirt."

"Wooh!" Cary catcalled, from his position on the floor. "Yeah! Burn it!"

Reluctantly, Preston pulled his t-shirt over his head. He wriggled free, holding it against his chest. He felt very pale.

Violet leaned over, grabbed it, and threw it to the other side of the room.

"Hey!"

"It's not like you'll be needing it for the next hour," she said bluntly.

"Yes, but…" He shifted on the carpet, looking down. The room was suddenly very cold. "Fine." He crossed his arms, clutching his shoulders tightly. Goosebumps prickled his skin.

"On the bright side," Alice said, "it's your turn to spin the bottle."


TRUTH #1

The bottle landed on Holly.

"Urgh," she grunted, horse-like. "What is it."

Preston read the paper. "Truth: which celebrity would you most like to kiss?"

Holly smiled grimly. "Assuming I'm not murdered by my parents first? Hmmm… let me think."

"Choose wisely," Kim intoned, "or forever face our judgement."

"This one's too easy," Martin said.

"Well I'm kind of interested," Charles said.

"Why?" Rachel murmured.

"Just, you know… interest."

Holly pursed her lips. "Look, it's probably John Travolta."

"Bo-ring," Violet retorted.

"It's the truth, you wanted it. Also, did you see Saturday Night Fever? Or Grease? That dude can dance."

"Yeah, but what about, like – Freddie Mercury?"

"Nah, too old. John Travolta."

The circle shrugged.


TRUTH #2

"Cary, wake up!" Charles slapped him in the face.

"What? Why? Where!?" He sat up, dazed. "Did someone hit me?"

"No," Charles said innocently. "But it's your turn. The bottle landed on you."

Slowly, Cary's eyes focused on the room. "Ohhhhh. Yeah. Truth or dare."

"Ready?" Holly asked.

"Shhuuu— sure." He licked his lips. "Read it."

"It's a question. Have you…" She paused dramatically. "…ever broken the law?"

Cary leaned back, propping himself up on his arms. "Yesh."

"Really? How?"

"I shtole a bunch of stuff from the 7-11 once. Like, 20 chocolate bars. I shoved 'em all into my schoolbag. Never got caught," he said proudly.

"Did you feel bad afterwards?" Phoebe asked, eyes narrowed.

"Not really." He hiccupped. "The dude who owns the shop – the shopkeeper – wasshisname? – he's rich anyway. It was good chocolate. I gave some to you, Joe. On your birthday."

Joe blinked. "Did you?"

"And I dunno if it's teck-nic-ly breaking the law, but the time I burned my houshe down might count. Burned myshelf heaps. Almost killed my sister. She was stuck behind the door… My parents were suuuper mad. Lost lotsh of money… went to hospital. Shometimes, I wish…" he trailed off. "Oops."

There was silence as everyone absorbed this information.

"Well that got dark," Kim said brightly. "Next round?"


DARE #2

Cary couldn't stop himself cackling as he read the next dare. Cameron folded his arms grumpily, preparing to be disappointed at whatever came next.

"You gotta – you gotta – hahaha! Wow."

"Hurry up."

"Yeahyeahyeah, calm down. Or cool down." He snorted. "Because you gotta shove twelve ice cubes down your pants – and keep 'em in your underwear – till they melt! HAHA!" Cary threw the paper into the air, falling onto his side.

Cameron looked down at his crotch. "That's what it says?"

"That's what is says, dude. Read it yourshelf."

He sighed, scratching his head. "That's… not great."

It didn't take the girls long to find some ice, and Joe thought they seemed suspiciously eager. I guess out of everyone here, Cameron is the – *girly voice* – hottest guy. I mean, that's just being objective. Which I suppose makes it more exciting to put ice down his pants?

Cameron stood up, pacing back and forth, and Holly gave him a tray of ice cubes. He glanced at her uncertainly. "Have you got somewhere private?"

"Nuh-uh, you have to do it here," Preston said. "So we can make sure you aren't cheating." In his shirtless state, he seemed keen to share the embarrassment.

"Can I help put them in?" Violet asked.

"What? No!"

"Thought I'd ask. You can stand in the corner then."

Cameron walked to the corner. He looked at the ice, then at the girls, then at the ice.

"…We don't have all day," Phoebe said.

"Yeah, yeah." He cracked a few cubes from the tray, then grabbed the waistband of his briefs, turning away. Ice slid down the rear. He took a sharp breath. "Oooh, god."

"You should do the front next," Martin said conversationally.

They saw him fiddle with his shorts, ice blocks dropping into the gap. "Oh god. Ah." He winced, hopping from foot to foot. Two more cubes slipped in the other end.

"How's it going?" Cary asked. "Got some shhhhhrinkage?"

Cameron glared at him. "Shut up." Twelve ice cubes was a decent amount and he tipped the rest in at once, hissing in surprise. "Ow! Ow, this is actually bad." He turned back to them, underwear clacking, radiating a chill sharp as needles. "How long do I have to keep these in?"

"Until they melt, whenever that may be," Phoebe said solemnly. The other girls giggled behind her.

"Till they melt?" He swore under his breath and waddled back to the circle, shuddering and clutching his crotch.

Joe felt rather sympathetic.


DARE #3

The bottle landed on Alice.

"Lick Violet's feet," Cameron read, teeth chattering. "Th-th-three words."

"Violet's feet?" Alice asked.

"Yep."

She rolled her eyes. "Gee, I wonder who wrote it."

"Not me," Violet said innocently. She pulled off her shoes and stretched her legs out, curling her toes towards Alice. Alice, for her part, wasn't a particularly good judge of feet – she hadn't spent much time thinking about them, to be honest – but they seemed fine. A bit small, maybe. Wrinkly toes. Very feet-y.

