When I pull up to the party, feeling powerful for the first time in my life. My car is old. The seats are stained. But it's mine. I feel giddy. I feel energized. Electricity and adrenaline surge through me. Tonight, I am unstoppable.

I park my car in the line of cars lining Boulevard Drive. I take a few steps and click the lock button on my key ring, just to hear the honk of my own car. I can't shake the smile from my face. There's a pep in my step that has never been there before.

I follow the booming of bass, in awe of the neighborhood around me. Every house is massive with high fences and neatly manicured lawns. This neighborhood is much nicer and more exclusive than Kayla's, but not as imposing at Isaiah's side of town.

Sometimes I can almost pretend I'm not different than my classmates. Then I see where they live, and I remember I am.

The door to Bryce Johnston's house is open and people are mingling inside, iconic red cups of mysterious liquids in their hands. I take a breath, steel myself, and enter the already loud and thriving party.

People are everywhere. Wrapped around each other on the couch and in the corner. Guys are yelling in another corner, arguing about sports. Girls are giggling, red-faced and already tipsy. Some people are trying to dance, I think, but it doesn't look like any dance I know. The smell of smoke wafts in from somewhere nearby and I don't know enough to know if it's cigarettes or weed or something entirely different.

"Cade Swanson!" A shrill voice calls from across the living room. Before I know it, I'm getting dive-tackle-hugged by Nicole Bannister, a girl in my art class. I didn't expect to ever see her at a party.

"I didn't know you were gonna be here!" Apparently, Nicole didn't expect to see me at one, either. "Let me get you a drink!"

She disappears into another room, the kitchen, I suspect, and returns with one of those telltale red cups everybody's holding. The contents smell like rubbing alcohol and gasoline and don't taste any better. I sip it cautiously. Everybody around me seems to enjoy whatever it is in this cup, so I try to follow suit.

"Are you here alone?" Nicole asks loudly over the roar of music. This isn't accusatory or pointed; she's just asking.

"Yeah," I shrug. There I go again, always shrugging.

"Come hang out with us!" She waves me over to a group of girls I've probably seen before but never met.

They all wear dark-framed glasses and have their hair pulled into tight braids. They're all wearing sweaters and jeans, and if I were to see them in a criminal lineup, I wouldn't notice a big enough difference between them to identify any one of them. And I have the trained eyes of an artist.

"Have you met my friend Cade?" Nicole asks, introducing me to her friends. I'm grateful when they all say no; it means I haven't just avoided them.

"This is Cade Swanson," Nicole says formally. "He's the most talented artist in the entire world." I shrug, then blush, and then shake my head. I don't know how to take a compliment, for sure.

I chat with Nicole's friends for a while, all sunshine and bubbles and giggles. One of them leans in close every time she talks to me and it takes me too long to realize that she's flirting with me. It takes me even longer to realize that I like it.

The more I sip this gasoline-alcohol concoction, the more I start to like it. And I like being here. And I like Nicole and her friends. And I like this loud music. And I like not being around Kayla or Isaiah. I like having the opportunity to be just me. I like the bubbles in my head and I start to giggle.

I look up to Nicole, but she's not there. A second later, she blurs into place and I giggle harder.

"Sorry," I say, trying, but failing, to control my laughter. "My eyes fotused slow."

"Fotused?" Nicole giggles, red-cheeked from the magic that is in our cups.

And then we fall into simultaneous and uproarious laughter. And I laugh harder because somewhere, my brain has accessed the word uproarious. I wasn't even aware that I knew that word until my brain accesses it.

Nicole's friends stare at me hard for a moment, then smile knowingly.

"Is this your first time drinking?" One of them giggles. I think maybe her name was Mona. But I might have just assumed that because for some reason she reminds me of the Mona Lisa.

"No," I shake my head furiously. "Yes."

Nicole and I giggle harder.

"Maybe you should take a break after this one," Mona says kindly. I agree that she's probably right. I haven't even been here twenty minutes, yet.

"Come on," Nicole says excitedly, grabbing me by the hand. "Let's go talk to people."

I've never met somebody so excitable and happy. Is this her default setting or is this the product of whatever it is we're drinking?

Nicole drags me around to meet what feels like a million people. She's sure I've met them all before, but she and I don't really run in the same circles. I don't know any of these people.

"Everybody, this is Cade Swanson," Nicole says, kind of. It comes out more like Kay Swansish. And we both giggle obnoxiously.

"This is Toni," she points to a girl with heavy eye makeup.

"This is Larkin," she motions to a boy clad in plaid. I giggle as I rhyme clad in plaid in my head.

