I WAKE UP WITH DRUMS BEATING INSIDE MY SKULL and the sun beaming behind my eyelids and for a moment, everything is great and pleasant and just fine.

The sun overflows through the window shutters and spills in hazy lines on the wooden floor. The birds in the oak tree outside my window chirp and chitter and flock about. I'm laying on soft sheets and my pillow feels impossibly plush smashed beneath my cheek.

But then reality hits me like a punch to the jaw and I remember what day it is and I jolt upright.

And then immediately regret it afterwards, when The Hangover catches up to me and sinks its claws into my skull, forcing me to ask myself: Christ, why is there a fucking rock band inside my skull? and then suddenly the sunlight's all too bright and the birds are too loud and nothing is great or pleasant or just fine. I groan loudly.

A glance at my watch tells me it's almost twelve, and that's enough to jettison my ass off the bed and scramble for my clothes. Through the trademark hangover fog, I fumble with my pants, cursing under my breath.

Today's moving-in day at Brimble Academy. In other words, today is the day my pain-in-the-ass, moronic roommate takes up residence in my—sorry, our—dorm, again, ending my blissful three month streak of not having to see his hideous face. But more important than that, today is the day my parents are coming to see their son after blatantly ignoring him all summer. I button up my shirt in the mirror.

But that's fine, I get it—mom's announcing her campaign at the end of the summer, so that has everyone running around like headless chickens. Or at least, that's what my sister told me. I wouldn't know—I wasn't invited to the headless chicken party, but, like I said, that's just fine.

I mean, I spent the summer with James, in his family's villa in the South of France, legally drinking, so really, who got the better end of the deal?

Thinking about James trudges up memories of last night. My reflection winces. Camille and Sam had arrived early enough in the morning to witness me having the brilliant idea to take that yacht mother gave me as a sorry-not-sorry-we're-really-busy-right-now-can't-make-it birthday gift out for a spin.

And so, everything was going just fine—we were on deck, sunning like a crew of fat, lazy cats. I really think France upped my melanin tolerance, because I hadn't even burnt, yet, when Camille announces that she stole a bottle of vodka from her father's wine cabinet.

So really, it was her fault that I gleefully watched as we contaminated the orange juice with vodka, but whatever I wasn't going to actually drink it.

. . . Until James egged me into a drinking contest with one particularly well-aimed comment about that one night where we tried to sneak into this nightclub. I mean come on, I just had to after that. The dickface was practically begging to be reunited with his old friend: Shameful Defeat.

So we quickly lost track of time, drinking the sunlight away, and pretty soon it was dark out and the moon had stolen the sun's spot in the sky, and Sam—bless him—was the only one still sober enough to navigate us back to the docks.

We were about to call a cab, when the astonishingly wasted James Friar actually tipped over deck and fell straight into the water, his trajectory like a harpoon. A giant splash followed his truly stunning entrance, and the last thing I remember is laughing myself hoarse and having to sit down or risk pissing my pants.

I mean, look at me, I think it's pretty impressive I even managed to make it back to my dorm in one piece, after all that.

So now, I tighten the buckle on my belt and slip on my shoes and take one last look in the mirror and, Christ, I still look like death! so I put on a pair of sunglasses and, well, that's as good as it's going to get. And with that, I bravely head out the door and get ready to ride out into battle—sorry, I meant, meet my parents.

Ha! Like there's a difference.

• • •

I don't know if I mentioned this before, but Camille Liu is an angel sent from heaven. I don't even care that she villainously poisoned the orange juice last night, as she waits for me on the manicured-lawn, under the giant oak tree.

I jog up to Camille, who's wearing a sun-dress with a cardigan knotted around her neck in a similar fashion to what mom's friends wear at the country club, not looking the slightest bit ruffled, despite our misadventures last night.

She was the first friend I'd made at this god-forsaken school. I guess she just took one look at ninth-grade Henry Montrose, an awkward confection of horrendous hair, awful acne, and giant glasses, and decided I set her loins and fire and must be befriended at once.

Kidding.

