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  For Shayla Flournoy. Giver of ideas. Receiver of complaints.

  CHAPTER ONE

  -PAISLEY-

  Record scratch.

  Freeze frame.

  Yup, that’s me. Paisley Turner. Making out with a random guy at my first college party. You’re probably wondering how I got into this situation.

  Not that it really matters at the moment, seeing as how all I can think about is this guy’s hand on my waist and his fingers in my hair and, oh my god, there’s his tongue in my mouth.

  WE HAVE TONGUE, PEOPLE.

  This is the weirdest, most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me.

  Should I be thinking so much?

  I turn my brain to silent mode and concentrate on the kissing.

  When that doesn’t work, I take to cataloging the moment, so I can remember it always. The way his fingers lightly brush my neck and send a chill down my spine. How the pulsing bass seems to beat along with my heart. The way the dark basement around us fades from existence. The slightly minty flavor on his lips that makes me wish I had brushed my teeth before leaving my dorm room.

  But I wasn’t thinking about making out when I left my dorm! I was thinking, I’ve never had beer before, and I don’t want the first time I taste it to be tainted by toothpaste breath.

  Is this how college is going to be? Walking into parties and being swept away in a kiss?

  This was not in the brochure.

  Did I even get a brochure?

  Focus, Paisley!

  All too soon he pulls away from me. I want to chase his lips with my own, but I realize I’m breathless and a bit dazed and could probably use a break. I look up at his face. He’s so tall I want to climb him like a tree. Just scamper up him and perch on his shoulder and hang out there in his sandy-brown hair. But then I wouldn’t be able to see his eyes, which are dark brown, at least in the dim light of the basement.

  I am the whitest white person, there’s no denying that, but my hand on his neck practically glows white because he’s got this tan that’s like something you’d see in a teen drama that takes place near the beach.

  “That was…,” I say.

  “Yeah,” he responds when I don’t finish my sentence.

  I lean back and try to ignore the way the damp of the wall immediately seeps into my shirt.

  “I could use a beer,” Mystery Boy says. “You want a beer?”

  I nod and almost as soon as he walks away, my new roommate, Stef, ambushes me.

  “What the hell is going on?” she asks. Her voice isn’t accusing, more intensely curious. Which I understand. This is a very curious situation.

  “I don’t know!” I stage-whisper, glancing over at The Boy. He’s standing in the beer line, waiting for a new keg to be tapped. I turn my back to him because I don’t want him to be able to read my lips. I start talking. Fast. I need to get this full story relayed before he comes back over.

  “So, I’m standing here in the corner, playing with my phone, trying to talk myself out of begging you to leave early. Then that guy comes up to me and he was like, ‘Remember me?’ And I was like, ‘Yeah, totally!’ Because I didn’t want to admit to not knowing him. I figure he’s probably one of the guys who was in our group at the choosing-a-major thing earlier.”

  “Yeah, maybe. I don’t remember him either,” Stef says. “But I’m following you so far.”

  “But then! Then!” I say, gesturing wildly to emphasize how completely unexpected this situation is. “Then he’s like, ‘I’ve always wanted to kiss you.’ And I was like, ‘Huh?’ But I didn’t say ‘Huh,’ because honestly, all I could think about was that literally on the walk here we were talking about how I’d never kissed anyone and this was, like, too good to be true.”

  Stef is watching him, observing him. I can tell she’s going to be a really good roommate. “I wish I could place him,” she says. “We’ve been inseparable for the past three days. Maybe he was sitting behind us at the welcome convocation yesterday?”

  “I don’t know. But the thing is, who cares? He’s a really good kisser, and I can play along.”

  She grins. “Well, I’m glad to hear he wasn’t harassing you. When I looked over and saw this big dude all over you, I was worried for a minute. I was this close to interrupting.” She holds her fingers a hair’s width apart.

  “I like and appreciate those instincts,” I say.

  “But then I saw your arms wrap around his neck, and you seemed relaxed and into it. This makes me think we should have a sign for a time when you aren’t into it. Or when I’m not into it, for that matter.”

  I nod along even though what I’m really thinking about is kissing this boy some more right away.

  “He’s coming back over!” Stef says in a whisper yell. “Try to find out who he is! I’m going to talk to that girl over there, the one playing beer pong. You can’t be the only one of us who gets to make out at our first college party.”

  She slides away just as The Boy returns with two red Solo cups of beer.

  “Here,” he says. He smiles a sort of tight-lipped smile that might not be attractive on most people, but on this guy, it really works.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  He shuffles in place looking as awkward as I feel. Possibly even more awkward.

  I wish we could go back to making out immediately. I suppose we can’t enjoy our beer and make out at the same time.

  All I know is that I am not the same person I was when I walked into this damp, slightly gross basement a little over an hour ago.

