My wet jacket sits in the trunk of the Destrier as Haley drives home, as well as his pants, which were not spared in the attack—I mean, my hug attempt. He tells me, "There isn't much I haven't done before, but I must admit, driving in my underwear is a first."

"Sorry."

"It's fine," he says, laughing. "I had to change anyway."

"Do you think I should change, too?" I ask, looking down at my brown sweater. It's one of my nicer ones, but it's not really party attire. Then again, I don't know if I have anything that could qualify as such. The only nice thing I own is the suit I wore to my mother's funeral.

"Nah, man," Haley says. "It's not that kind of party. Wear whatever you like."

I nod and start to take my glasses off. "By the way, what you told me earlier . . ."

His blurry form turns its head toward me.

"I don't know if you told me when I was a bear so I couldn't respond or if you—"

"Oh, God, no," he blurts. "Sorry. Of course you can respond."

"Well, I just have a question."

He nods.

I take a moment to wipe dirt and grease off my glasses with the edge of my sweater as I try to put my thoughts into words. "Well, last time we talked about it, you said you didn't mind being a guy—or at least, you didn't mind people thinking you were. Has that changed? Like, do I need to . . . start using different words?"

"Oh."

I put my glasses back on and look at Haley.

He worries at his bottom lip, and his fingers lightly drum on the steering wheel while his eyes flit past street signs and traffic lights. This goes on for about a minute. Then, he says, "I guess," though it sounds more like a question.

"Are you sure?" I ask.

"No," he admits. "But there's only one way to find out what I want, right? Some of the nonbinary people I follow on social media only use neutral pronouns, some use neutral and male or female, and some even use all of them. And they always say the first step to figuring this shit out is by experimenting, you know? I don't want to, like, tell people it's this or that and then change my mind a week later, but I can't exactly ask you to use different pronouns when you have no one else to use them with."

"Well, you can tell them that. You can say you're just trying to figure it out."

"I guess."

"Maybe—" I say, clearing my throat. "If you're worried about confusing everyone, maybe you should only tell a few people at first. Just your closest friends. And don't say I'm the only one. Davy's way closer to you than I'll ever be."

He snorts. "Okay. I'll tell Davy. And if I tell Davy, I have to tell Sam—they're kind of a package deal. And I'll tell George, of course. Maybe Bobby."

"Who's Bobby?"

"Oh, my brother."

"Dude, what were your parents on when they named you guys?"

He laughs. "He's actually called Robert, and George is short for Georgiana."

"So you're the only one with a girl's name."

"Actually, it's a male name. Originally."

"Uh-huh. Originally."

"Oh, shut up. Your name is Augustus and you choose to go by Gus."

"What's wrong with Gus?"

"Well, nothing, but Augustus is such a cool name!"

"Okay," I say, chuckling. "Call me Augustus, then."

"I can't. You're Gus now."

I shake my head in amusement.

"Anyway, I like that my name is sort of ambiguous. It's like my parents knew."

"So do you just wanna go with all the pronouns, then?" I ask, getting us back on topic. "See what sticks?"

"Well, I—I don't know . . . let's just start with 'he' and 'they' for now."

"Okay."

"Okay," he repeats, before inhaling deeply and exhaling. "So . . . party."

"Yep."

☽〇☾

While Haley is changing, I go in search of the living room to wait and find George there, sprawled out on a brown leather four-seater. She waves at me before she goes back to scrolling through social media. There's another couch on the other side of the room, just as big as the first, two armchairs, a huge TV, several tall bookcases, and a big, round, glass coffee table in the middle of it all. It looks like an image from the catalog of a furniture store. A black grandfather clock tells me it's almost nine.

I take a seat opposite from George and ask, "So, uh, have you talked to Sam yet?"

She looks up from her phone. "Not really."

I nod.

"Why? Do you think I should?"

"I was just wondering," I say, shrugging. I don't think it's my place to tell her what to do, but I know what I'd do. Davy is the only one of the twins who apologized to me. Then again, Sam hasn't talked to me at all, which is technically what we asked for.

"He texts me every day," George says.

"Wow."

"Yeah. It's kind of sad."

I'm not sure if she means it saddens her or that he's pathetic. It could be both. She slides her phone over to me before I can ask and says, "Look."

I guess Haley's not the only one who has a problem with oversharing.

Can we talk?

sorry no i need some time :(

Ok take as much time as you need

I hope you have a good day ❤️

Goodnight ❤️

Good mroning

*morning

Sweet dreams ❤️❤️

I miss you

I'm coming to Haley's party

Idk if you'll be there but just a FYI

"Oh," I say. "Yeah, that is sad."

George nods.