"I guess that's not so bad." Alice sighed. "I hope you washed them."

"They're actually pretty clean. Better my feet than…" Her eyes flicked around the circle. "…Charles'."

"What's wrong with mine?" Charles retorted.

"You seem like you'd have smelly feet."

"I don't."

Slowly, Alice leaned forwards. She lifted Violet's ankle. The dare hadn't specified how much licking was involved, so she could probably get away with being quick. She shuffled closer. Stuck out her tongue, bracing herself. The other girl waited expectantly.

Quickly, she touched her tongue to Violet's heel, then swept it to her big toe in one smooth motion. Ugh! She had to stop herself from recoiling; it wasn't pleasant. The taste was salty – a little musty – with a weird, rippled texture. Pretty much what I expected? Like licking your own hand, but worse. The ridiculousness of the situation wasn't lost on her. I look like a freaking dog.

Violet twitched in surprise. "That felt weird."

"You're telling me," Alice muttered. She wiped her lips with her sleeve, spitting onto the carpet. "Your feet aren't that clean."

"Well, sorry." She lifted her other leg. "Next one."

Alice sighed, then did the same to her other foot. It didn't taste any better the second time and her tongue curled in protest. I won't make this a habit.

Violet appeared to enjoy it, though. "Tickles," she said thoughtfully. "I don't s'pose you'd want to suck my toes?"

"No," Alice said, "find someone else. Or get a boyfriend."


TRUTH #3

"What's the strangest place you've peed?" Alice asked.

Joe blushed. "Umm… wow. I'll have to think for a bit." He looked down, trying to find a decent answer.

"You've peed in many strange places, then?" Kim asked.

"Tons," Charles answered for him. "That's like, Joe's defining feature – peeing everywhere."

Joe threw a shoe at him. "Rack off."

A small hill of clothes was gradually growing in the corner – Preston's shirt, several pairs of shoes, Charles' jacket, Rachel's hoody. Preston, at least, seemed to have comes to terms with being the least-dressed person in the room, though was being quieter than usual. Cameron was shifting uneasily on his butt, a damp patch slowly spreading. Look at us, we're having SO much fun. Joe racked his brains. Have I peed in any strange places? It's not exactly something I keep track of. I could make one up…

"Got one," he said. "Does the girls' bathroom at school count?"

Martin frowned. "It's strange that you peed in there, sure."

"I was really stressed after a test once, and I totally wasn't thinking straight, and I went in the wrong door by accident. Didn't even notice until some girls came in."

"And?" Holly asked.

"And I hid in there for twenty minutes until it was empty again. I don't think anyone saw me." He smiled nervously. "Oh, and the Grand Canyon too – like, over the edge, when I was six. Not really over the edge since it wasn't very steep, but that's what I was trying to do. My mom was super embarrassed."

"Strange place," Phoebe murmured. "As advertised."

Joe reached for the bottle. He paused, twisting his wrist – letting the anticipation build – then spun it on the carpet. The plastic glinted, whirring fast, fast, slower, slower… pointing past Holly, then Preston, then Charles, coming to a stop on Rachel—

The bottle did a little skip – like it'd had been given an extra nudge – and moved past Rachel, settling on Phoebe's lap.


DARE #4

Joe took the paper from her, unfolding it. "Spin the bottle again," he read. "Whoever it lands on, you have to sit in their lap for the rest of the game."

Phoebe spun the bottle. It landed on Cameron.

"Oooh!" said five different people. Phoebe didn't seem too fussed though, or perhaps was resigned to her fate. She scratched her neck daintily. Cameron tried his best to look nonchalant but was clearly biting down on a smile.

"Feeling better?" Charles asked him.

"Sort of. Not gonna lie, this is still super uncomfortable." He shrugged. "Gotta look on the bright side, though."

"Wait." Phoebe narrowed her eyes. "You aren't… wet, are you?"

"Oh yeah. Super wet." Cameron spread his hands. "Sorry. Blame whoever wrote the dare – who, by the way, I am going to get revenge on."

Phoebe stood up, grimaced, and stalked towards him; put her hands on her hips and gave him an expectant stare. Cameron crossed his legs and leaned back a little, supporting himself with his arms.

"I hope you have comfortable knees," Phoebe said.

"Honestly, that isn't something I can confirm or deny. Time to find out?"

Phoebe brushed her dress out of the way, then sat swiftly with an unimpressed look. Too unimpressed, Joe thought. Cameron grunted with the sudden weight, then straightened, his chest again her back. He sniffed.

"Your hair's in my face."

"Well, deal with it." Still, she moved it to one side; shifted a little, making herself comfortable. "You are wet. Pass me the bottle."


TRUTH #4

"Martin: if you could go on a date with anyone in the room, who would it be?"

"Huh," he said slowly. He looked around the circle at everyone in turn: Alice, Cary, Kim, then Joe, who met his gaze and for the briefest moment Joe thought he'd say—

"Holly," Martin said. He blinked, then wiped his glasses with his sleeve, as if that answer didn't have serious consequences.

"Really?" Holly asked curiously.

"Sure."

Joe noticed that Alice was smiling faintly.

Holly frowned. "We'll talk later."


TRUTH #5

"Hey Violet – describe the underwear you're wearing. Be specific, please."

"Oooh, okay. They're black panties. Lacy. From that clothes shop next to the record store, not that any of the guys would know. Bra's the same but with pink straps. And sorry, but you don't get to know the exact size." She stretched the waistband of her jeans slightly, revealing a hint of what was underneath; the material was indeed black and lacy. "Next question."


