Orientation ended at nine--approximately two hours later than it should have ended.

Because classes started tomorrow, the faculty instructed that lights were to be off at ten. Now, it was nine-fifty and Marisol was in her closet on a mission.

"Where the hell is it?" she asked herself. Something fell with a crash, and I tried to peer into her closet to see what the heck was going on, but I couldn't see a thing. "Here! Finally."

She stepped out of the closet holding a dress over her chest. "You like?"

It was navy and quite short—shorter than anything I would wear. It was strapless and navy, but it was pretty. "Yeah," I replied. "What's it for?"

"The party, silly," she said, stopping in front of her mirror to analyze her button nose and mile-long eyelashes. "Aren't you going?"

"Party?"

Marisol spun around, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah. The party I told you about. Are you going?"

"You didn't tell me about a party."

She kept staring at me, her expression blank. "I thought I did."

"You didn't."

"Well, shit. I'll tell you now." She plopped down on my bed beside me and I shut the Jane Austen book I was reading. "Every check-in day, Celia Howell has this huge house party. It's insane. Everyone from Beaumont and Pentry sneaks out from the dorms and goes. At least, the relevant students do. It's super easy to sneak out, honestly. There are no surveillance cameras or anything. You have to come!"

I glanced down at the book in my lap. "I won't know anyone there."

"Yes, you will. Carlisle, Aspen, and I will be there. Lindsay's got a movie date with her loner and hates parties like that, but you can hang with the three of us. You could meet other people there, too. It's a great place to make friends."

I wanted to ask, "Parties like what?", but I didn't want to seem like a prude. Honestly, I wasn't much of a party-goer. In Bunting, I didn't have very many friends. None of my friends had been party-goers either. They were the type that would sit at home and read. I guess I was too. And as I looked at the book in my lap, I realized that that wasn't who I wanted to be anymore. I wanted to be someone fun. I wanted adventure. That was the whole reason I started researching boarding schools, anyway. This opportunity just presented itself, and it'd be foolish of me not to take it.

I looked back up at Marisol, who was sitting there, waiting for me to accept or decline the invitation.