I give her a bright grin as I approach, dimples out—the whole nine yards, everything—but she just takes one look at my sunglasses and smirks, crossing her arms. "Hungover, Montrose?"

"Is it obvious?"

She raises a perfect eyebrow.

I drag a hand through my hair, feeling the breath whoosh out of me. I thought I could at least act like I had my act together—I guess not.

"You shouldn't have let James drink you dry," Camille chides.

"Whatever, it's not like they'll notice anyway." I avoid her gaze, choosing instead to focus on the tiny red cardinal perched on a tree branch above us. I swear that bird tilted it's head at me just a second ago.

Brimble Academy is an old-as-dirt private school situated on the coast of the Atlantic. With ivy climbing all over it's red-brick walls and gigantic oak trees planted along the grounds, it's a secluded, sheltered hellhole. I'm serious—the nearest location resembling any aspect of civilization is a twenty-minute walk, at least.

Camille's still looking at me, so I shoot her a look back that says, clearly, can we please drop this conversation.

Look, if I'm being honest, a small (big), vindictive part of me wants my parents to notice, wants them to look at me hungover and realize "oh shit, this is what happens when you completely ignore your seventeen year-old son for an entire summer."

"So," Camille starts, shaking her head, her shiny black hair catching the light. "I don't know how you two didn't die, drinking from sunrise to sunset everyday this summer."

I pat my stomach. "Thank my liver of gold, right here. The true champion."

Camille scoffs, rolling her eyes. "Okay, sure."

I spread open my arms, pouting. "Come on, darling, don't be bitter—you know you were invited; you could've dropped by anytime. La casa de James es su casa."

"I had better stuff to do." She picks at her nails.

Psh, yeah right. While James and I partied it up in France, she had spent the entire summer in New York, interning at her father's company.

She'd sent us a text every two minutes telling us exactly how bored she was, and another one every three minutes, telling us all about the cute boy in the cubicle next to her.

If you're wondering how I know the exact time intervals, well, James and I turned it into a drinking game.

"So how many languages is that, now? Four?"

"Five." I instinctively hold up a hand to demonstrate.

Growing up accompanying my parents to parties with foreign diplomats quickly led to the discovery that their seven-year-old son had an affinity for foreign languages. They capitalized on that in my early years, prisoning me in rooms with various tutors until my nightmares were in Spanish and my day dreams in Russian—see, that was when they still had hope for their youngest child.

Now, I still try occasionally to pick up new languages in my free time—during breaks, usually. I was absolutely hopeless at math or science—those look like damned Fibonacci sequences to me, but foreign languages? Easy money.

"When are your parents getting here, again?" Camille leans back against the giant oak tree, fanning herself.

I check my watch. "Anytime now."

"How's your mom's campaign?"

I shrug. "Don't know." Then, because I have the irresistible urge to talk about anything but my mother's campaign, I ask, "How's Jules?"

Camille rolls her eyes at the mention of her little sister. "Still twelve, still a brat, still hopelessly in love with you—it's becoming a problem."

I start laughing, but then wince because ow, the rock band is still faintly playing their show tunes.

"I'm serious, Henry! If I have to hear her wax poetry about you one more time, I might chuck her off a cliff. All summer! It's been Henry this, Henry that . . . God, I can't stand it . . ." She trails off when a black Mercedes rolls up to the driveway in front of the school. "Is that them?"

"Yep." I take my sunglasses off, wincing a bit at the harsh sunlight. I say a quick prayer before I take Camille's hand and make our way towards my parents.

Here's the thing: my parents absolutely love Camille. They think she's such a good influence. So when I asked—okay, fine, when I begged Camille last night to come greet them with me, she practically had to say yes or risk being dishonorably discharged from the position of My Best Friend.

So I stood back as my parents got out of the car and observed as Camille worked her charm on them, chatting with my mom and shaking hands with my dad. Let me just tell you, true friends butter and soften your parents for you, so you don't have to bear the brunt of their disappointment.