"And I'm Dylan," a guy with thick, wavy hair and smoldering eyes extends his hand.

"Is that with an i or a y?" I ask. He looks at me funny, like nobody's ever asked this before.

"A y," he finally answers, smiling, my hand still shaking his.

"Figures," I keep my hand tight around his.

"What does that mean?" He doesn't break his grip either and I'm not entirely sure what's going on now.

"Guys who spell it with a y are always cuter," I giggle. Then feel myself go bright red. What the hell did I say? Damn it. I didn't mean to say that.

"Yeah?" He asks.

I expect him to break his hold on my hand and walk away, but he doesn't. Instead, he moves closer than me and leans into me.

"I've never met a Cade that wasn't hot," his lips graze my ear as he whispers this.

It sends shivers down my spine and suddenly my head is ever foggier than before. I don't know if it's the drink or Dylan, but I'm feeling the most intense euphoria I've ever felt. I lean my head closer to his, not sure what to do next. I don't know the steps to this dance. The only other person I've ever kissed was Isaiah, but I want to kiss Dylan. I don't even know him,

What if Isaiah finds out?

"I need another drink," I say, finally letting go of Dylan's hand and taking a step back. I need to get Isaiah out of my head. I don't want to think of him tonight. Not when I have Dylan standing here in front of me, in fitted jeans and a sweater that hugs his body.

I feel Dylan on my heels as I head to the room where Nicole got my drink. I was right, it is the kitchen. I look at three nearly empty bowls of foul-smelling liquid. They seem to dance in front of me for a moment and I don't remember what color I had before.

"Do you know what I was drinking?" I turn to Dylan who's smiling goofily at me with his sultry eyes. Can eyes be sultry? I don't even know. He's hot, okay?

"The red one," he points to the emptiest of the bowls.

"How do you know?" I ask mockingly suspicious. I hope it sounds mocking. Am I flirting? This is complicated as hell.

"You've got some on your lips," he leans in close and presses his lips against mine as if to indicate where.

I drop my plastic cup to the floor and let my hands drape over his shoulders. I let Dylan lead; I'm not resistant like I was to Isaiah. There he is in my head again. Can't I have this one moment without him bugging me?

Dylan pushes me against the counter, pressing against my mouth hard.

I don't know what to do with my hands. My eyes shoot open, wide, when Dylan knows exactly what to do with his hands. I want to push him away, but I want to keep kissing him and I don't know what I want more. This is something unlike anything I've ever experienced and no amount of teen-movie watching could prepare me for this.

"Not in here," I finally whisper around his mouth. I don't want people to see his hands all over me. I don't want anybody to know I'm interested in Dylan. Or in anybody for that matter. I feel ashamed and dirty.

"We can, uh, go upstairs I guess," he sounds disappointed.

I nod, retrieve my cup from the floor, fill it up, and follow him up the stairs. I drink it quickly to try to get Isaiah out of my head, where he currently occupies every non-clouded space I have. The stairs rock underneath me and I hold onto the banister for support. Then I laugh hard. Tonight, started with me getting support from a Bannister and now I'm being supported by a banister.

I sit on the stairs and laugh so hard my head hurts. Dylan turns around to help me up.

"You coming, Cade?" He asks in that deep, rough voice. He's like the opposite of Isaiah. He's like the anti-Isaiah. He's shorter than me and muscular and confident and aggressive and assertive. He helps me up, takes me by the hand and leads me into an empty bedroom.

He turns on a lamp and a bright pink unicorn chandelier gleams in the low light. Everything in this room is pink and as Dylan starts kissing me again, I feel oddly self-conscious. I'm making out in the room of a little kid. Dylan is taking my shirt off in the room of a little kid. I'm taking his shirt off in the room of a little kid.

I'm kissing his neck in the pink unicorn room of a little kid.

And suddenly I'm not. I can't take this. I keep thinking how I'd feel if somebody had sex in Thomas's room and I can't do this anymore.

"Is everything okay?" Dylan asks more sweetly than I expected he could.

I just nod, embarrassed and shy and awkward. How does anybody do this? What the hell am I doing? I don't even know Dylan and I've just had my hands over his entire body.

I feel sick to my stomach. I feel embarrassed and exposed and vulnerable.

"I'm sorry," I say and try to kiss him again. He leans naturally back into it. He's so good at this. I don't care that he's a complete stranger. His mouth pressed against mine is the best thing I've ever felt. I think. Come to think of it, I can't feel my lips.

His big hands start to run over my back again. The unicorn chandelier sparkles in the corner of my eye and I feel sick all over again.