"So?" she asked, tilting her head. "What's it gonna be?"

~~~

The thing about adventure is that the road to it is pretty humbling. I learned this as I walked down the street alongside Marisol, tugging at the bottom of the dress she lent me. It was navy, an awful color on me, and quite short—not as short as the one she was wearing, but short nonetheless. It was too loose in the top, forcing me to stuff my bra just a bit—which was both embarrassing and awkward— and too tight on the bottom. With every step I took, the dress would inch up my thighs, so I had to constantly pull it back down. To top everything off, I didn't have any shoes that would look good with the dress—only my Keds—so I had to borrow a pair of heels from Marisol. Her shoes were a size and a half too big for me, and I couldn't even walk in heels that fit. This was already shaping to be a disastrous night.

"So remember," Marisol said, walking in her heels like a beauty pageant queen, "if a guy hits on you and he's acting strange, he's probably under the influence. That's what it's like at these parties. So, just stay away from any guy that's drunk. He probably won't end up being a decent person anyway. I don't know any decent guys from Pentry."

"How do you tell if a guy is drunk?" I asked this completely seriously, yet Marisol laughed out loud.

She squeezed my shoulder as we stepped up onto Celia Howell's front porch. Celia lived down the street from Beaumont Academy, so it was only about a two-minute walk. "You're so funny! I don't know why I'm telling you this. You probably get hit on by drunk guys at parties all the time."

I wanted to tell her that no, drunk guys did not hit on me, and that no, I didn't even go to parties, but there was really no way I could say this to her without sounding like a prude, so I let it slide.

Marisol placed her hand on the doorknob and turned it slowly. When the door opened, I was immediately hit in the face with the smell of alcohol and cigarettes. Glancing behind me, I debated lying and telling Marisol that I felt sick and wanted to go back to the dorm, but I knew she would see straight through my lie. She seemed a bit ditzy, but I could tell that she was in no way, shape, or form stupid.

As we walked in, I couldn't help but watch everyone around me. Speakers were placed randomly throughout the living room and kitchen, each blasting some hip hop song I didn't know. In the very center of the living room was a huge group of students dancing, their red plastic cups held up in the air. Strobe lights flickered different colors, and it took my eyes a few seconds to adjust without being blinded.

Marisol grabbed my wrist and we made our way toward a group of students on the right side of the living room, walking past a couple making out on the coffee table.

I recognized one person in the group: Aspen. She was the center of attention, talking wildly with her hands. Some red-headed guy had one of his arms around her waist, holding her close enough that she could probably hear his heart beat. Marisol approached her and hugged her from behind. For a moment, Aspen's eyes grew wide and she spun around, relieved to see that it was none other that Marisol behind her.

"Hey, girl," she said to me after she noticed I was standing there. As if he needed her attention to be on him, the red-haired guy kissed her blush-filled cheek, and she giggled, flipping her long hair over her shoulder.

I smiled my greeting and looked over at Marisol, who was talking to a girl with white-blonde hair. She couldn't have been taller than five feet.

"Kayleigh, this is Ivy Templeton," Marisol said, nodding toward the girl. Ivy smiled and took a drink out of the cup she was holding.

"Hey, I'm Kayleigh," I introduced myself.

"So, you're the new Beaumont student?" she asked me. When I nodded, she said, "Oh, girl, you're going to love it! Your life is going to completely change."

"Trust me," I said, "it already has."

"So, Aspen," Ivy said, turning to look at Aspen, who was in the middle of kissing the red-head, her hands holding his face down to hers. "Oh. Well, don't mind me," she muttered, making eye contact with Marisol and I and suppressing a laugh. She lifted her arms above her head, shook her hips a few times, and disappeared into another group of students.

I glanced over at Marisol, wanting an explanation for anything I had witnessed so far tonight, but instead, she was facing a muscular guy. He had longer blonde hair and a beer bottle in each hand. He handed one to Marisol, winked, and went over by the front door.

"Want one?" Marisol asked me, holding up the bottle. "I can get one for you."

        The thought of drinking tonight hadn't even crossed my mind, nor did it sound desirable. I just shook my head as she took a swig of it.

"Is that Aspen's boyfriend?" I looked over at the red-haired guy, who was still playing kissy-face with Aspen.

"No," Marisol replied flatly. "Poor Foster's obsessed with her, but Aspen will make out with anyone with a pulse. He's nothing special to her."

And with that, Marisol left to go mingle with a group of guys—half of them shirtless—by the fireplace, leaving me beside the kissing couple, or not-couple. I didn't want to stay there and be a third-wheel, so I retreated to the kitchen, where a group of girls in short skirts were chain-smoking cigarettes.