DARE #5

"Kim, this one's for you."

"Hooray."

"Your task is to play a game: lie on the floor and balance a shot glass on your forehead. The other player must crack eggs at eye level – arms fully extended – and drop them into the cup. The first team to get the whole yolk in the cup wins." Violet squinted, holding the paper up to the light. "The writing is super tiny – it says to pick random people until there's two teams of two."

"Is that allowed?" Alice asked.

"It is unorthodox… but let's do it."

The fierce and uncaring bottle-god chose Charles, Preston and Cary and it was agreed, unwillingly, that Kim and Preston would lie on the floor while Charles and Cary dropped eggs. Preston's primary argument against this was that Cary was drunk and thus clearly not qualified to be aiming at anything, especially foreheads, but everyone else thought this was hilarious and he was overruled eleven votes to one.

Kim lay on the carpet, staring at the ceiling. Preston lay down next to her, crossing his arms over his chest. Kim glanced aside. "This is fun."

"Exceptionally." Preston swallowed.

Holly searched the kitchen upstairs for eggs, plus a couple of shot glasses. She balanced the glasses on Kim and Preston's foreheads; Preston went crosseyed trying to focus on it.

"Everyone still alive up there?" Alice asked.

"Mostly. We only have twelve eggs, so you get six each," Holly said, dividing them between Charles and Cary. Cary giggled, running on the spot.

Charles was somewhat less excited. "Don't mess up," Kim said darkly, fixing him with a robotic stare.

"But it's not my fault— I can't— that glass is tiny!"

"I don't care. If you get egg on my face, tomorrow they'll find your body floating face-down in the river, with no hands, because I'll be wearing your hands as a decomposing necklace to remind myself of how terrible you are. And then I'll burn your bones to ash. Then I'll collect the ashes and burn them again. And again. And again. And your brother, and sister, and your mother and father too until nobody even remembers what you looked like."

Charles swallowed. "Sure."

"I mean it."

"You have to try and win," Preston said, desperately trying to get Cary to pay attention. "Be careful! It's not that hard – you can do it."

"Of coursh I'll be careful, Math Camp." He tripped and nearly fell into a beam. "Whoo! Shooper careful."

"Oh no." Preston closed his eyes. "I'm doomed."

"Teams ready?" Violet asked, the others crowding around to watch. "Three, two, one, go!"

Charles and Cary grabbed their eggs – held them out – crack-splat! Charles, in principle, was at least trying to aim; Cary was doing no such thing, and his egg splattered the carpet by Preston's ear. He winced, turning away. Charles' egg was closer, but that just meant it dripped sloppily onto Kim's cheek.

He froze. "Sorry! Sorry! I'm really sorry! I—"

Kim twitched, spluttering. "You're DEAD."

Cary's next shot was way off, more a throw than a drop, hitting Preston's chest and sliding down his ribs. He went to wipe it away but was quickly silenced by Violet. "No moving! Arms by your sides!"

Charles cracked an egg onto Kim's nose, still petrified, then dropped the next yolk on her forehead, barely missing the glass. "That was close! That was really close!"

Kim spat yolk from her mouth, the rest seeping into her stringy red hair. "Mmm, give it to me," she said.

Another miss, this time her chin.

"Harder."

Another miss.

"Harder."

"You're making this awkward!" Charles hissed.

"Oh really? Is it awkward that you're dropping eggs on my face?"

Charles was panicking, which made him miss even more. Cary wasn't panicking but was missing just as badly. The spatial challenge of judging the drop was apparently too much and Preston squeezed his eyes shut, accepting his fate.

"Aah!" Eye. "Aah!" Neck. "Aah! Cary, aim!"

In the end, it was agreed that the spectators were the winners.


DARE #6

Preston left to wash off the mess. Kim decided to stay and bask in her misery, egg whites slowly drying on her face. Every now and then she shot Charles another death-stare, who looked about as worried as when fleeing angry aliens.

Kim twirled the Coke bottle, which landed on Joe.

Oh, great.

"Heh. This is a fun one," she said. "You will be tied up and blindfolded. The group may tickle you for one minute."

Joe froze. "I don't really like being tickled."

"Fan-tastic."

He surrendered unwillingly; there wasn't much of a choice. It's only a minute. It can't be that bad? Right? Question mark? Holly wrapped a tea towel around his head, knotting it tight. The world went black. "Do I have to be tied up?"

"Yes."

"Yep."

"Yeah."

"Yes."

"Definitely."

"Where should we put him?" he heard Cameron ask.

"The beam?" Martin suggested. "Like where the hammock is?"

"That could work," Phoebe said.

"Let's try it," said Holly. "I'll find some rope or something."

The group pulled him to his feet. Someone pushed him along from behind; he guessed it was Charles. The tea towel smelled of dishwashing liquid. He tripped on the hat, which meant he was near the middle of the basement.

"Left a bit. Left a bit. Stop."

He felt someone take his wrist, tie something around it. He tried to peer through the towel but couldn't make anything out. It felt like… a shoelace? Then the other wrist. Then hands grabbed his ankle. What are they doing?

"See those hooks?" Cameron said. "Tie the other ends around those. His legs can reach the pillars on either side."

"Guys?" Joe asked nervously. "What are you doing?"

"Just making sure you definitely can't move," Alice replied.

His left arm was yanked upwards at a 45-degree angle. The rope went taut in a slightly painful way, and he heard rustling as someone tied it in place. His right arm was stretched in the other direction – as if he was doing the YMCA dance. He tugged experimentally and couldn't get free, both wrists fixed to something on the ceiling. Probably the hammock hooks.