And then I barf. Everywhere. On the pink comforter and the pink rug and the leg of Dylan's pants. I wipe my face with my shirt and stand up. I can feel tears streaming down my face as Dylan makes disgusted noises. I try to run out of the door but miss and hit my head on the door frame. I see stars for just a second before finally angling for the door and leaving.

I see Bryce Johnston in the hallway as I try to trudge my way to the stairs.

"Cade Swanson, my man," he holds his hand up in the air for a high five. "Welcome to the club. Hooking up at one of my parties is like initiation, dude."

I don't high five him.

"I just barfed in your sister's bedroom, I'm sorry," is all I can manage to say.

"It's cool, man," Bryce chuckles good-naturedly. "The maid will clean it up tomorrow. She's gotten red puke out of everything here."

The maid? I don't even have time to consider what it must be like to have a maid because I have to run. The tears are flowing freely and I'm not sure how many more times I need to puke. I snake my way through the crowded living room, shirt still in hand, face tear-soaked and disgusting with vomit. I make my way to my car and throw myself into the driver's seat.

I press my head against my steering wheel and breathe deeply. I can't drive home. Not like this. I can't believe I did this. What the hell is wrong with me?

I can't call my mom. I'm the responsible son. I can't let her know I got drunk when I told her I was just going out with some friends. I can't believe I lied to her. I can't stop crying. I can't do anything right. I can't do anything at all.

I lean out of my car and barf into a pristinely manicured yard. I wipe my face with my shirt again and do the only thing I can think to do. I pick up my phone and look at the screen for a minute. The light hurts my eyes and the apps dance around the screen as I try to find my contacts list. I finally find the name I'm looking for and press it hard. I lean my head against the steering wheel as it rings. When a deep voice answers, I feel relief for the first time in a week.

"Isaiah," I say weakly into the phone. "I'm so stupid and I'm drunk and..." I don't know how desperate I sound.

"I'm at Bryce Johnston's house. Can you come pick me up?"

I hang up, lean out of my car, throw up one more time, and wait for my knight in shining Audi to come rescue me.

Isaiah's headlights pull into view fifteen minutes later and I've only just pulled myself together. I haven't barfed in a while, but that's mostly because there was nothing else in my stomach to empty. My eyes are so puffy that it's hard to see. I sniffle pathetically as Isaiah approaches my car.

"Are you okay?" Isaiah catches me as I fall out of my car to hug him.

I wrap my arms around his slender frame and hang on for dear life. I shake my head yes, then no. I don't know if I'm okay.

"I'm an idiot," I say in response. It's the only thing that makes sense to say at this point.

"I know," he laughs, and I'm not upset. He's right. He has every right to call me an idiot.

"I can't go home," I shake my head. "I can't let my mom see me like this. I can't drive, yet. I'm so stupid."

And I'm crying again. Why the hell am I crying? Is this what drunk people do? Why would anybody ever want to get drunk?

"Shhh," Isaiah says softly, sweetly. Why does he even care about me? I don't deserve that. "Everything's going to be okay. It's only 9:30. Let's go get something to eat and some water and see how you're feeling then."

I climb into Isaiah's Audi. The world around me feels rocky and unstable. I feel rocky and unstable. Something in me feels unsettled and sick, but not in the I-need-to-barf-again way. Something bubbles in me and I can't stop the words that are coming.

"I kissed a guy named Dylan," I tell him. And I'm crying again. "But I couldn't stop thinking about you when I did it."

Isaiah doesn't say anything. His grip on the steering wheel becomes so tightly that his knuckles turn white. I cry harder and can't stop it, which is unusual for me. I'm not somebody who cries. Not when I'm sad, at least. I tear up when I'm angry. And when I'm excited. But crying is different than tearing up.

"Isaiah," I let out of a puff of air and try to pull myself together. "I screwed up. I'm so sorry."

I need a friend right now, but I don't have any. Nicole Bannister might be the best I've got. And that's not saying much.

"We all screw up," he says gently, even though his hands are tight. "We all make mistakes."

The speech he gives me is something a father would give to a son; it's the speech of somebody mature and with life experiences. It's not the speech of an 18-year-old screw up who got drunk at his first party and puked in a unicorn room. It's not the speech of somebody like me. Isaiah is better than me in every way.

"Everybody makes them," he says, turning onto the highway. "It's how we deal with them that matters, Cade."

I sink further into my seat and fall into the comfort of being with Isaiah again. It may be rocky. It may feel like he's driving me in circles. I may feel like the biggest jerk on the planet. But I'm with Isaiah and he makes everything okay.

