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voted “Best Figure” in the entire school. The guys liked to say she had quite a rack.
    As I walked up to the limo, I saw that tonight Tattie’s notorious breasts were corralled inside a low-cut leather and lace camisole.
    “Get in, get in,” she urged me, pulling on my arm. I was barely inside before the limo took off amid a loud chorus of shrieks. The back was crowded to the max with the laughing, gyrating bodies of ten excited new graduates, male and female, sipping beer or wine coolers. The smell of marijuana was thick in the air. Someone must have slipped the driver a big wad of cash to make him ignore what was going on. This group was definitely ready to party.
    I wondered what had prompted Tattie to invite me along, but I didn’t ask. I was just glad she did. Last winter both Tattie and I had lead roles in the school’s musical production of Chicago. (Ironically, Nicole could outsing us both, but she cringed at the very thought of singing a solo onstage.) At rehearsals we discovered a mutual affinity for playing practical jokes and generally acting up.
    At the final cast party, we outdid ourselves by doing a provocative little dance that ended when we flipped our skirtsup and mooned everyone by wagging our thong-clad butts. That dance was the upper limit of my wildness, though it was probably the tamest story circulating about Tattie.
    After the play was over, Tattie and I didn’t become best buds or go to the mall together. Still, we remained friendly.
    As I settled into a seat near the door, Tattie passed me a plastic cup full of brew. “Welcome to the club, girlfriend,” she said.
    I wondered what club she was referring to—the losers club? The misfits club? The let’s-get-high club? I didn’t say anything, though, because tonight I was just thankful to be a member of whatever club would have me. At the same time, I hoped I wouldn’t run into Mara, Scott, or any of my old crowd—they would probably think it was pretty funny to see the bunch of oddballs and freaks I was hanging out with. Or maybe they would feel sorry for me. I wasn’t sure which reaction would be worse.
    The limo’s first stop was a rave party in Redwood City where everyone jumped out to dance in the street with several hundred other gyrating tweakers. A boy with a Mohawk offered me some Ecstasy, but I passed. A few puffs on a joint together with the beer I’d been drinking made me feel sufficiently mellow. After a couple of hours we went on to some random party at an estate in ritzy Hillsborough. Eventually the cops showed up and everyone took off.
    Around two we ended up back at my house since no parents or disapproving adults would interfere. I danced up a storm and hooked up with a semicute guy from another school named Ryan. He was a good kisser, and I felt more relaxed than I had in days. Of course, Ryan had to push it and whisper“Let’s go in the bedroom” in my ear. I ignored him after that and eventually he split.
    Around four I stumbled down the hall to my room and collapsed on my bed without undressing. At some point the sound of frantic catlike scratching on the other side of my closed door pierced my slumber. I didn’t move—Stella would have to wait for her breakfast.
    It was midafternoon before I finally emerged and tottered toward the kitchen. As I passed through the living room, I paused in what had become an involuntary action—checking the driveway for my mother’s car. It wasn’t there.
    Once I had fed the cat and downed some aspirin, I paused to survey the damage. Glasses, empty wine bottles, beer cans, and the remains of what appeared to be a pepperoni pizza were strewn here and there. The hall phone was off the hook, CDs were tossed on the floor, and the place smelled like a brewery. Fortunately, I didn’t see anything that looked like permanent damage. I did notice, though, that someone’s skirt and sandals had been abandoned near the sofa.
    A quick look around the house revealed that Tattie was