There was a snack table in the corner of the room. I wasn't necessarily hungry, but I felt like it was too awkward for me to just stand there doing nothing.

I had heard that people will sneak things into snacks at parties, and I had no idea how to tell if something was contaminated or not, so I was about to give up on the food when I heard, "If you're looking for a safe food, the chocolate chip cookies on the left are good."

I glanced over to my right. A tall guy with shaggy black hair and bronze skin stood there, his hip leaning against the granite countertop. His arms were crossed as he looked at me, a crooked smile playing on his mouth.

"My best friend and I picked them up from the store on our way here," he said. "They're fine."

"Thanks," I said, picking out a cookie.

"You're new here, aren't you?"

I took a bite out of the cookie and tried to keep my eyes from falling to the floor. It had always been a problem for me to keep eye contact with people, especially cute guys. This guy in front of me wasn't even cute. He was downright attractive.

"Yeah," I replied, pulling a piece of mousy-blonde hair behind my ear as I always did when I was anxious. Anyone who knew me well knew that. "Is my nervousness obvious?"

He smiled as if I had just told him an embarrassing secret. "Not at all. You just seem cautious. Which is good, not many people here are. I just asked because I know everyone at Beaumont Academy, but I don't know you."

Of course he knew everyone. Honestly, he was probably one of those guys that serial-dates the senior class at Beaumont. He was attractive, nice, charismatic. I knew a few guys like that in Bunting and all of them turned out to be terrible. I had to approach with caution. Just like he said, I was cautious.

"I'm Kayleigh," I said, trying to be polite.

I had finished the cookie and was looking around for something to drink, but all I saw were bottles of alcohol. Like he could sense this, the guy grabbed a cup from a cabinet and ran some water from the sink into it. Then he handed it to me.

"Thanks," I told him again after gulping down about half the cup in two seconds.

"Not a problem. I'm Tatum."

"Pentry Academy, huh?"

"Of course. Since sixth grade."

I peered over the crowd, trying to find Marisol. As much as I enjoyed having small talk with Tatum, I was feeling a bit tired and it grew harder to keep my eyes open. Just this atmosphere was sucking the energy out of me.

"Do you not like parties? You look a bit lost."

"I just don't go to parties often," I said. That technically wasn't a lie. "I'm looking for my roommate."

"I don't either. My best friend, Lysander, made me come with him," he confessed. "Who's your roommate?"

"Marisol."

Tatum tried not to laugh.

"So you know her?" I asked, although I realized how stupid of a question that was as soon as it came out of my mouth. He had said that he knew everyone.

"She's one of my best friends. Love her to death, but the girl's a maniac."

"How so?"

"You know how everyone's got a scene? Like, a place where they fit in most?" I nodded. "Well, Marisol's scene is parties. She goes crazy. Drinking, smoking—actually, I think she quit smoking, but she definitely still drinks. Honestly, she's probably drunk now."

"Really?" This was hard for me to believe. She seemed like such a well-behaved, polite girl, not someone who gets black-out drunk at parties. Maybe Aspen was right about her being trouble. I thought that she was just kidding.

Tatum's eyes widened and he nodded slowly. "You haven't got a clue. I've tried to get her to stop, but she doesn't see anything wrong with it. If you'd like, I can help you find her."

"That'd be great," I said. But we didn't have to go very far. Just a few feet away, we found Marisol draped over a chair, her usually voluminous hair flat and her makeup smeared.

"Told you," Tatum said. He bent down by Marisol's face and talked into her ear. "Are you okay?"

She nodded rapidly before showing off a smile. "You won't believe what happened, Tatum! Warren told me he still loves me. I know he means it, too. I knew it all along. You guys were wrong!"

Tatum stood up and crossed his arms. A dark expression came over his face, and he exchanged a glance with me, but I had no idea what it meant. "He told you he loves you," he repeated, quiet enough that Marisol couldn't hear it. Louder, he asked, "Where's Warren van Gerald?"

Marisol pointed at the front door, where the guy that had given her beer was sitting, the brunette with the glasses from orientation leaning against him. Immediately, Tatum pushed through the crowd, closing in on the guy. He said something to him, and Warren stood up, his eyebrows furrowed. Warren stepped toward Tatum, grabbed him by the neck of his shirt, and whispered something in his ear before pushing him away. I could see Tatum's back tense up, and when he turned around, his face was pale, as if he had seen a ghost.

"What happened?" I asked when he came back to us.

"Nothing. Warren van Gerald is just an ass," he replied. He didn't mention it again, although I was dying to know what had just occurred.

