Saturday - November 18, 2017 - 7:18 p.m.

I'd just begun the intricate art of contouring when a sudden knock on my bedroom door shattered my concentration.

"Who is it?" I yelled, though I already had a pretty good idea.

My mom waltzed in, donning the jacquard striped Martha Stewart apron she'd scored from Macy's clearance rack a few years back.

"Honey, I'm making baked apricot chicken for dinner. Do you want red or white quinoa with that?"

Jesus Christ, I thought. Enough with the superfoods already.

"I'm going out later with Olivia and Hazel. I'll just grab a bite with them."

"Going out?" She let out her signature condescending chuckle. "Honey, I'd like to remind you that you're still grounded."

"What are you talking about?" I didn't bother trying to hide the indignation in my voice. "It's been one week."

"Not entirely. I grounded you last Saturday, which means the grounding remains in effect until midnight."

She had the smug grin of a defense attorney who'd just found a victorious loophole.

"Mom, are you serious?! It's my fuc—" I caught myself just in time. "It's my birthday! Can you please make an exception?"

"Sorry, honey. Rules are rules. You'll be a free woman tomorrow."

I abandoned any further attempts at bargaining. She wasn't budging.

I couldn't say I was surprised by her lack of empathy. She always made it her job to amplify my misfortune, and lately, it seemed as though she'd given herself a promotion. It wouldn't make a damn bit of difference to her that I was missing a surprise party that Brandon and the rest of the gang had been planning for God-knows-how-long. She didn't give two shits that a house full of people were waiting for me to walk through the door, eager to celebrate one of the most important milestones in my life. As long as my freedom was under lock and key, she would sleep like a baby.

Luckily, that's exactly how I needed her to sleep tonight.

It was Saturday, which meant that, in approximately one hour, my parents would be hunkering down in the living room for their post-dinner screening of Poirot on PBS. Halfway through a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, they'd be passed out like rocks on the couch, where they would remain until late morning. This gave me ample time to return from Axel's long before the Sunday coffee was brewing.

I scarfed down my chicken and quinoa with exceptional ease, ignoring the horrid taste as hard as I was ignoring my unreasonable mother. As soon as my plate had been cleared of every last morsel, I rushed back upstairs and slammed my bedroom door extra hard, hoping this would serve as an adequate signal to steer clear of my room for the rest of the night.

Without another second of hesitation, I resumed my transition into party mode.

I hopped on YouTube and pulled up a smoky-eye tutorial Olivia had been raving about lately, channeling all my concentration into the fluid brush strokes. Next, I filtered through endless shirts before deciding on a rose-pink lace crop top I hadn't worn since I'd tried it on in the Forever 21 dressing room. In lieu of jeans, I opted for a suede maroon miniskirt with beige wrap heels, positioning the fabric to display just the right amount of leg.

Never in a million years would I be permitted to leave the house in this particular outfit—under any normal circumstances, at least. It lacked a certain decency, one of the pillars of my mother's bleak existence. Luckily, she couldn't object if she didn't know I was leaving.

I glanced at my clock, suddenly realizing how close I was cutting it. My grand entrance was scheduled for nine, and it was already half past eight.

Swiftly gathering my essentials, I did a final check in the mirror before leaving, hardly able to recognize the girl staring back at me. Beauty could be a laborious process at times, but I had to admit, the finished product was completely worth it.

A part of me—one I'd been strenuously repressing—secretly wished that Zara would walk through the door at this very moment, just so she could see me like this. My shimmering chestnut hair was smoothed into perfection, nothing at all like the sloppy bun I sported to school after hitting snooze a few too many times. My outfit was impeccable, a complete contrast to the mediocre clothing combination I scrambled together just to make it to first period on time. My makeup was downright stunning; I could've have passed for one of those internet beauty gurus pulling a six-figure income.

I wished so bad that she could see me now, in this one moment, when I looked as breathtakingly beautiful as she did in every moment.