"Move your legs a bit wider," Charles said.

"Umm… okay." Obediently, he shifted his feet, till they were outside his shoulders. At some point he couldn't move them any further – with his arms tied above his head, it limited how low he could go. Somebody knotted the ropes at his ankles as well, looping them around the beams to either side, until he was making an 'X'-shape with his arms and legs.

"That looks good," Violet said. "Joe, can you try and get free?"

He yanked with his arms but couldn't find much leverage – he was stretched so far that it was slightly uncomfortable, unable to twist or shift or move back and forth. His legs had the same problem. "I can't really move."

"Great."

Joe shook his head. Not great. He heard the others shuffle away and start whispering in the corner. He tried moving again; no result. His heart started to beat a little faster. I literally can't do anything. And that was… exciting? Probably the wrong word. But the expectation, the anticipation of what might happen combined with his powerlessness formed a strange emotional cocktail.

"Hey," Alice said, right behind him.

He twitched reflexively, but only succeeded in hurting his wrist. "Hello?"

"They've set a timer for a minute. But they probably won't stick to it."

"OK." He twisted his neck to face her; she sounded very close. "I feel like I should reiterate that I don't like being tickled."

"Objection noted," she murmured.

Then she stuck her fingers into his armpit.

"No. That tickles." He coughed, biting his lip, trying not to giggle. Alice wormed her fingers. The itching sensation made him want to pull away but he really, really couldn't. His arms tensed. "Stop. Stopstopstop—"

Another pair of hands began digging into his ribs. He jerked backwards. "Hey!"

The person laughed (it sounded a lot like Cary). The hands kept teasing, brushing, poking, and Alice was still tickling his armpit, more and more. Then someone brushed his left foot and that was the worst. He gasped for breath, skin squirming. "Stop! Please—"

"No friggin' way," Cary snorted.

No escape. He thrashed against the restraints. Finally he couldn't hold it in anymore and laughed, a weird, gasping hyena-like laugh, arms, stomach, feet, wriggling and shivering, no way to focus on anything else except the next wild second of feeling – not painful, but too much in too many places. Sixty seconds was starting to sound like a very long time and the blindfold definitely made it worse. His arms hurt from trying to pull away, legs stretched, stomach tense. Part of his brain wondered how long it'd been.

Unexpectedly someone went for the back of his neck. The jerk playing with his feet danced up and down his soles, in and out of his toes, across the top, back around the ankles. "Stop! No!" He giggled, running out of air. Hands lifted his shirt – Cary? – to get at his bare skin. That was twice as bad. Fingers touched his sides. He bucked sideways. Something else – not fingers – swirled lightly round his bellybutton in a cruel, slow spiral. Some people were being rough, not paying much attention, while others were being particularly delicate and awful. He whimpered, biting his lip. Protested to no avail. Hands were still prodding at his ribs, poking, tickling, oh god when will it end he hadn't even realised the backs of your knees were that sensitive. A burst of delirium. He kicked madly, curling his toes, no escape, not even an inch. There were tears in his eyes. How long left?

All he could do was laugh and pray for an end that never came.


TRUTH #6

"That was way longer than a minute," Joe panted, sagging against his restraints. He squinted as Alice pulled his blindfold off, adjusting to the light.

"Slightly," Alice said.

"More like two," Rachel added.

"But you looked like you were having so much fun that we didn't want to stop," Cameron said. "We were only thinking of you, Joe."

"Thanks a lot. You guys are horrible." He coughed, still trying to catch his breath. His muscles ached, every single one of them, like he'd run two miles instead of being tied up in someone's basement. Which, by the way, sounds super wrong.

"You didn't even slightly enjoy it?" Holly asked.

"Nope." Not after the first ten seconds, anyway. "Can you untie me?"

Alice reached towards his wrist, then paused. "Hmmm." She glanced towards the others. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"We could just leave him there," Martin said slowly.

Holly shrugged. "Why not? The dare said the tickling was for a minute. Not the other stuff."

"True," Phoebe said. "Very true."

Joe shook his head worriedly. "Alice. Please untie me."

She leaned closer, considering it. Then she flicked his nose gently. "I think not." She turned, departing without a second glance.

"Alice?" He tugged on the ropes. "Charles? Guys?"

"Sorry, Joe," Charles called out.

They sat down in a circle again, ignoring his frantinc objections. Joe groaned. It wasn't exactly uncomfortable, but it would've been nice to sit down. Or, you know. Move. He wasn't able to spin the bottle from his position, so Alice brought it over – grinning at his scowl – and let him nudge it with his foot.

It rolled towards Kim. The red-haired girl picked a dare from the hat, then knelt on the carpet, hands on her thighs. Phoebe, once more, took a seat on Cameron's lap. Joe waited. There wasn't much else he could do.

Holly read it out. "What is a secret you've never told anyone else?"

"A secret?" Kim clapped with mock excitement. "Oooh, okay. Um – I dated two of the Pensini twins."

Violet's brow furrowed.

Kim kept going. "I competed in the US elementary nationals for showjumping—"

"In horsery?" Martin asked.

"Yes, horsery. For ten months I helped my older cousin do inkwork for counterfeit IDs. I've never eaten a blueberry—"

"What?" Violet exclaimed.

"They're doll eyes, think about it. I can't do a cartwheel. An owl tried to kill me at Bible camp—"

Charles blinked. "Say again?"

"Big bastard, sluiced right through the night air, silent as crap – fshhhhh." She mimed its path. "There's still scars on my—"

"No, not that. What kind of camp did you say?"

"Bible camp. See, my real problem is I was wearing a headband with a cute little mouse on it—"

"Kim, are you religious?"