Marisol stood up from her chair and wrapped one arm around me and one around Tatum. "Guys," she cooed. "Let's dance."

"I can't dance," I said, pulling away from her, but her grip was firm.

"Neither can I," Tatum piped up.

"Shut up, I bet you guys can! Dance with me," she pleaded, sticking her bottom lip out like a child. Finally, I sighed, giving in, and it was just Tatum left. Fortunately, he was also unable to decline.

Marisol led us over to the designated dance floor, where dozens of students were already showing off their moves. She began to shake her hips Shakira-style, while Tatum and I stood there, not really sure what our bodies should do.

"We can't get out of this, can we?" Tatum whispered in my ear.

I laughed. "I don't think so."

Something inside Tatum gave way, and he started doing moves I would associate with the Cha Cha Slide. I couldn't help but laugh at him, but he laughed at me harder as I tried to mimic what he was doing. I practically had two left feet, and even the Cha Cha Slide was difficult for me.

"You're a terrible dancer!" I exclaimed as he doubled over in laughter.

"You can't talk!" he shouted back, and I knew it was true. My parents couldn't dance either. It must've been genetics.

"Kayleigh? Is that you?"

I turned around slightly to see whom the high-pitched voice belonged to. Lindsay. Wasn't she supposed to be on a date with Ian?

I could tell that they had been out earlier, because she was slightly dressed up in an oversized light-pink sweater and black jeans. Ian must've been the guy she was holding hands with, and he seemed confused as could be. He was wearing a pastel plaid shirt and dark wash jeans. His hair was extremely dark brown to the point that it was almost black and was so curly, thick and long that the navy beanie he was wearing could barely contain it all.

"Where are Carlisle, Aspen, and Marisol?" she asked me, placing one of her hands on her hip.

"Marisol is right—" I looked over my shoulder to where Marisol was. Was. Now, that spot was empty. Tatum and I hadn't even realized she disappeared while we were dancing.

Lindsay rubbed her forehead with her free hand and led us from the dance floor to the kitchen. "Do you have any idea where they could be?"

"I saw Aspen with Foster maybe twenty-five minutes ago," Tatum told her. "They were with Dawson, Chance, and Brett."

"I'll find them," she grumbled before elbowing her way through the dance floor. She was pretty bony, so those elbow jabs had to hurt.

"So," Tatum said, glancing over at Ian, "I heard you guys were going out on a date."

"Lindsay was worried sick about them during the movie, so we left early," Ian replied, his voice much deeper than I expected it to be. I could tell he wasn't very happy about the date being cut short, although he was probably used to it. Poor guy.

"How long have you guys been dating now? A year?"

"Close. Eleven months."

"Dang."

Lindsay reappeared beside me with Marisol, who was still shaking her hips to the music. "Tatum, Kayleigh, hold onto her. I need to find the other delinquents."
Tatum and I secured our grips on Marisol's forearms. She tried to wriggle from our grasp, but she was unsuccessful.

"Oh, Ian! When did you get here?" Marisol asked loudly, almost shouting.

"A minute ago."

"Aw!" Marisol exclaimed. She tried to shake her left arm out from Tatum's grip. "You and Lindsay are perfect."

Ian smiled the exact same closed-lipped smile that I noticed Lindsay often did and looked down at the floor. He seemed even shyer than I was. Without Lindsay, the guy looked like a lost puppy. "Yeah. Thanks."

This time, Lindsay came back with two: Aspen and Carlisle. Aspen couldn't stop laughing about something, and Carlisle's eyes were bloodshot. "Carlisle is so stoned that we don't have to worry about her running," Lindsay said. I could tell from her face that she was absolutely pissed at the three of them. "You guys promised me you wouldn't do so much as touch a drug or bottle of alcohol, and look at you now! You're all under the influence of something." She took one of Marisol's arms from Tatum. "I am so disappointed in you guys." Lindsay turned to me and said, "Please tell me you are one-hundred percent sober."

"I am."

"Great. Take ahold of Marisol's other arm and grip Aspen's tighter. We're going back to the dorms."

I nodded. This was the best news I had heard all day long.

Ian planted a kiss on Lindsay's cheek and Tatum walked up to me, his hands forced into the front pockets of his jeans.

"I think it's safe to say that I won that dance competition," he said with a smirk.

"Whoa, hold up! Who said that was a competition?"

"You're just mad that I'm a better dancer than you." He smiled widely—goodness gracious, he had an adorable smile. "Hopefully I'll see you around soon."

It was my turn to smile. "Yeah, hopefully."

I took a step back, one of my hands wrapped around Marisol's bicep and another around Aspen's forearm. Lindsay led all of us toward the door, and we made our way down the street to the dorm. When we were about halfway there, Lindsay stopped in her tracks.

"Crap," she whispered. This couldn't be good.

"What?" I asked, craning my neck around to see what could be "crap"-worthy. And I saw it.

In front of the