  “I like your T-shirt,” he says, his cheeks pinking up. I might actually be in love with him. “Pilot episode,” he reads out loud, gesturing toward my boobs. He quickly puts his hand down when he realizes where he’s pointing.

  I want nothing more than to assuage his embarrassment. That is my only goal.

  “You should know that the way to my heart is through complimenting my T-shirts. I make them myself. I got really into screen printing a few months ago. It’s like my hobby.” Oh god, that’s so unbelievably weird. Why did I say that?

  “You’re really into screen printing T-shirts?” he asks, a bemused expression crossing his features.

  “It’s a long story,” I say.

  “You’ll have to make me one sometime.”

  “I could definitely do that.” Okay, that’s a little more like it. Maybe he’s not totally turned off by my bizarre, nerdy hobby.

  “So why ‘pilot episode’?”

  “Well, I figure if my life were a TV show, this party would be featured in the pilot episode.”

  He laughs.

  “Though I have to say,” I continue, “I feel like they really distort college parties on TV, unless this isn’t a fair representation of one to begin with. I’m pretty sure we’re currently being exposed to asbestos.” I point up toward the w
orld’s saddest disco ball hanging from one of the exposed pipes.

  “My roommate, Ray, his brother Luis lives here,” The Boy explains even though I don’t technically know who any of these people are. He gestures toward the corner where there are two boys with their heads bent over the keg, laughing about something; their dark hair is nearly black and their golden skin like something from a teen telenovela that takes place near the beach. I don’t get a good look at their faces, but I can tell they’re brothers even from across the room.

  “That’s how I got invited,” he continues. “I have to admit this seems pretty spot-on to me.”

  “I must watch too many shows about rich kids,” I say.

  He laughs again. I’m beginning to really like his laugh.

  -CARTER-

  This is unbelievable! This is amazing! How is this even happening?

  Paisley Turner is right here in front of me, chatting away, making me laugh, and acting like nothing happened five years ago. And we’re bonding. At least I think we’re bonding.

  I saw her a couple of times in passing over the past few days. But we weren’t in the same orientation group so I never got close enough to talk to her.

  I’m not sure how I got up the nerve to tell her that I always wanted to kiss her or why it was the second thing that came out of my mouth. I guess I’ll blame the sip of vodka I had with Ray while we were pregaming in our room.

  When Ray invited me to a party at his brother’s house, I expected a dank, dim basement. That’s how my older sister Thea always described college parties. I was prepared for that. I was not prepared for Paisley Turner to wander in.

  She takes a sip from her cup and turns away for a minute, giving me the chance to really look at her. She hasn’t changed much since eighth grade. Same brown hair, same short haircut, same inquisitive green eyes.

  “So are you on the swim team?” I ask.

  “No,” she says. “But my roommate Stef is.”

  I nod and take a sip of beer. It’s really not great.

  She takes another sip and wrinkles her nose.

  “Is this supposed to be good?” she asks.

  “I was thinking the same thing! The way people go on and on about beer, I always expect more from it.”

  “Right? I’ve never tried it before and I was expecting much better.” She pauses, shaking her head as she takes another sip. “This might be the worst thing I’ve ever tasted.”

  I twirl the liquid in my glass and sniff at it. “I’m detecting swamp water and something else. Something earthier,” I say in a snobby tone.

  She laughs. “It has a bouquet of skunk.”

  “Ah yes. Organic, I’m sure.” I take another sip. “It’s medium-bodied with a whisper of backwash.”

  “And the finish,” she says. “The finish is something heretofore unknown to me. Something like butts with a hint of ass.”

  We can’t stop laughing now.

  Somehow in the midst of this conversation, I’ve actually finished my beer.

  I stare down at the empty cup. “I guess making fun of it makes it go down easier. Maybe that’s the trick that no one tells you about.”

  She takes a last gulp from her cup. “Guess so,” she says.

  This time we go over to the keg together, little bursts of giggles bubbling up as we think of something new and funny to add.

  “There really must be some kind of beer industry conspiracy. I don’t know how so many people can like it when it tastes like this,” I say, taking another gulp.

  “We should really get to the bottom of this. Maybe start a podcast about the beer industry conspiracy.”

  “We need to start with beer industry propaganda.”

  “You mean, the commercials with the scantily clad women and the endless summer fun?” she asks.

  “Exactly.”

  Anytime I think we’re about to lose steam in this conversation, one of us says something else funny, insightful, or both. I’m not sure I’ve ever actually laughed this hard. Hours seem to pass like minutes. I’ve heard people use that phrase before but had never personally experienced it in real life.

  “Okay, so aside from hating beer, what else do you hate?” I ask. I have a feeling anything that Paisley says is going to be enormously entertaining. “Like, what are your pet peeves?”