"So, you kissed another guy," he says passively. "And you got drunk at a party. You clearly feel bad about one of those things."

"I feel bad about it all," I tell Isaiah. "I don't just mean the party."

I put a hand on his arm; it feels safest.

"I feel bad about how I treated you. I feel bad about how I reacted."

He doesn't say anything. He keeps his eyes on the road. He sets his jaw and grips his steering wheel more tightly.

"I don't know what it's like to be happy," I finally sigh. "But you make me happier than I've ever been."

I see Isaiah relax when I say this. He takes one hand from the steering wheel and laces his fingers between mine. I'm surprised by how soft his hands are. His fingers are long and slender, unsurprisingly. His thumb lightly rubs the back of my hand.

"You make me happy, too, Cade." And for the first time in what seems a lifetime, his million-watt, blinding smile fills his Audi. "I just hate that you had to be drunk to tell me how you feel."

I wince. I want to tell him that's not fair, but I don't want to cause any more trouble.

"I don't like being drunk," I admit. I know that anything I was feeling is wearing off. And this feeling is much worse. I still feel like I need to throw up, but there's nothing left in me to wretch.

"Why'd you do it?" Isaiah asks with a current of anger in his voice, but his thumb still caresses the back of my hand. It sends chills up my back. His touch is so sweet.

"I didn't mean to," I confess, embarrassed. "Nicole Bannister gave me a drink and it was disgusting. But I kept drinking it, I guess to fit in."

"When have you ever tried to fit in?" Isaiah laughs so hard it hurts my head. My head is killing me. Please stop. I beg, mentally. Stop that right now.

"I guess tonight," I laugh a labored laugh, because it is funny. Our laughter dies out and we sit in silence for a while. When we pull into an IHOP parking lot, I don't want to let Isaiah's hand go even just to get out of the car.

"We have a lot to talk about, don't we?" I ask as we walk inside. Isaiah just nods solemnly.

So, we talk. And eat pancakes. And laugh. And eat more pancakes. And talk some more. And I feel more like myself than I have in days.

"I have to find a way to tell my mom," I sigh. Relationships are complicated. The one word that describes my entire life.

"I have to find a way to tell my mom," Isaiah laughs nervously.

By 10:30, I'm sober again. I've drank at least a gallon of water and eaten more pancakes than any one human being should be allowed to. I'm wearing Isaiah's jacket, since my shirt smells like vomit, and we're standing by my car. I'm right back where I started and nowhere near where I started.

Isaiah is hesitant, awkward, not sure if he wants to kiss me. I don't know why I know this, but I do. It's instinctual. Finally, he leans in to kiss me, but I pull away.

"Don't," I say cautiously. He looks hurt. He looks like he's afraid I'm being crazy all over again.

"No," I shake my head. "It's just that I've puked so much tonight, and I kissed Dylan..."

"Stop," he says sternly. "Let's not mention that anymore. I'm trying to forget it."

"And I don't want that to be the way you remember our first kiss."

"But it's not our first kiss," Isaiah winks.

"Let's not talk about the last one," I raise my eyebrows as if threatening him. "Please. In fact, let's not talk about tonight, either. Let's just pretend we have some kind of fairy tale story."

I can imagine in twenty years telling somebody the story of how Isaiah and I started dating.

Well, he kissed me, but I didn't like it because I was scared. And then his mom said I wasn't rich enough for him. So, I ran away. And then we didn't talk. And then I almost screwed a total stranger in a unicorn room, but I threw up, so Isaiah saved me. And then I wouldn't kiss him because I tasted like booze and barf. And now we're here.

Yeah. That'd make for one hell of a story.

"I think ours is pretty fairy tale," Isaiah smiles and kisses my cheek. Already we talk like an old couple. Is it always this way when you start dating your best friend?

When I get home, Mom is waiting up for me. My watch reads 10:59 and I have made it home just in time for curfew.

"Did you have a good night?" She asks, unsuspicious that anything is different. I think.

"I did," I smile. It ended well at least.

"How's Isaiah?" She asks, quirking a brow.

"He's fine," I smile goofily. "Wait. How did you know I saw Isaiah?"

"You're wearing his jacket," she nods to me. "Got cold?"

Shit.

This is not good.

"I got something on my shirt," I look for the easiest half-truth. "And he loaned me his jacket."

"Anything you want to tell me?" she crosses her arms slyly. My mother is too smart. I don't want to tell her anything. I want to revel in this one night of complicated simplicity. My best friend is my boyfriend. That's simple, right?

"I guess I'd better," I concede. I consider how to pick my words carefully. I don't know if Mom suspects I was at a party. I don't know if I smell like booze. I don't know what she knows and what she doesn't.

