In all her calculations for the night, Amy had overlooked a simple factor – when alcohol saturated enough bloodstreams, a teenage universe exploded.

One minute she was gripping the balustrade of a viewing gallery outside the nursery, trying to get her bearings, watching as Caleb sprinted down the staircase after his defeated sister – amidst perplexed, faltering partygoers – and the next she was being whisked for a round of Beirut by a rambunctious Kristine; with Ashton and Robin in tow.

Amy risked whiplash.

As she was dragged by the sleeves, Amy saw Cecile Presley and Pete Ford in the living space below, arguing in front of a towering bookcase. Their faces were almost too close; bodies poised defensively.

Amy had found her prime suspects.

"... two reracks, of course! Robin and I versus the one true pairing – Amy and Ashton!" Kristine said, planting Amy next to Ashton near the ping pong table, and snaking her tanned arms around Robin. In a little black dress and nameplate necklace, onyx hair slicked back with a stretch-comb headband, Kristine looked like a merry mamba with a rather skinny mouse.

Ashton's cool, citrus comfort teased Amy as he leaned over for the ball. "As if there can be any other," he said, smirking at her flustered face. Ashton kissed the ball before expertly landing the first point with a flourish. "Raindrop!"

Robin chugged the red plastic cup of beer with a groan.

Amy needed to get her head back in the game. The night wasn't over yet and she had to question Cecile Presley without raising too much suspicion. The mask that had slipped in the smokey air of the nursery would have to be readjusted.

Although no matter how high she laughed or low she stooped, Amy couldn't concentrate on anything. The room was spinning by the time the game ended and she was half human and half beer keg.

When Gemma insisted on recreating their epic singalongs, Amy didn't have enough heart to protest. Just as they were arguing about song choices, Caleb entered the karaoke room, and Amy's vision tunneled.

Holding onto himself, Caleb rested against the graffitied soundproof wall that glowed fluorescent in the blacklight. Angelic neon feathers sprouted from his back but the letter lighting above him spelled otherwise – 'T.R.O.U.B.L.E'.

Amy began to sing, "Hey, hey, you, you!

I don't like your girlfriend.

No way, no way!

I think you need a new one."

Gemma carried it way more energetically than any one of the half-dazed people in the audience cared for. What they lacked in a singing voice, they made up for in enthusiasm. 

Caleb gave her a small, cryptic smile and somehow, Amy knew that he was alright.

When the lyrics projected behind her transitioned to a close, Amy realized that she was getting better at recognizing his tells after all. The buzz in her system felt pleasant.

"Emma called a cab and went home," Caleb told her as they exited the dark room into the hallway.

Amy held her phone close to her ear. "I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw her sitting there."

"Things at home are not ideal. Mom is practically starving herself with worry and it's making Emma anxious." Caleb gave her a serious look. "We need to act smart and we need to do it now. You heard what Harriett said about the church right?"

"Yeah, first thing tomorrow –"

But before she could verbalize her plans, Bobby Higgins threw up vile, puce sick all over Caleb's feet. Naturally, it sailed away and found a more solid mark.

Amy screamed in disgust. "Bobby, I'm going to murder you!"

Caleb clutched his sides, shaking with repressed laughter. "Bathroom is down that way to your left, peach."

"Ew, ew, ew, ew," Amy punctuated each gross step. The huge bedroom she entered was dark but mercifully empty. A lone strand of white light shone from the door of the bathroom. Crossing over, she began washing her low-top sneakers in the sink, wondering what more would be deemed collateral to get Caleb back to normal.

Amy shivered slightly as she regarded herself in the mirror. The girl staring back at her was a chimera of versions past and present.

Wiping her hands on one of the monogrammed Turkish towels, she closed her eyes. But in the quiet of the bathroom, an eerie melody rang faintly. Amy wanted to dismiss it as aftershocks of the revelries below but it was too distinctive. Almost sorrowful.

Behind her, the closet door was slightly ajar. Amy pulled it open.

Bathrobes organized in a chromatic manner fluttered a bit. Two rows full of them. Enough for a family of two dozen and guests.

Weird.

The notes of a piano flitted through the gaps.

Cautious as a kitten, Amy stepped inside, hands outstretched, gently pushing through the tufted chenille. Her breath was loud in her ears.

Amy's hand hit the wooden back with a thud.

She exhaled.

Though the music hadn't stopped. Instead, it reached a fevered ascension.

With the faded light from the bathroom behind her, Amy pressed her ear against the wood. Blood rushed to her head.

It swung open and she stumbled onto dewy grass, grasping the door for dear life. "Woah!"

Amy was in a circular, vaulted room. Travertine walls awash in the opalescent glow of the full moon supported a glass and metal lattice dome that soared above her head. The largest roses Amy had ever seen bloomed along the circumference of this botanical wonder; their spicy-sweet scent an assault on her nose. The legato euphony that had drawn her in was emanating from speakers Amy could not see, but now felt in the very fiber of her being.