Before I let myself get too wrapped up in these forbidden thoughts, I flicked out my bedroom light and stuffed my body pillow into a convincing position under my sheets. Gently raising my creak-prone window—which my dad still hadn't gotten around to fixing despite countless promises—I stepped cautiously onto the roof. Even in my dangerously thin heels, I managed to successfully steady my feet onto the porch railing and plop down into the driveway.

As I began my escape down the dark street, I glanced back towards the house to ensure there were no witnesses. All I could see was the soft glare of the television from the living room window.

♥          ♥          ♥

"Hazel, this isn't the Met Gala," Olivia groaned. "We're about to cross over from fashionably late into regular late."

"I have a good feeling about this one!" Hazel said, zipping herself into a black satin one shoulder top and pulling on a pair of white high-waist jeans.

She ogled herself in the mirror before revealing the final verdict. "This is it. This is the one! Cassie, what do you think?"

"I love it! Your midriff is goals."

Hazel blushed as she threw on her jacket. "Thanks. It definitely outweighs the misery of those kale smoothies."

Olivia headed for the door. "If we don't haul ass, the Fireball jello shots are gonna be history."

A couple of hasty minutes later, we were finally on the road to Axel's house. The thick darkness surrounding us told me it was approaching nine, and I didn't want to keep everyone waiting. I tried distracting myself from this worry, glancing out the backseat window at the rhinestone stars floating in the clear night sky.

I was so looking forward to tonight, especially after the chaos that had consumed my life the past couple of weeks. The best medicine right now was a chill night with Brandon, good friends, and whoever else happened to show up.

"How many people are gonna be here?" I asked.

"Not that many," Olivia assured me. "Maybe fifteen or twenty. Don't worry—we made sure to weed out the underclassmen."

Flashes of multicolored light flickered between the gaps in the trees trunks as we meandered down the rocky, winding trail leading to Axel's house. It was one of the few houses in Chamberlain that was confined to its own private nook, secluded from the rest of the town by a dense grove of trees. This convenient feature made it an ideal venue for underage ragers. There were no pesky neighbors around to phone in noise complaints, and even if there had been, the cops would have a hell of a hard time just finding the place.

Finally we reached the end of the drive, where an endless cluster of cars sat parked out front, barricading the entrance.

"Shit," Olivia blurted, veering past the heap of vehicles and into the surrounding wooded area. "These people park like animals." She recklessly maneuvered her Ford Fusion through the thicket and onto the edge of the grassy expanse behind the house.

As I got out of the car, I could just barely make out a golden-orange glow flaring in the center of the backyard. Soon enough, the prickling flames of a bonfire came into focus, as well as a myriad of faces that were unrecognizable in the darkness of the night. All I could make out as I peered through the side windows were supersonic zips of light, accompanied by a seeming mixture of heavy metal and electropop.

I wedged myself in between Olivia and Hazel as we walked onto the back patio, the potent stench of pot already seeping into my nostrils. I couldn't help but question Olivia's earlier estimate of fifteen to twenty guests—there were at least that many in the backyard alone.

"What the hell?" Hazel snapped. "Why isn't anyone hiding?"

Olivia groaned lightly, sharing her frustration. "It's our own fault for trusting our halfwit boyfriends with this mind-numbingly simple task. Besides, it wasn't much of a surprise in the first place." She opened the door, ushering me inside. "Let's go get plastered."

As we made our way into the party, we were greeted by pure pandemonium. Blinding rays of LED light shot across the living room, which had been transformed into an unhinged mosh pit fit for Warped Tour. Every inch of space was occupied by the jungle of people dancing with a ferocious enthusiasm I'd yet to witness in my life. The initial vibrations I'd felt from outside were even stronger now; the bass thundered from the towering loudspeakers, shaking my skin in a rhythmic pounding. A heavyset DJ loomed above the crowd on a raised platform in front of the fireplace, typing vigorously on a plethora of laptops and other machinery that resembled something found in the cockpit of an airplane. I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that they had actually hired a DJ just for me, even if he did look like a heroin-junkie in his forties trying to make an extra buck on the side.

I glanced into the adjacent dining room, where a five-tier wedding-style cake—far more regal than the eight-dollar WalMart ice-cream cake I'd expected—was elegantly centered in a heap of beautifully-wrapped presents. My eyes soon gravitated upwards to the monstrous balloon letters dangling from the ceiling that spelled out C-A-S-S-I-E.