"Isaiah and I made up," I say slowly. My voice is oddly raw. I feel more vulnerable and exposed that I did with Dylan.

I force the memory of Dylan out of me head. Do we ever recover from our stupid mistakes?

"And we're together, now," I feel myself shaking. I feel tears form in my eyes. Why is this so hard to say? Shouldn't I want to celebrate with my mom? It would be so much different if I'd started dating Kayla. It would be easier if I'd started dating Kayla.

"He's a great guy," Mom smiles easily. Her smile is as warm as always and as comfortable as always and I feel relieved.

"But we need to establish some rules, now," she motions toward the couch, expecting me to sit. I do.

"No more sleeping over," she says. "That goes either way. He can't spend the night here, and you can't spend the night there."

"I don't think Betty Rosenthal will let me on her property even if I wanted to," I laugh a bitter laugh.

"Your father always said we'd make a rule that girlfriends wouldn't be over if neither of us were home," she sighs. "But I trust you, and I'm not putting that rule into place until or unless you give me a reason not to trust you. Don't break my trust."

I feel myself relax. She doesn't know about the party. I'm safe.

"And you need to tell Betty that you guys are together," she sounds almost angry when she says this. She sounds like she is betraying herself, defying her own beliefs. "I don't like her. And I don't like the way she spoke to you. But I'm also a mother and I would feel so hurt if you lied to me and dated Isaiah, or anybody, behind my back."

"Yes, ma'am," I nod. I don't say anything because moms have a way of finding secrets in the things you say.

"Aren't you upset?" I finally ask, a well inside of me breaking as tears run down my face.

"Upset about what?" Mom sits beside me, concern flashing across her face.

"That I'm..." I can't find the words. I don't know what to say. Everything is embarrassing. Everything hurts. I know the exact words and I know exactly what to say. And that hurts more.

"That I'm gay, Mom," I say angrily and sadly, and I don't know what other emotions.

She pulls me into her shoulder and rocks me gently. She strokes my hair and lets me cry for a long time before she says anything.

"I don't care who you love, baby," she whispers when I've finally pulled myself together. "I told you as long as you're happy and not doing anything illegal, I support you."

"The first time you brought Isaiah over here, you looked at him with such admiration," she shakes her head, lost in memory. "I knew it then. It was like the sun shone from his face. And you know what I said to myself?"

"No, what?" I look at her, wiping my eyes.

"I thought how nice it was to see you smiling," she brushes her fingers through my hair. "I thought 'Cade has somebody in his life who makes him laugh.' And I would give anything in the world to see you laugh the way you laugh when you're with Isaiah."

I can't help my smile. It's bigger than I think I've ever smiled before. I wonder if it looks like my mom's. Did I inherit her smile?

"All parents want is to see their kids happy and successful," she continues. "And you're both of those things. What more could I want?"

I lay my head on Mom's shoulder again and cry the last few tears that come. I feel so complete. It's like I've found something that was missing in me all along. Is this what I needed? Is it Isaiah? Is it this conversation with Mom? Is it something else entirely?

"Now," Mom says, her voice cautious. "Not everybody else is going to be so supportive of you two. People won't understand. And as much as I'd like to protect you from that, I can't. This world is full of hate, Cade. This world is full of people who think they know what's best for you and what you should be doing and who you should date or marry. And they're mean. And they're loud. And full of hate. And you just have to ignore it, Cade. You have to show kindness, even when it sucks. You have to keep your head up and be true to yourself. Because that's how you make a difference. Don't sink to their level. Don't fight hate with hate."

I nod slowly. I know what she means. But before it never felt real to me. It never felt like it affected me. But it does. And it will. And as long as Isaiah and I are Isaiah and I, we will face hate. I know that. I don't want to admit it.

"I love you, Mom," I say, hugging her tightly. I don't think she'll ever understand how much better she's made me feel.

"I love you, too, sweetie. Always. No matter what," she kisses the top of my head.

"Can Isaiah come over tomorrow?" I ask. I want to spend all the time I can with him to make up for the time we've spent apart.

"Oh, absolutely not," Mom smiles a knowing smile. "You're grounded, sweetie, for at least three weeks."

I look at her confused.

"You smell like puke and you look like hell. I know the aftermath of a party when I see it." She laughs an evil little laugh. "I was young once, too. Now, I'll be taking your keys. You might have bought your car, but I pay the insurance."

She beats my argument before I even make it. Because my mom knows everything. I slink to my room, change into my pajamas and try to sleep, trying to ignore my splitting headache. I will never do something so stupid again.