The driver turns into a run-down town house complex, and I get out a block away from the address Cruz gave me. It isn’t hard to find. Bass thumps from inside the town house, and the party spills onto the sidewalk out front. The last time I went to a real party, Noah was still alive.

Over the summer, I sat around drinking with lifeguards and caddies from the club. We even went to a so-called party on the golf course, but it was just a bunch of people standing around in the wet grass.

Three guys hang out on the steps, holding red plastic Solo cups and checking out girls as they walk by.

I’m up next.

“You need a drink, baby?” one asks.

I keep moving. “I’m good.”

He raises the plastic cup in a mock toast. “If you change your mind…”

Inside, music vibrates through the drywall. A deejay stands behind a table made out of a sheet of plywood and plastic milk crates, spinning the dials on a massive stereo system. Hips grind and hands wave to the beat.

The kitchen is crammed with people lined up at the keg. I scan the room for Cruz and squeeze through the wall of bodies. A kid who looks like he’s still in middle school hands me a cup.

“She nailed it again,” someone calls out.

“Drink up, boys, and cough up your money.” Cruz stands and holds out her hand. Her competitors hand over their cash. She spots me and waves me over to the table, where they’re playing quarters, and judging by how drunk the guys are compared with Cruz, she’s kicking their asses.

She shoves the guy sitting next to her. “Frankie needs a seat, and you look like you’re gonna puke. Move it.”

“Only if you promise to find me later,” he slurs, and stands.

“Not if the fate of mankind depended on it.” Cruz positions a shot glass in the center of the table and then pats the empty seat. “I wasn’t sure you’d show.”

I maneuver between the people watching and sit down. “Why not?”

Cruz flicks the quarter between her fingers. It hits the table once and bounces into the cup. “This neighborhood isn’t exactly the Heights.”

“I don’t live in the Heights anymore. I moved in with my dad, in Westridge.”

She nods her approval. Maybe I went up a notch. “Wanna play and help me prove to these boys that women are superior?”

I’ve played quarters before. Twice. My performance didn’t rank in the superior range. I pick up a quarter anyway. My days of playing it safe are over.

“I’m in.”

“Bring it.” A wasted guy sitting across from Cruz slams his cup down.

She puts one elbow on the table, holding her arm straight up, with the quarter between her forefinger and her thumb. She squints and lets the quarter roll off her thumb. It bounces on the table and lands in the shot glass.

“Aw.”

“Damn.”

A chorus of groans travels around the table, but approving nods show the guys are impressed. Cruz pours syrupy red liquor from the bottle in front of her. Night Train Express. It smells like cherry cough syrup.

The guys slam their shots, wincing or shaking their heads like wet puppies.

“You’re up, Frankie.” Cruz slides a quarter in front of me. “Show ’em what you’ve got.”

Nothing. That’s what I’ve got.

I focus on the shot glass. Don’t overthink it. I snap the quarter, and it bounces off the table and lands next to the cup.

“You know what that means.” A guy across from us pours a shot, and everyone points at me. “Drink.”

I chug the liquid, and it burns its way down my throat. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever tasted. I cough, and the burning sensation moves into my nasal passages. “What’s in that stuff?”

Cruz smiles. “You don’t wanna know.”

She nails her target, round after round, banking the quarter into the shot glass so many times I stop counting. I’m on a roll, too. The kind that ends with me drinking what I’m 99 percent sure is lighter fluid on every other turn.

“How are you holding up, Frankie?” Cruz nudges my shoulder, and it throws me off balance. She catches my arm and laughs. “I think you’ve had enough.”

“Yeah. I’m done.” I get up and squeeze past Cruz as gracefully as possible. Okay. I’m not exactly graceful, but I don’t trip.

“Where are you going?” Cruz asks.

“I’ll be in there.” I point toward the front room with the deejay.

She nods. “Give me twenty minutes, and I’ll catch up with you. These guys still have some money left in their pockets.”

“Come on, don’t go,” another guy says. “You were starting to get the hang of it.”

Cruz waves her hand over the table. “All right, all right. Settle down. She’ll be back. And I’m not going anywhere yet, losers.”

I squeeze past the crowd at the keg and the couples making out against the wall. The inside of my mouth tastes like cherry cough syrup. A wave of dizziness hits before I make it to the living room.

I need some air.

Outside, smokers gather in a pack on the sidewalk. Someone whistles at me, but I keep moving.

My head is fuzzy in a good way, but I can’t say the same about my stomach. The Night Train shots live up to their name. It feels like a train wreck in there.

A hunk of metal with no tires and a missing window is parked next to Cruz’s car. Judging by the white-and-blue primer covering the car and the missing parts, it looks like it’s either abandoned or getting an overhaul. When my head goes from fuzzy to woozy, the hood of the junker seems like the perfect place to sit.

Cool air settles my stomach enough to keep me from throwing up.

Even if I do, I’m glad I came tonight. I wasn’t calculating my every move or feeling guilty about the choices I made—or didn’t make. Maybe I can start over.

My stomach rumbles, and I take a deep breath.

Don’t puke in the street at your first Monroe party. Definitely not cool.

The stars are out tonight. I close my eyes and pretend the last three months never happened.

Where would I be right now?

Who would I be?

A stressed-out senior at Woodley, playing a piano I don’t miss and torturing myself over college essays to get into a school I can’t even remember if I liked? Instead of a sleep-deprived senior at Monroe, hanging out with a girl who street races and drinking shots of Night Train?