"No! I consider myself more generally spiritual," she said, deadpan. "Is that enough secrets for you?"


DARE #7

The bottle, for the first time in the game, picked Charles.

Kim scanned the paper. "Seven minutes in heaven with whoever the bottle lands on," she said. "Easy. Heaven – finger quotes – can be the creepy basement closet over there. Which Holly is 90% sure is not a murder dungeon."

"I've never understood this concept," Preston said. "What're you supposed to do in a closet?"

Charles cleared his throat. "Talk, hold hands, kiss… you know, private stuff."

"But why a closet? If I'm going to talk to someone, I'm just as likely to do it outside. And everyone knows you're in there. It's not private at all."

"That's why it's exciting," Alice said. "The idea is to be chosen to go in with somebody you like – like like. The game sets up a situation you want to be in."

"It's very unlikely you'll match with one specific person. Seems inefficient."

"Stop ruining it." Charles grabbed the bottle. He looked aside for the briefest of moments, taking a breath. Joe wondered whether – if you practiced enough – you could get a bottle to stop consistently at a certain angle. It'd depend on the surface, and the bottle obviously, but maybe… I bet that's a plan Charles has thought of. There was a 50% chance it'd land on a girl. A 25% chance it'd land on a girl Charles liked. An 8% chance it'd land on a girl he liked. Eight percent wasn't much.

The bottle spun. It whipped round the circle a few times, then slowed, turning past Violet, Cary, the Cameron-Phoebe sandwich, Joe hanging from the beam, Preston, inching along, preparing to halt at Alice… inevitably kept spinning for juuuust a little longer, until it stopped at Rachel's knees.

Rachel stared at it. Then at Charles.

"Oooh," Violet said. "Interesting."

Cary whooped loudly. "Go Charles!"

Charles blushed. He stood, making a big show of re-arranging his hair, like nothing exciting was going to happen, no sir nothing at all.

"You've got seven minutes," Violet said. "Have fun. Try not to make any weird noises."

Charles led the way, steadfastly ignoring them. Rachel stretched, then followed Charles into the closet.

The door clicked shut behind them.


DARE #8

Joe wondered if anything would happen. Probably not; Rachel didn't seem like the type, and Charles would freak the heck out if anything did. Still, he got what he wanted. That's cool, haha. Every few moments, someone would glance stealthily at the closet door – it was one of those doors made of thin wooden slats – as if they'd suddenly developed X-ray vision.

I wish I wasn't tied up.

The next dare was for Alice. Since Charles was otherwise occupied, she got to read it herself: "Switch all your clothes with Sealy." She wrinkled her nose. "Sealy?"

"That's one of mine," Kim said. "Sealy. C-Lee. Cary Lee. We've been over this."

"Yeah, I know who it is. But why Cary?"

"'Cause he's the smallest one, and I thought it'd be funny. CARY!"

"AAH!" Cary spluttered, bursting into wakefulness. Every few minutes he fell into another doze; the alcohol was taking a while to wear off.

"I'm switching clothes with you," Alice said flatly.

"For a dare?" Cary asked.

"Obviously for a dare. It's not something I'd do normally."

"But you might really love these sweet threads." The remainder of his shark costume was a long-sleeved top and cargo pants, both pale grey. Alice, for her part, was wearing a simple cream-coloured dress. Cary belched loudly.

"I'm not sure who's getting the worse end of the deal," Cameron murmured.

"I guess we'll find out," Phoebe replied.

Holly pointed around the corner of the L-shaped basement. "You can get changed around there. There's boxes 'n' stuff to hide behind; you'll figure it out."

"Okay." Alice sighed. "But I just wanna make it clear – we aren't switching underwear."

Cary almost looked disappointed. "Can we?"

"Not happening."

They disappeared around the corner.

The rest of the group waited curiously, imagining what might be happening out of sight, though Cary's participation had made it decidedly unerotic. There were subtle rustlings, followed by an elbow hitting the wall.

"Ow," Cary hissed.

"Spin round," Alice whispered. "Don't look."

More rustling, shuffling feet. Cary sneezed.

"Pass it here," Alice said.

"No! You first."

"Turn around!"

Somebody was clearly struggling with a shirt. Cary giggled as he tried to figure out the dress. "How do you wear this stuff?"

"Seriously? Put your arms through the holes, it's not that difficult." Alice groaned. "Don't rip it. Cary, give it – Cary, no! NO!"

A box fell over. Thump! "We're doing it," Cary ordered, "or I'll chuck 'em out the window!" There was the sound of a struggle, then Alice's shoes sailed from behind the corner, smacking into the far wall. A pair of socks followed.

Silence.

"…Fine," Alice said.

"Heh."

Thirty seconds later, they emerged. Cary's clothes were way too small for Alice – the pants were more like three-quarter jeans, the shirt basically a crop top (which wasn't too strange, she supposed). Something ripped. She winced. Cary, on the other hand, was positively swimming in Alice's dress, the fabric billowing gaily round his legs. He jumped and attempted a twirl, almost falling over.

"Oh wow," Phoebe said.

"Looks good," Preston murmured. "You should dress as a girl more often."

Martin just laughed, doubling over. "Hahahahaha! HAHAHA!"

Cary skipped across the room Mary-Poppins-style, arms swinging. "Guys. Guys, it's totally not that bad!"

Alice frowned grumpily, sitting in front of Joe. She wriggled, trying to get comfortable but the clothes were far too tight, hugging her form. Her face momentarily reached Kim-levels of scariness. Martin kept laughing. He was running out of air.

"Hey Alice," Joe said.

"…What?"