The collective Surprise! for which I'd been mentally preparing was replaced by a series of less climactic greetings from passing guests who just so happened to notice my arrival. Marsha Collins, my Geophysical Science lab partner from freshman year, stumbled over from the punch bowl to wish me a barely coherent Happy Birthday. Brittany Stadler—who I hadn't seen since seventh grade when I walked in on her fully nude in the locker room—waltzed over and gave me an enthusiastic hug like we were old friends. Chad Baker, the sassy male cheerleader and one of our greatest assets on the squad, caught a glimpse of me as he was returning to the community keg in the kitchen, slurring something along the lines of Great party, Cassie!

It didn't take long for me to realize that ninety-five percent of the people in here were already blasted of their asses.

Just as I was about to venture off to find Brandon, a pair of strong arms slithered around my waist. I turned around and found his electric eyes staring into my own.

"Happy birthday," he said softly, bringing his lips to mine.

"Brandon..."

I did another three-sixty take around the room, looking for the right words to convey my appreciation. "This is....crazy."

He seemed satisfied by my bewilderment. "In a good way?"

I nodded. "In an amazing way."

Axel emerged suddenly from the fist-bumping crowd, lugging a silver ice tub stuffed with an assortment of beer and wine coolers.

"Evening ladies," he said, setting the tub down and pouring in a fresh layer of ice. "Can I interest any of you in an adult beverage?"

"What've you got?" Hazel asked.

"What haven't we got? Tucker scored us everything under the sun: Grey Goose, Crown Royal, Patron, Jack Daniels. I was about to break open the Hennessy, if you're feeling real fancy."

Olivia tossed her jacket onto the heaping pile of coats in the corner. "I'll have my usual."

"Vodka lemon, extra Smirnoff? Coming right up!"

"Where's Sam?" Hazel asked with a touch of concern.

"Bathroom!" Brandon shouted over the blaring music. "I warned him to cool it on the Jim Beam. I think his pre-game may have turned into game over."

Her eyes took on the look of an irritated mother. "I'd better go check on him."

"What does the birthday girl want to drink?" Brandon asked.

I smiled warmly. "Surprise me."

After he'd disappeared into the kitchen, I continued gawking at my overstimulating surroundings, still in shock that virtually the entire senior class had shown up. I wanted to believe that they were all here to celebrate me, though I wasn't so naïve as to forget how easily teenagers were enticed by free food and booze.

I scanned the various faces around me, faces I was used to seeing in a much different environment. My gaze suddenly froze to stone as it settled on a girl standing just left of the mantel. She was about five-seven, with silky hair and a slender frame—one I'd recognize anywhere.

My eyes must've been playing tricks on me. It was the only plausible explanation.

It couldn't be her.

I squinted harder, tilting my head every which way to get a better look, but my line of vision remained constantly obstructed by the chaos of the dancefloor. I knew the lilac hair would serve as a foolproof confirmation of my suspicion, yet the darkness of the house, permeated only by occasional wisps of LED light, made it impossible to discern the true color.

It's not her, I assured myself, albeit unconvincingly.

It can't be.

"Here you go," came a startling voice to my left.

I turned to find Brandon standing next to me, extending a salt-rimmed glass of orange liquid. "I made your favorite: Mango Margarita."

I managed a meager smile in response. "Thanks."

I took a sip, pleased to find the harsh sting of tequila masked by an intense blast of citrus.

Axel returned shortly from the kitchen with Olivia's drink. "What do you say we move this party to the V.I.P section?" he suggested, ushering us through the wild mass of partygoers and down a picture-lined hallway leading to the den.

I stole a brief glance back at the dancefloor as we left the living room, itching for one last look at the mystery girl beside the mantel, desperate to prove myself right.

There was no sight of her anymore. She was gone.

I understood immediately what was happening. My unyielding desire to see Zara again had infiltrated the deepest recesses of my mind and was now creating cruel illusions right before my eyes. I was obviously hallucinating, falling prey to the deceptive wisps of my imagination. Still, I wanted so badly to take them as reality.