  “Hmm,” she says, eyes going wide. “I have so many, starting with people who walk more than two across on a sidewalk and won’t get out of the way when you need to pass them. Also, when the fitted sheet comes off one corner of the bed, chewed pen caps, and people who use radar sounds for their cell phone ringtone.”

  “That’s quite the list,” I say.

  “I could go on and on,” she says. “What are yours?”

  “I hate excuses,” I say. “I hate people who make excuses and I hate making them myself.” This is the truth, but I didn’t expect to share such a serious truth at the moment. But might as well be up-front from the beginning.

  “Wow. That’s very specific and makes my pet peeves seem petty.”

  “Nah, I’ve just thought about this a lot.”

  “Obviously. And duly noted, I will never make excuses to you.”

  A yell erupts from the beer pong table.

  “Dammit, Bart!” someone yells and I look over.

  I glance at Paisley and she’s looking at me. “What?” she asks.

  “I thought I heard someone call my name.”

  “Oh, okay,” she says, and giggles. I think she might be getting drunk.

  On our third or fourth beer—I’m not sure because I’m definitely drunk at this point—Paisley takes a long sip and ends up with some froth on her nose. My life has become a goddamned romantic comedy tonight.

  “You’ve got a little something,” I say, pointing at my own nose.

  She tries to brush it away and misses it, so of course I have no choice but to brush it away myself.

  “Thanks,” she says, her eyes lingering on mine.

  This is the moment to kiss her again. This is the time to make my move. I don’t want to be greedy but I want more.

  As I’m about to lean in, a human blur runs past us toward the stairs and out the back door. Paisley pulls back and away from the moment.

  “I think that was my roommate,” she says.

  “You think?” I ask, trying to get Paisley’s focus back on me.

  She stands. “I know it was my roommate.”

  Abandoning her empty cup, she runs up the stairs and out the back door in pursuit.

  I figure I might as well follow. Couldn’t hurt, might even be seen as chivalrous.

  I find them in the corner of the tiny backyard. It’s mostly full of garbage. College kids have no pride in a place. There’s a perfectly good bicycle in the corner with two popped tires and a rusted chain.

  Paisley’s roommate is standing near that bicycle, bent at the waist with her hands on her knees, breathing heavily, her long, dark hair creating a curtain around her face.

  “What’s up?” I ask Paisley.

  “Stef doesn’t feel well, so I think we’re going to head back to the dorm.”

  “What dorm do you live in?”

  “Robinson.”

  “Oh, me too! I’ll walk back with you.”

  We head out to the street, leaving the depressing backyard behind, and Stef walks a few feet in front of us, swaying a little.

  “I don’t think she can really hold her alcohol,” Paisley says.

  “Oh right, yes, not like us.”

  “No, you and I are obviously seasoned drinkers.” She lets out a loud belch and giggles.

  “This is probably the most I’ve ever drank in one night,” I admit.

  “Same,” she says. “I just feel so full.” She rubs her stomach.

  “Maybe this is why people do shots. So they don’t feel so full,” I suggest.

  Stef stands at the corner waiting for the light to turn in our favor. There’s not a lot of traffic out in the wee hours of the morning on the road
s surrounding our campus, but it’s good to know that even though she’s drunk, she still remembers to follow the rules of the road.

  “I am Estefania Gomez! And I am here to have fun!” she yells into the street.

  “Sure you are, Stef!” Paisley calls back to her.

  “I’m sorry I interrupted your time with the cute boy,” Stef says over her shoulder as a lone car passes.

  “I’m cute?” I ask Paisley.

  “Don’t be coy. You know you’re cute.”

  “I really don’t know that. It’s nice to hear,” I say, my neck heating up.

  She gives me a sidelong glance and steps in front of me to link arms with Stef as the walk sign lights up. I stay a few paces behind them, realizing that I probably should have told Ray I was leaving the party. We don’t have each other’s numbers yet, so I can’t text him.

  Hopefully he’ll realize I left and come back to the dorm on his own. Or maybe he’s staying at his brother’s tonight. I don’t know his life.

  Either way, I doubt he’ll be worrying about me. I make a mental note to exchange numbers with him tomorrow, though.

  When we get to the dorm, Stef tries to use her card to get in, but she’s holding it backward. She’s basically the cartoon stereotype of a drunk person. Paisley helps her out and we enter the building. I stand and wait for the elevator with them.

  “Um, so this was fun,” I say.

  “It really was,” she says. Stef tugs on her arm, pulling her into the elevator.

  “Good night,” I say.

  “Night, Bart,” she says as the doors slide shut.

  It takes me a second to process, and when I do, I almost hit the up button to stop the elevator.

  “Did she just call me Bart?” I ask the empty hallway.

  CHAPTER TWO

  -PAISLEY-

  I wake up with a smile on my face.

  I don’t think that has ever happened before, in my entire life. I can’t imagine that it will ever happen again, so I hold onto the feeling. I honestly didn’t know it was something I was capable of.