At that moment, Haley walks in. His hair is wet and hangs over his forehead—a sight so unexpected I almost do a double take. "Oh, hello," he says, trying to rake it back with his fingers, but it immediately flops down again. "What are we talking about? Thanks, by the way. Shit looks good."

George salutes him.

"We're talking about Sam," I say, giving the phone back to George.

"What did he do?" Haley asks.

"Nothing," George says. "He's just a simp."

I snort.

"Also, he's coming tonight, so I think I'll talk to him."

Haley and I both look at her.

Then Haley asks, "What are you gonna tell him?"

"I don't know yet."

"Okay . . ."

"Good luck," I say.

George smiles. "Thanks."

"Anyway," Haley says, walking over to sit down beside me. He sits on the very edge of the couch and takes a deep breath. "I wanna tell you something."

My eyes widen.

"Are you two dating?" George asks.

Haley drags a hand down his face. "No . . ."

"I'm straight," I say.

"Oh." George nods. "Okay. Then what is it?"

Haley clears his throat and pulls his hair back. It actually stays up this time. "I, uh . . . I'm nonbinary," he says. "Gus thought it'd be a good idea to tell a few people I'm close with so I can try out different pronouns. So . . ." He makes a demonstrative gesture. "Yeah."

George is quiet for a few seconds before she says, "You told Gus first?"

"I—" Haley blinks. His hair promptly tumbles down. "Why does that matter?!"

She pouts.

"You are the first person I've told after Gus!"

"Acceptable," she says, nodding. "What pronouns do you want to use?"

Haley tells her the same thing he told me, and she promises, without a moment's hesitation, that she'll try to switch back and forth between pronouns from now on, or at least with the people Haley is coming out to. I'm surprised by how quickly the conversation is over. It's not that I expected George to be completely ignorant on the topic—they must have talked about it before, at least in general terms, since Haley came out as queer at thirteen. I just thought she would have more questions.

But she only asks, "Are you telling Mom and Dad, too?"

Haley slowly twists the drawstrings of his hoodie around each other. Or, well, uh, their hoodie, I guess. "I suppose I could," Haley says. "I just feel like . . . maybe it's better if I wait until I know for sure."

"Okay."

There's a moment of silence before a faint bell rings, and Haley gets up, saying something about someone being early. When George and I are alone again, I say, "You didn't seem surprised."

"I—well . . . I suppose I had an inkling something was up."

I nod. She's not wrong. Something is up.

She's just not seeing the full picture.

☽〇☾

Soon, the Sinclairs' home has transformed into a club with fancy furniture and invisible multicolored LED strips but a severe lack of DJs. The TV in the living room is hooked up to a surround-sound system, which is playing electronic dance music from all corners, which people are enthusiastically shouting over. Only about two or three of them are actually dancing, so I suppose the absence of a DJ can only be a good thing.

I, on the other hand, am still on the couch with George. Haley is busy talking to newcomers, and I don't know, or want to know, what would happen if I walked up to a random person and tried to start a conversation, so I'm glad she's here. The partygoers are happily ignoring me. The majority of them are students from Larkwood High, but they've brought along plenty of friends and significant others, and regardless of where they're from, it seems like everyone's gotten the memo: stay away from the big guy who looks like he shouldn't be here. It's quite obvious.

I wouldn't say I'm surprised, because I'm really not, but the longer I sit there and listen to George's commentary, the more I feel like coming here was a waste of time. I could have stayed home and watched a movie, and that probably would have been more engaging than this. Still, there is a part of me that feels a little smug. Everyone else may be rich, well-dressed, and in good shape, but I'm here because I'm Haley's friend, not because I'm privileged.

Besides, George is keeping me sufficiently entertained.

"Do you know the girl who just walked in?" she asks.

I shake my head.

"That's Nela."

Every time George tells me something about a person in the room, I'm pretty discreet about looking over, but this time . . . this time, I openly stare. Nela is the perfect example of what I like to call the are-they-hot-or-just-confident phenomenon. Her brown hair, which falls down to her hips, is so straight she must have spent an hour manhandling it with a flat iron, and her tanned skin is practically glowing, but aside from that and the form-fitting dress she wears, she looks kind of unremarkable. And yet, she draws the attention of every guy, and a few jealous and/or curious girls, in the room. I have no doubt this is the girl who feels entitled to Haley's interest. She's not used to being told "no."

When she meets my gaze, she holds it for five seconds before giving me a false smile and walking over to some guy who's absolutely not looking at her face.

George leans over again to say, "I think she wants to fuck you."

I let out a noise of pure disbelief.

She laughs.

"There are, like, a hundred guys in the house she'd rather fuck," I point out.

"Look, every single one of those guys who is not in a relationship—hell, maybe even some who are—would be less of a challenge than you. You're mysterious. You're special. Haley thinks you deserve to be here. She's definitely thinking about it."