Natasha Boynton lay on her back in the center of the conservatory, gloves strewn indiscriminately at her feet. Amy noticed that her eyes were wet.

As Amy approached her, Natasha sat up and quickly wiped her tears. "What are you doing here?"

"What is this place?" asked Amy, awestruck.

"Daddy breeds horses and hellroses. This sunroom was a gift."

"Unconventional entrance but it is amazing," Amy remarked. Side-sitting beside Natasha, she placed her bag on the grass. "I was looking for you. We still need to cut your cake."

Natasha sniffed and turned away. "I don't want to look at that thing. Did you know Cecile switched it for a goat-shaped one?"

"I caught the gist of it when you tried to kill her." Amy offered a smile of solidarity. "Think that joke has run its course."

"I wish I had succeeded but she's like a vampire or something," said Natasha, uprooting clumps of grass. "The minute she realized what my name backwards is, Cecile has never – stopped – coming – after – me."

With her newfound derision for Cecile Presley, Amy agreed, "We need to do something about her. She has gone too far."

"The whole school, no matter how much of my booze they drink or food they eat, will always remember me as Satan. The goat, the pentagram, and the stupid Halloween shit they pull every year will always be with me. I tried, Amy, I did," Natasha spat out, rounding on her. "I tried to own it! Laughed with them, pretended that I didn't care. But I do! I hate it. I hate all of them."

Tears of fury fell from Natasha's eyes on her printed dress. Amy cradled Natasha's head in her arms as the girl wailed in agony.

"Shh, it'll be alright," Amy said. Minutes passed before her friend calmed down. "We can always blow up the school you know."

That got Amy a wet chuckle. "It would be easier for everybody if I just bit the dust."

Amy gently held Natasha's shoulders. "You don't mean that."

"I think about it all the time now," Natasha confessed in a breathy whisper. "This whole week that one second before I wake up from my nightmares. Imagining how I would do it. If it would be painless, or dramatic. With a blade or a bunch of pills. They don't even feel like my own thoughts. I feel like somebody is going to hurt me or I'll hurt myself."

In her heart, Amy felt a rush of compassion but there was something else that tagged at the end of that feeling; something far more sinister. "Natasha, I think you need to talk to someone about this."

"I'm talking to you!"

"I meant someone professional. Someone like –"

"Don't say Abernathy. I hate that old witch."

Amy closed her mouth.

Then she remembered what she could do to cheer Natasha up, even if it was just a fraction. "Screw her, screw everybody. I have something for you." Amy handed over the gift. "Ta-da!"

It was a photograph of the two of them sporting identical wonky expressions from middle school, inside a seashell and golden glitter frame.

When Natasha just stared at it without saying a word, Amy burst into a monologue, "I know this is much smaller than a sunroom filled with roses – and now that I think of it a little stupid but It's from that Sadie Hawkins dance –"

"When Caleb dressed those pigs up from his uncle's farm in tiaras and wigs and released them in the gym." Natasha's face finally broke into a genuine grin. "The boys were in on it too. They refused to dance with any of us girls because –"

"– 'the pigs were prettier'," they snickered together. Her little present had done the trick.

"You got them good in the end though," said Amy.

"Oh my god, do you remember Connor Brown?" Natasha gasped.

"He's in my phone as 'Connor Blue-balls'."

As their laughter dissolved into a comfortable silence beneath the twinkling stars, Amy decided that it was time she returned to reality. Brushing off the grass sticking to her legs, she stood up, realizing that Caleb would be worried. A lot of time had passed.

Suddenly, Natasha proclaimed, "I miss him you know."

"Connor?"

"No. Caleb."

Amy frowned. As far as she knew, Natasha and Caleb were mere acquaintances at best. "What do you mean?"

Natasha looked morose again but began haltingly, looking at Amy as though she was ready to reveal it all. "You can't tell anyone but for the past couple of months, we've been sort of... hanging out."

"You and Caleb?" Amy gaped.

"He isn't like everybody says, Amy, he's actually pretty sweet," Natasha said, her cold hands closing around Amy's. "Usually, he tells me whenever he's leaving town for a while but this time there was nothing. I feel scared that something terrible has happened to him..."

But Amy had stopped listening to her. Realization dropped like an anchor out to sea, dragging Amy's body to the freezing waters below. Her empathy for Natasha's subconscious suicidal thoughts and fears was not born out of a compassionate heart.

It was exactly what she felt around Caleb Dawson whenever he was near.

✧

A/N: To those who've made it this far into the story, I offer two choices to soothe your nerves - the Spectre 🍸 or the Soulmate 🍹.  Virgin options are available for both. Ask me what's in them if you wish to be well-informed before finalizing your choice.

Amy probably needs to down both drinks right now.