It feels weird, seeing them—my parents—in person for the first time in three months. I mean, I've seen them on the news, but it's different when they're standing right in front of me. It's like looking at an old photograph again after some time passes and seeing a whole bunch of details you've never really noticed before.

Like how mom stands a little straighter, with a steely glint in her eyes, more self-assured and assertive than when I saw her last.

We have the same hair—dark brown and prone to frizz in humidity, and the same eyes. I scan my dad's face and wonder if he's changed, too.

"Hey Pebbles."

There's only one person who calls me by that old childhood nickname, and that's my older sister.

I whip around to see Lydia Montrose holding her arms out, grinning widely. And for a second, I'm six years old again as I run into her arms and the smell of her decadent flowery perfume engulfs me.

I feel her shake as she laughs warmly. "Missed you, too."

I pull away from her embrace and take a good look at her. "I didn't know you were coming!"

Four years older than me, and a good two inches taller (although, I've still got some growth left in me so I'm hoping I'll catch up, eventually), Lydia's the only saving grace in this family of wolves. Growing up, she's always reminded me of some sort of otherworldly fairy—tall, elegant, strong, but also warm, loving, kind.

"Surprise! Look at you, Pebbles!" She exclaims, grinning wide and ruffing my hair. "Have you grown taller?"

"Lids! Don't touch the hair!" I step away, but I'm smiling. Lydia can unleash a tornado on my hair and I'd still love her.

We have the same hair and mom's eyes—In fact, all three of us look alike—

I look around. "Is Dante here?" Dante's the eldest.

Lydia—thankfully—shakes her head. "He couldn't make it. It's just you and me." She looks at where Camille's still chattering with my parents. Lydia tilts her head. "Is she buttering up mom and dad for you?"

I nod.

Lydia whistles. "True friend. She's a keeper."

See—what did I tell you?

But Camille's just finishing up and all three of them are now headed my way. I straighten as my friend passes me, briefly resting her hand on my shoulder.

"It's so great seeing you again, Mr. Montrose, Mrs. Montrose," she says politely, cheerily giving us a wave. "I have to go—my roommate's arriving anytime now and we have to catch up—I'll see you later, Henry."

We fleetingly make eye contact. Mine says, thank you—you're an angel. Hers sweetly says, good luck, shithead.

• • •

"So, Henry, are you still on the swim team?"

We're eating lunch outside in one of those fancy restaurants where they have flowering trees planted in the most unfortunate locations so that the waiters have to skillfully dodge them in order to deliver the food.

"Nope." I cut a piece of chicken and plop it in my mouth. That's a lie—of course, I'm still on the team, and they would know that if they ever bother to read the monthly newsletters Brimble sends out.

Dad clears his throat, and shoots mom a look as if to say, see? Look at our degenerate son. "Pity."

Lydia winces.

In our family, the true conversations are the ones held in the gestures and glances between words—a competition of who can do the most damage in the subtlest manner. I belong to a family of wolves—of wolves and hunters.

"Camille's a nice girl," dad says, cutting up a piece of chicken breast. Are you still gay?

"She's a friend," I reply, sipping my lemonade. Of course I still am—being gay isn't something you can just turn off, dickface.

My parents exchange glances. Don't worry, this is just one of his phases.

I clench the fork in my hand.

Lydia clears her throat, taking a sip of her champagne. Lucky. Wish I had some champagne, right now. "So, mom, you were telling me about this article you read in the car. What was it about again?" I'm distracting you because I know you like to listen to yourself talk. Leave Henry alone.

I shoot her a grateful look and she gives me a slight nod as mom starts talking about some political scandal shit that I could care less about.

It's a small reprieve, but tune in ten minutes later, and it's me, back on the hot seat.

"So, how was your summer?" Mom smiles. "I hear southern France is beautiful this time of year."

I force myself to look at her—this is so boring—and smile back. "Not as beautiful as the view from your campaign office, I'm sure."

"Henry—" she sighs, setting down her fork. "Look, the upcoming year is going to bring a lot of changes. We're planning on officially announcing the campaign at the end of next week. That means the public's eye is going to be focused on us, on this family, more than ever." She looks at me meaningfully.