"If anything, she thinks I'm easy. Besides, she seems to me like the type of person who would never sleep with a lower-class guy."

Maybe it would have been different if I was hot. I've got a nice face, and I've been told my curls are cute, so I've got that going for me, but I'm not what most people would call handsome—I'm not conventionally attractive. Maybe if I was thinner. Maybe if people didn't think back hair was gross. (I don't get it, man. It's just hair.)

"Or," I say, giving George a pointed look, "she thinks Haley and I are together. That appears to be a common misconception."

She laughs, then shrugs. "Your social status is kind of up in the air these days, but yeah, people definitely think you're Haley's boyfriend."

I shake my head.

"You should go find him." She frowns. "Them."

"I think . . . they forgot about me."

"Nah, they're just getting dragged into games and incapable of refusing, as usual. Also, in case you haven't noticed, this house is big. He's probably looking for you, too. Go on." She nudges my shoulder. "Have fun."

With a sigh, I push myself up from the couch. A few people glance in my direction, but they quickly go back to their shouting matches as I leave the room. In the hallway the music is less present, but that doesn't stop people from bouncing to the beat and talking loudly. Although, the latter might be because they're not entirely sober. Practically everyone's drinking, albeit to varying degrees; some people look rather unsteady on their feet. I've only had a few sips from my own cup. It's probably a good drink—it tastes expensive—but I never drink alcohol and I can't get used to the sting of it.

On my way through the house, I pass several couples making out, one of which clearly got lost on their way to a bedroom, and I get an eyeful of boob. Averting my gaze, I come to the startling realization that they don't exaggerate in movies at all, and the stories are definitely true. All I have left to spot are drugs. And the police. Then again, the Sinclairs own half the town—they probably won't come.

I find Haley in the dining room, where cups are set up on the table in a game of beer pong. There's more music coming from somewhere, and the room is full of people, all of whom are watching. A small girl is holding her hands in front of Haley's eyes as he throws a ping pong ball and impossibly lands it in a cup. Everyone cheers. The girl drops her hands, pouting, and Haley hands her the cup with a grin.

"You cheated," she says.

He puts his hand on his chest with an offended expression. "I most certainly did not! I'm just that good." He catches her expression and sighs. "Okay, I was lucky."

She smiles and takes the ball out of the cup, then throws back her punishment, which makes everyone cheer again. Then she tosses the ball at a boy.

That's when Haley notices me.

"Gus!"

The entire room, about thirty people, instantly turns to look at the doorway, where I stand frozen with a half full cup in hand. Well, let's be honest, it's more like 3/4 full.

"You any good at beer pong?" Haley asks.

"Uh . . . probably not."

"Get over here."

If anyone talks while I step forward, I don't hear it, but I'll blame the music. It's coming from a speaker, I realize now—it sits on one of the shelves on the back wall, tucked between two vases. Nobody stops me from walking over to Haley, so I take my place beside him, and he gestures at his opponent.

The boy, a tall brunet covered in freckles, quietly raises his hand with the ball. Someone shouts, "Come on, Jared!" and that seems to wake everyone up. They cheer him on, and finally he throws. The ball touches the rim of a cup, then bounces to the floor.

Haley laughs and shouts over the cheers, "Better luck next time!"

Jared pulls a face while another guy claps him on the shoulder. Someone retrieves the ball and throws it at Haley, who then hands it to me. I put my unfinished cup on the table and close one eye as I try to aim. Predictably, the ball lands nowhere near a cup.

More cheering ensues. It seems to be coming from every direction. I'm starting to think they don't take sides—they cheer for everyone, regardless of which team they're on. Only Haley says, "Damn, you weren't lying."

"No," I laugh.

The game continues.

I gather that Haley is playing against three people, and he was winning, but now that I've joined, our opponents are starting to gain on us. We take turns drinking when they score. I grimace at the taste of it, but it's only about the amount of a shot, so I don't complain. In the end, Haley and I and the other team are both down to one cup, and it's my turn.

"We've got this," Jared says to the girl. (I've learned her name is Lori.) She smiles smugly, and I narrow my eyes at her before I aim, holding the ball gently between my fingers.

Haley is gripping the edge of the table, muttering, "Come on, come on."

I throw.

And it lands.

Everyone explodes into cheers and laughter, and Lori dutifully takes the drink. She glares at me, but it doesn't have any of the usual contempt I'm used to. I find nothing in her eyes but the bitter reluctance of a sore loser.

Haley puts both hands on my shoulders and shouts, "Yeah! Suck on that!" And when he lets go, some random guy gives me a smack on the back, too. I flinch, but it's not a painful smack. It's . . . friendly.

The guy is smiling at me.

I'm so startled by the gesture I almost forget to smile back.

☽〇☾