"So there's this thing called karma, which I think you might be interested in—"

"Save it."

Cary came to a stop, puffing. He swished the dress. "Seriously, it's like airy, and loose… if it was shorter it'd be ace! The other stuff's kind of tight, though."

"What other stuff?" Martin asked.


DARE #9

The next dare went to Holly: "Act like a dog for the next three rounds."

She blushed. "That's kinda boring."

"Boring or not, you gotta do it," Cameron said.

Holly sighed. Slowly, she reared up on her knees – arms curled in front of her like paws – and stuck her tongue out, panting quietly.

It was pretty boring.


HEAVEN

Charles sat cross-legged on the floor of the closet, picking at the carpet with his fingers. Rachel sat by his side, at a slight angle. Light shone through the slats in the door, casting faint lines across his knees, and he could hear the group laughing at something too muffled to make out. He wiped a beat of sweat from his ear. Oh man. I hope I don't smell bad.

Seven minutes in heaven so far seemed vastly overrated. Three or four minutes must've gone by already and all he'd managed was a few sentences of crappy small talk. Rachel hadn't contributed much either, just sitting, waiting, occasionally throwing him a smile. Is she expecting me to do something? Does she want me to? How do I know?! Being forced into a claustrophobic space was basically just awkward, unless you were a full-blown Romeo – like Joe now was, apparently. How is he better at this than me? How?

Then his breath caught in his throat. A shape was rising into the air – a feather duster. For a second he thought he was going crazy. The duster rose in the gloom, spinning, stretching, slowly twisting like the tendrils of an octopus, oddly beautiful. He watched, mouth open. Rachel concentrated, reaching out with one hand, and gently nudged it towards him.

The feather duster wobbled, floating in zero gravity. He went to touch it—

Then Rachel arched forwards, clutching her stomach, and let out a great, hacking cough. The duster fell to the floor.

Charles put a hand on her shoulder. "What happened? Are you okay?"

She waved him away. "Fine – cough! – I'm fine. Eugh."

"You sure?"

"Yes." She took a few ragged breaths, then straightened. Closed her eyes. "Doing that for fun never feels 'proper'… with great power comes great responsibility." Then she winked, and her eye sparkled like a lighthouse.

"What's it like being pretty?" he asked. He wasn't even sure where the question had come from. Somewhere inside my stupid, stupid brain. Argh!

"I – I wouldn't know." Her lips formed a small smile.

"What's it like being you, then?"

Rachel blushed. "This is the only way I've ever looked. I'm not—"

"I think people treat you nicer when you're pretty."

"Why would you say that?"

"Because…" Because sometimes, I have to try really hard to get people to be nice to me. I had to try for freaking years to become 'funny Charles' instead of 'fat Charles.' "Personal experience. You're totally pretty, though. And I'm – ugh." He grimaced. "Can we just forget the last thirty seconds?"

"If you like."

Charles forced himself to smile. His mouth curled into the right shape so easily – happy, even when he didn't feel like being happy, was the way people liked him most. Well-trained. Funny Charles.

"I'm glad you don't think I'm a freak," Rachel added.

"What? Of course not. I mean, all of us are freaks, total freaks – you just get cool special powers, too. I don't understand how people could think that's a bad thing."

"A lot have. A few do. But… every time I look at you, you look like you're having a pretty good time. You're always happy. Laughing. Smiling. Ever since I met you."

"Oh, sure. That's just because I watch movies in my head." He grinned. "One-track mind."

"Whatever the reason, it means… I like being around you," Rachel said. There was a small pause between each word, as if she was thinking carefully about what she said. A stripe of light from the basement fell across her face, outlining a cheekbone, a frown, a wave of hair.

Charles gulped. "Really?"

"Can you promise me something?"

"Sure."

"Promise me you won't leave."

"Yeah, I'll stick around. Promise. You won't be able to get rid of me. Seriously, you'll get bored of me in no time."

Probably shouldn't have added that last bit. But Rachel laid her hand on the carpet between them, not really looking at it. After a moment, he took it, fingers resting lightly atop hers. Oh god, I'm so sweaty. It didn't feel like much; at the same time, it felt like a lot.

"You have to promise me something too," Charles said. "Promise you'll come to my birthday party."

"…Okay. Why?"

"Because if you do that, you'll still be around in six months." He grinned. "That's a good start, right?"


DARE #10

Martin was the ever-so-lucky recipient of the next challenge.

"Kiss (French) whoever the bottle lands on for thirty seconds," Holly read.

Martin looked shocked. "Wait. Does that mean I have to… kiss you?"

"No, dummy. It means you've gotta spin the bottle again to pick someone else. Sorry to disappoint." She shrugged, genuinely looking sorry, then went back to pretending to be a dog.

"Oh, man, that is a good dare," Cameron said.

"Classic," Violet agreed. "Props to whoever wrote it." She winked.

Alice rolled her eyes. "Of course it was you. Still, I'm surprised that's the first kiss that's come up."

"Maybe first." Joe stared pointedly at the closet. "Is their seven minutes up yet?"

"Why don't you check your watch? Oh. You can't."

Joe sighed. The tied-up thing was getting a little old.

Cary leaned forwards. "Spin it! Hurry up and spin it!"

Martin grabbed the Coke bottle and, shaking his head, gave it a twirl. For a moment, it looked like it'd go full circle and stop at Martin again – Joe wondered how that would work – but it wobbled a spot further to point at the person next to him.

Which was Preston.

"Umm…" Preston said.

Martin reached for the bottle. "Let's try again—"

Violet grabbed his wrist, quick as lightning. "Oh no you don't."

