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witness their drunken celebration. They leaped into each other's burly arms and sang a chorus of holy shit, dude! Mike Domski tossed aside a beer can and started humping my hood ornament. "Get off my car!" I shouted. "I'm trying!" he moaned. "Oh, God, I'm trying!" After Mike pretended to bring my Honda to orgasm, the laughing boys made their way up the front lawn of the party. "Looks like Mike's over losing the election," Autumn said, trying to sound lighthearted. Then she added, "Are you sure you don't want to go?" "Why don't I just drop you off?" It came out bitchy, but I couldn't help it. "Forget it," Autumn said, though she sounded like she was doing anything but. A shaggy straggler shuffled a few quiet steps behind the pack. Connor Hughes. He stooped to peer inside my window with this curious look on his face. I could smell the beer all over him, warm and sour. "There's a spot down the street," he offered, pointing off into the blackness. His thumbs were threaded through holes in the cuffs of his thermal. We locked eyes for the briefest of seconds. His were blue and watery, because he'd been drinking and doing who knows what else. "Thanks for the tip," I said sarcastically, then pressed my foot down on the gas. Autumn spun around in her seat. "That could be interpreted as an invitation." I glanced in my rearview mirror, but couldn't see anything. Only night. My heartbeat started to slow. "We're going to be late for the movie." Autumn turned back around and huffed. "You know, there's something to be said for spontaneity." I didn't even bother responding. I just drove as fast as I could away from that house. CHAPTER SEVEN The rest of my weekend pretty much sucked. Autumn didn't sleep over on Friday or Saturday, but she came over on Sunday to do a few SAT practice exams together. I could tell she wasn't feeling it. I'd look up and she'd be staring out our kitchen window, even though the timer was ticking away and she was at least five test pages behind me. Obviously, practice exams aren't the most fun thing to do, but the SATs were in just over a month, and I wanted us to be as ready as we could possibly be. Not that it always worked that way. Because even though I'd practiced my speech countless times, I was way more nervous than I'd thought I'd be for the first student council meeting on Monday. I kept trying to remind myself that the stresses of the election had passed. I'd beaten Mike Domski, and now I could finally get down to business. Before heading to the meeting, I wanted to freshen up and collect myself. The perfect place to go was the girls' bathroom near the teachers' lounge. Other girls avoided it for the risks of getting caught talking on their cell phones or smoking a cigarette, but the lack of use meant that it was always clean. The dispensers stayed full of syrupy pink soap, and there was always toilet paper and paper towels to be found. It was my favorite place to pee. It was like an executive girls' bathroom. But I wasn't alone. I opened the door to find Spencer kneeling on the radiator. Her back was arched, and she stretched her head toward the ceiling, like she was in some strange yoga pose. I flashed her a quick smile and dropped my book bag in the well of a dry sink. "Shhhh!" Spencer took her finger off her lips and pointed above her head at the vents in the ceiling. A layer of fuzzy dust sat on each slit. She whispered, "Mrs. Dockey was just bitching about Principal Hurley not approving her costume budget for the school musical. She actually said that she `can't put on The Wizard of Oz with fucking bedsheets and a burlap sack!'" We both tried to hold in our laugher, but it was practically impossible. Mrs. Dockey was about eighty years old and completely soft-spoken. I didn't think it was possible for her to curse like that. Then again, she did take the musical theater productions very seriously. I rifled through my bag for my hairbrush, forcing it through the knots in my hair. I made sure my headband