A silence falls over us.

Dad, tired of the subtlety—he's always the first one, how weak of him—comes out and gives it to me straight. "What your mother's trying to say, Henry, is no more going out and getting wasted. You're going to join the swim team, again." This is almost enough to make me start laughing—really, dad? You want your bisexual son to join the swim team? "You're going to clean up your act—right now. No more messing around with boys."

I flinch.

This is the first time he's openly addressed my homosexuality, and it caught me unaware like a slap to the face. Seriously? They think they can do this now? That they have the right to just waltz into my life whenever they want and order me around? They don't know anything about me—I've known these people for seventeen years, but they know nothing about me.

"Dad—" Lydia starts.

He firmly holds up a Rolex-clad hand, abruptly silencing her.

I grind my teeth.

"We've given you three months of freedom with that Friar boy—"

"Oh, that's such bullshit," I scoff.

"Henry, language!" Mom barks.

He makes it sound like I spent three months hooking up with James in France, and he says it with so much disgust it makes my blood boil. "You didn't give me three months of freedom," I snap. "You just conveniently forgot about me for three months. Don't try to spin this into one of your little lies!"

"Henry, please, lower your voice," my mother hisses. Then she sighs, tired. "Look, we're all going to have to make sacrifices—"

I laugh sharply. "What? All of us? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like we're all sacrificing something so that you can sit on that little throne on top of Washington. Everything's for you. What the hell are you sacrificing?" The words are heavy and bitter leaving my mouth, but I get a sick sense of satisfaction in my stomach when I see her flinch.

My father shoots up. "Don't talk to your mother like that, you ungrateful, selfish—" He suddenly raises his arm, and instinctively, I cover my face with my forearm, steeling myself.

When seconds pass and nothing happens, I lower my hands and see him fixing his tie, as if checking himself, reminding himself we're in public.

"I'm leaving," I announce, pushing my chair back and forcefully throwing my napkin on the table.

"Henry—" Lydia stands up.

"Don't."

My hands are trembling so I fist them tightly and the ringing in my ears is so loud, I can barely navigate myself out of that goddamn maze of a restaurant. I narrowly avoid head-butting a tree.

I forcefully push open the door and then I don't even know where I'm going—anywhere that's away from here is good.

I stumble down the street, passing shops and cafes, until I'm about a block away, my heart pounding furiously and the breath coming out of me in little pants. I'm feeling alarmingly light-headed so I slump against a wall and sit down, right there on the concrete.

Selfish. Selfish. Selfish. Those words keep ringing in my ear as I try to take deep breaths, try to calm my thundering heart.

"Henry?"

Because I thought my life could not possibly get worse in this moment, and then because the universe decides, yes Henry, it really could, I look up.

Two faces stand in front of me, both peering down at me with concern: my pain-in-the-ass roommate and his mother.

I jolt to my feet so fast I almost fall down again. I stumble back quickly, almost tripping over my shoes.

I open my mouth and try to offer an explanation, but nothing comes out—like my vocal chords are just incapable of speech, so I turn around and run the opposite way, down the street, as fast as I can.

• • •

When I get back to my dorm, it's five in the afternoon. I'm carrying a plastic bag in each arm, filled with groceries. I went to the local store and looted around for snacks after my embarrassing run-away.

I stop walking down the hallway when I see Lydia standing right outside my door, waiting for me.

"Can we talk?"

I nod wordlessly, swiping my key card and unlocking the door. I shoulder my way in and scan the room.

He's already moved back in—bed freshly made with those familiar blue plaid sheets, laptop on the desk, that ugly potted plant on the windowsill. I scowl at it—how mad would he be if I threw it away?

Whatever, I make my way to the counter, setting the grocery bags down. I start shoving fruit snacks into the cabinets and milk into the fridge.

"Mom and dad left."

"I don't care." Fruit snacks on the right, chips on the left.

I have my back turned against her, but I hear Lydia's sigh. "Henry—I . . . I'm sorry, I should have said something at lunch, I—"

"You don't have anything to be sorry for." I gently close