"But…" He glanced between Preston and Violet. "I can't kiss a guy, that's not the point."

"Nope! You gotta kiss whoever it lands on. Them's the rules."

"I agree," Cary said, giggling. "They're the rules, Martin."

Martin went pale. "I don't really… want to?"

"Too bad!"

"I would like to announce I fully support this turn of events," Kim said, flicking an eggshell from her hair. All of a sudden, she looked interested.

So did Phoebe. "It's only a dare Martin, no one's going to hold it against you." She leaned forwards, making Cameron's knees crack.

"Ow!"

"Sorry. It's just that your crotch is still soaked."

Cary snorted.

"I'm unresolved as to how I feel about this," Preston murmured to himself.

Joe was the only one who heard him. "Um, guys? Maybe we shouldn't force—"

"It IS within the rules," Alice said.

Martin pulled away, tugging free of Violet's grip. "This is weird. I don't want to." He hunched his shoulders. "Can I pick another dare?"

"Not a chance!" Violet retorted.

"My recommendation," Cameron added, "is to hurry up and get it over with."

Martin surveyed the room anxiously, hoping for an escape. The answering stares were wholly unsympathetic – even Joe was kinda over it. I mean, if I have to stay tied up for another hour, then I guess Martin can kiss a dude. Even if that dude is Preston.

Martin groaned. "I hate this." He blushed, glanced at Preston uneasily. "Sorry dude."

"Oh, uh – that's okay. Is it?" Preston fiddled with his hands, turning them over in his lap. "I guess it's okay."

"Get on with it, then," Violet said. "Thirty seconds. Go."

The two boys sat, frozen, unwilling to make the first move.

"You ever wish you had a camera to just so can preserve a moment forever?" Kim asked. "Those life-changing, golden moments?"

"CHARLES! CAMERA!" Cary screeched.

There was no reply.

Slowly, Martin turned to Preston. He pushed himself a little closer, cross-legged, shuffling on his backside. Preston turned to face him and suddenly wished, for the twentieth time, that he wasn't half naked. He crossed his arms over his chest. His skin suddenly felt hot, prickly. Martin wriggled forwards – looking at the walls, the floor, anywhere but an actual person – until their knees were almost touching.

Martin looked at the others. "Happy?"

"Not yet," Violet murmured. "And don't act like you wouldn't make us girls do the same."

Preston opened his mouth to disagree, then closed it. No point. He swallowed. He made himself look at Martin, just to check what he was thinking but could only manage half a second. Eye contact wasn't very comfortable. The strange thing was, they'd sat next to each other this close plenty of times and he'd never felt this nervous about it… never felt so hyper-aware of each tiny little uncomfortable thing.

He felt Martin's brown-streaked eyes dart across his face. "How should we – how should we do this?" Martin asked.

I honestly don't know. If Martin was to be believed he'd actually kissed a girl before; Martin had experience. The only person Preston had kissed was his mom and he'd stopped doing that three years ago. Oh, and the bathroom mirror that one time. We have to lean forwards, don't we? That's geometry.

Preston leaned forwards a little, bending at the waist. He pouted his lips. They felt very dry.

This is strange, he thought.

Obviously. I have to kiss arguably my best friend, and in all our time growing up together, this didn't register as something to prepare for. How deleterious.

Martin leaned forwards too.

It was basically a mutual agreement to get away with as little as possible. They inched closer, narrowing the gap, until their lips… touched. There weren't any surprising fireworks; no rush of blood to Preston's head. Just a vague sensation of skin touching skin, trying not to think too much about how smooth and wet it felt. The more awkward thing was how their noses mashed together. Big spike of cartilage on your face – makes sense it'd get in the way. He could feel it on his cheek whenever Martin breathed out and his eyes were extremely close, which was a problem, because it meant Preston couldn't actually look away and instead had to stare directly into Martin's rather wide pupils—

"Stop!" Violet interrupted. "Come on, that's not what the dare said."

They broke apart quickly. Martin wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "What?"

"The dare clearly says French kiss."

Preston froze.

Martin stared at her. "You CAN'T be serious."

"I'm serious. We're all serious." Violet looked round the circle and was rewarded with assorted nods. "You gotta do it for real. None of us half-assed our tasks."

"None of you had to kiss a—"

"Do it Martin," Cary whispered evilly. "Do it."

Phoebe smiled. "Mmm."

Preston ignored the rest of the argument. It was evident that the kiss was going to happen; the girls, for whatever reason, had a vested interest, while the only person who looked unsure was Joe and he certainly wasn't in a position to stop things. Even Alice seemed intrigued by the idea. She could be oddly… cruel, sometimes. Maybe 'callous' was a better word, in the sense that she'd let crazy things happen just because she was interested in seeing the consequences. I am very, VERY unresolved as to whether I want Martin's tongue in my mouth. Or anyone's tongue.

He realised he'd drifted off. Martin was looking at him with a glum expression, face red as a tomato.

"I hope you aren't incubating any diseases," Preston said.

Martin raised an eyebrow – then almost smiled. Almost. "Dude, I'm fine as long as you don't throw up on me."

"Huh. I did say that earlier, didn't I."

"Yeah. Ready?"

Preston nodded, barely. Martin cleared his throat and leaned forwards, mouth slightly open. Preston did the same. He'd been expecting to feel a little bored about going through the whole process again, but instead, he was… hm.

Their lips touched. At first, it was the same as before, but then he felt Martin's lips open and kind of move round his own – something soft and rounded brushing against his teeth – which for a second reminded him of a worm but then he realised what it was. Almost unconsciously, he tilted his head, his own tongue clamped to the inside of his cheek. Peculiar. Odd. Anomalous.

