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there all night was enough to make her want to down half a bottle of NyQuil. But instead, they got out of the house for once. He’d texted a few people, saw what was happening, and then said they could go to a party.
    In the Lexus—another luxury he bitched about constantly—he told her to put on whatever radio station she wanted. On his XM Radio. She put on Channel 7, the ’70s station. The music wasn’t Vince’s kind of thing, but it was always cool of him when he didn’t care what she put on. They pulled off of Edmonson Avenue and stopped at a gas station next to the liquor store.
    He got out and told her to lock the doors. Maybe he wasn’t so bad. He wanted her to lock the doors and be protected.
    A voice somewhere in the back of her head told her that the fact that he didn’t want her kidnapped—or maybe even his car stolen—did not exactly make him a loving and considerate boyfriend.
    But when he returned from the liquor store with her favorite vodka—Three Olives Tartz, it tasted like SweeTarts—in addition to the Sailor Jerry, 94 proof, she thought maybe that did.
    Yeah, between his fake ID and vague recollection of her favorite alcohol, he was practically a white knight.
    After driving a bit more, they pulled up to a house she recognized as Jenna King’s. Jenna was an annoyingly bubbly, perky, had-her-shit-together cheerleader type. Only she wasn’t a cheerleader, she was a drama student, and had somehow turned that from lame to cool. Instead of seeming like a Glee character, she’d transformed herself into Megan Fox in the eyes of her peers. A cool, sexy actress. Not an overdramatic, limelight-craving drama kid.
    Despite being the one to say they had to get out of the house, Tamara now felt annoyed, and wished she were—well, she didn’t really know where. Not the basement. Not her dad’s house—Lord, not there.
    Just … somewhere else. Unfortunately, this was it.
    There was nowhere else they could go without being watched or getting yelled at.
    When they walked in, there wasn’t much of a reaction. Everyone was caught up in whatever they were caught up in. Beer pong. Cards. Shots. More effing video games. It seemed like a disappointing display, but then, Tamara couldn’t think of something more she had really been expecting.
    She followed Vince to the people who had told them to come by, and everyone pretty much took the positions they would have taken back in Vince’s basement. That put Tamara behind the lip of her vodka bottle, not bothering with a glass or a chaser.
    After a while, she remembered she had a joint in her purse. It was rolled up and hidden with her cigarettes in a cute, vintage-looking cigarette case she’d gotten from a store in D.C. Her head was swimming already, but she didn’t care. She wanted more Nothing. Holding the railing with a tight grip, she made her way upstairs and went out on the back porch to smoke it. She didn’t feel like sharing her joint with Vince and his friends. It’d get back to her all soggy and gross.
    She sat down on a creaky wicker chair. The squeak sounded almost like an animal. It was so loud. Had everyone heard that? Were they going to come up now and accuse her of holding out or being antisocial? She got the second one a lot. She felt a strange nervous tremor run through her, like a kid quaking at the sound of angry footsteps on the stairs.
    She tried the lighter a couple of times with a shaking hand before it finally lit and she pulled the burn into the joint. She was alone out back, and took a couple of drags of the harsh smoke before hearing a voice behind her. “Um, do you think you could maybe not smoke that right next to a fucking window?”
    Jenna.
    “Right. Sorry.”
    Jenna gave a tight smile but didn’t walk far enough away from the window before adding, “Fucking pothead. I don’t remember inviting a bunch of burnouts to my party.”
    Tamara gnawed on the inside of her lip, a nervous habit, and pulled out her phone to