The four of us made our way into an elegant den with glass windows overlooking the home's vast backyard. The décor of the room was so lavish that it could have easily passed for the presidential suite at the Four Seasons. A seventy-inch flat screen was mounted on the oak-paneled wall between a set of black-and-white portraits of people I assumed were long-gone relatives. Below the TV was a rustic-looking, mahogany fireplace that produced crisp amber flames with the simple turn of a knob. A beautiful venetian chandelier dangled above the sitting area, which was equipped with two contemporary leather sofas and a series of chic loveseats. A sleek mini-bar was situated in the corner, complete with a stainless-steel fridge and a wooden wine rack filled with glistening bottles of every variety.

Every time I came over to Axel's house, it was always crystal clear to me why his parents had chosen the professions they had. Just being in this room instilled in me the motivation to bear the wrath of law school.

As I sat down on the couch beside Brandon, it suddenly recalled that this was the very spot we'd shared our first kiss.

One day back in middle school, we'd all congregated at Axel's house to work on a science fair project—a solar hot dog cooker made from an old shoebox and tin foil which had scored us an honorable mention. At one point, I came down with an excruciating stomachache and wandered in here to lay down. It wasn't long before I was fast asleep on the couch.

The scene was devastatingly vivid in my mind. I awoke from my brief doze, raising my heavy eyelids to find Brandon sitting on the floor beside me, his hand wrapped around my own, his striking blue eyes fixed on me in a warm concern.

Neither of us spoke at first. My stomach pains had subsided by now, replaced by an anxious exhilaration. I'd never seen him look at me this way before.

All of a sudden, his face was inching closer to mine. He'd moved slowly, unsurely, as if somehow insecure in his actions. I could distinctly remember the excitement pulsating through me, as if a million butterflies had just broken free from their stuffy cocoons, beating their wings rapidly inside my stomach. Before I had another second to process what was happening, our lips met for the first time.

It was a short kiss, no more than a couple of seconds long, but it had been my first, and that alone had made it worthwhile.

Unfortunately, our kisses no longer had the spellbinding effect they once had—at least on my end. There were no more butterflies, no adrenaline rushes, no spine tingles. They were the kind of lackluster kisses married couples hastily shared as they rushed out the door for work. It pained me to realize how a memory so momentous and meaningful as this one could now seem so dull and jaded.

Hazel walked into the den, supporting a wobbling Sam, who looked like he'd just eaten some bad shrimp. Sam was no lightweight when it came to drinking, which made me seriously question how he was this plastered at only nine-thirty.

"Look who I found," she said with a flickering smirk.

Sam slumped down beside her onto the couch, wiping the edge of his mouth with his sleeve. "Man, those jack and cokes go right through me."

"Right through you, or right back out the entrance?" Axel asked, eliciting a chuckle from us all.

Olivia strolled over to the mini-bar, grabbing a chilled bottle of Absolut and a stack of shot glasses. "Whose up for a couple rounds of 'Never Have I Ever'?"

"I'm down!" Hazel exclaimed. "What do you say, Cass? It's your party."

"Let's do it," I agreed. I sure as hell wasn't going to turn down an opportunity to get sloshed out of my mind.

"I'll start us off," Brandon volunteered, filling each shot glass to the brim. "Never have I ever...stolen money from my parents."

Everyone drank, including me.

The ancient memory drifted into my mind like a tumbleweed. One Friday night, after a grueling day of eighth grade, Hazel and I were browsing in Sephora, where she introduced me to eyelashes extensions for the first time—something I've yet to forgive her for. I guess it was my own fault for trying them on in the first place, and subsequently falling in love with them. I remember standing there, gawking in the store's vanity mirror like an idiot, shamelessly admiring myself. The lashes made me look older, early to mid-twenties, and I loved that for some reason.

I knew I wouldn't any have source of income until my birthday, which was three months away at the time, but desperate times called for desperate measures. That night at dinner, I successfully convinced my dad that my English teacher had purchased brand new copies of Catcher In The Rye for our