He shut his eyes. It seemed the sensible thing to do. He didn't know where to put his arms so they stayed clumsily by his sides. Without sight, his other senses immediately exploded to the forefront – hearing, touch, smell, taste— don't think about taste. The skin on his ribs. The hint of someone else's air. The blush in his cheeks. All very strange.

"Man, I can't believe they're doing it!" Cary hissed.

"Is this creepy or awesome? I can't tell," Cameron said.

"Awesome," Kim murmured emotionlessly.

Martin's tongue was still there. Lips still pressed together. Goosebumps on his shoulders, for whatever reason. Martin moved slightly – leaning together like they were wasn't easy – and Preston followed. He shifted his tongue, but there wasn't an awful lot of room and suddenly it slipped forwards into – oh gosh.

Martin twitched in surprise.

Contact. Too much contact! Preston curled his tongue back, retreating, but couldn't avoid touching Martin at the same time. He drew a breath—

"Umm… am I interrupting something?" a new voice said.

They whirled around. Preston and Martin separated with a jolt.

Dan Anderson was standing on the stairs. He absorbed the scene with a 'what-the-hell-did-I-miss?' expression – Cary in a dress, Alice not in a dress, Phoebe in Cameron's lap, Joe tied to a beam, Holly crawling around on all fours, Kim covered in a layer of dried egg, the recently-broken and fairly intense kiss.

"Oh, hi Dan. I was looking for you," Violet said. "We're playing truth or dare. I thought you'd wanna join."

"Look, I appreciate the thought, but… kinda glad I missed it." He leapt down the last couple of steps. "Who made up the dares?"

"Everyone wrote some. They're in the hat."

"Cool. Cool cool cool."

Preston took a moment to gather his thoughts. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to flush out the weird feeling. When he stole a glance at Martin, the other boy was staring off to the side.

Dan walked to the hat and drew a dare at random. "Everybody jump in the pool," he announced. "That's what this one says."

"…Huh. Should we?" Holly asked speculatively. "I think this game's pretty much over."

"Shush, dog girl," Kim retorted.

"Swimming this late probably isn't a great idea," Alice said. "Rachel? Charles? You can come out now."

Everyone glanced at the closet. No answer.

"I'll get 'em out," Cary said. "Whether they're ready or not."

The others stood up, stretching their legs. Joe shifted his feet. "Can you guys take me down now? Guys? Guys?"

"Maybe a swim would be nice," Phoebe murmured.

"It's a heated pool, so it'll be warm," Holly replied.

"Holly! Bad dog."

"Guys? Can you untie me?"

"Charles, you'd better not be doing anything weird 'cause I am opening this door right now."

"Guys? Untie me?… Please?"

"I was just thinking…" Martin began.

Preston glanced at him, half-way through retrieving his shirt. "What was that?"

Martin dug at the carpet with his foot, leaning against the wall. He looked down. "I was thinking… that wasn't actually that bad. I mean… all things considered."

Preston paused. He swallowed, pulling the shirt over his head. "No, it wasn't."


One last night, Joe thought. One weird night. I guess it lived up to expectations? He was sitting next to Alice on the edge of the pool, legs in the water. Holly lay on an inflatable chair, floating serenely, staring at the night sky. Cameron swam laps beside her (or underneath her), occasionally splashing whoever came near. Charles, in his own very pissed-off way, had spirited Cary inside to make sure he didn't do anything stupid. Or stupid-er.

"Let's never do that again," Alice murmured.

"Haha." Joe chuckled. "I totally agree."

"I'm still trying to figure out if any of this was fun."

"I don't know… it was kinda fun, I guess. Parts of it." He rubbed his wrists, where there were still red marks. "Exciting? Interesting. Disturbing."

"Sure." She touched the water and cupped some in her hand; looked at it, then let it fall through her fingers. "I get the strangest feeling we might never see this place again."

"Why?"

"I… just one of those stranger things. Like we're running out of time. Like there's a stopwatch, somewhere, counting down, and soon it has to reach zero."

"Yeah." Joe wondered about that. In some ways, he was surprised it hadn't reached zero already. All we have to do is survive until Cooper's friends get here. And hope the creepy tentacle guys don't finish us off first. But that's tomorrow's problem.

One last night.

"Tomorrow," Alice agreed. "We can think about it tomorrow."

She laid her head on his shoulder, yawning tiredly, and together they watched the stars.


Author's Note: The party sequence was interesting to edit, and I spent quite a bit of time re-ordering and rewriting things to try and create something interesting. For example, originally it was Martin that got drunk, rather than Cary, and Charles wandering around the party rather than Joe and Alice, but in terms of what's most entertaining for the characters I think these choices work better. The truth or dare game was another idea I originally had a few years ago, and making it happen in a reasonably fun, natural way was challenging – it's hard to know how far to go, and also required introducing a new squad of minor characters (some of whom have shown up before, admittedly).

Also, don't read too much into the Preston/Martin thing… unless you want to. The problem with my 'throw literally every idea against the wall and see what sticks' approach is that I don't know if a given plot is a one-off or if it'll develop into something more. Obviously, it depends on my interests as well as yours, reader. YES YOU.

Basically this was a weird chapter to write and ended up having less of a 'point' than I imagined, but I hope it's still entertaining!

Next chapter: we're off to school camp… where nothing will go wrong. NOTHING AT ALL. It is in NO WAY a convenient trick to get everybody out of Lillian and into a totally awful and unfamiliar situation.

Thanks to Freaks and Geeks, You're the Worst, Space Camp (Australian YA novel which basically nobody has read) and the internet for general inspiration.