Carter stood on the coffee table and whistled. Half the room covered its ears. The other half hooted like a barn full of drunken owls.

“Welcome to my annual ‘Screw School’ soiree!”

They cheered and toasted, tossing Cheetos he’d have to vacuum up later, and raising Solo cups that would end up in a pile of molten plastic in the fire pit. He kept the loose grin on his face, regardless. These little inconveniences were just how the politics of high school worked.

“As always, no touching any buttons, knobs, or locks! No fighting over the Apple TV; everyone’s music gets played! No putting things down drains! No tossing of fellow party-goers into the pool; this means you Goat! iPhones are expensive, people!” A group of Juniors booed, but were silenced by the angry shouts of those who had been dunked in the past. “And Toby, what’s the last rule?”

The quarterback sniffed and dipped his face into his rum and coke.

“No sexual contact in my bedroom! That’s what your cars are for!”

Toby was buried in an avalanche of high fives and fist bumps from his herd of friends. Carter rolled his eyes surreptitiously and hopped down. The music started back up, and someone shoved a congratulatory beer into his hand.

He rescued a vase he’d overlooked and stowed it in the locked cupboard of his mother’s knickknacks, just as a wrestling match began nearby. He’d had to bribe five neighborhood families with bottles of wine, front the money for the cleaning crew out of his college fund, and ready the entire property himself, but if it bought him a year of hassle-free popularity, it was worth it. The teenage wasteland would be traversed eventually, but one only made it through unscathed if one had an adventurous spirit and did a shitload of planning.

A heavy arm fell across his shoulders. “Carter, the fucking trampoline, dude! Genius! Like, for reals. No shit.”

He grinned up at the vacant face and extricated himself with a slap to the back. “Hey! You enjoy, man! And try not to break anything when you dismount!”

Yeah, that would be a marsh of puke by the end of the evening, if he was any judge of high school revelry. He’d have to hose it down with the power-washer.

He wedged himself into a corner to catch his breath, downing the beer in a few sips. The cliques were mingling in predictable patterns. Liquid audacity flowed like water. The table of junk food was slowly being worked over by those too nervous to talk to others. The stack of board games were being appropriately turned into vehicles of sexual gratification and degradation. Outside, partly naked adolescents floated around the pool on an ark of inflatable animals. It was the perfect party: a well-calibrated machine for projecting his image into the upcoming year.

Finally, he could pause and get the lay of the land.

Summer was just long enough to make old grudges wear thin, just hot enough to melt cold shoulders, just brief enough to leave strong alliances standing. New couples had formed and new obsessions come into being. Teams were coalescing for preseason practices and the girls were all roaming the malls in droves, picking out the newest fashion trends. Carter had not been the first teenager to figure out that a party was the best way to gain footing in a new school year, but he liked to think he’d done it best.

He greeted some friends. Bambi had descended on the event, fashionably late as usual, and was eyeing him lasciviously. He escaped across the room and broke up a group of sophomores trying to turn his staircase into a slide. Chloe and her girlfriend showed off their matching tattoos, while the debate team reconvened in his dining room and plowed through rudimentary politics. Carter wandered through the house aimlessly, glad this would be the last time he’d ever do this.

The music dropped from Sia to Hozier, just as the front door opened. Delia waved at him over the heads of the party-goers, and he breathed a sigh of relief. It was probably weird to have a female best friend, but he didn’t really care. She had been the one to comfort him through his parents’ divorce, the kiss that felt easy, the girl who could play touch football and didn’t read into it when he got all philosophical. It was really kind of shitty that they didn’t have more chemistry, but it ended amicably, much to the chagrin of the rumor mill.

She was carrying her purse and a bag of snacks in one hand, and dragging someone through the door behind her with the other. Carter wondered if she’d found a date, as Delia had a whispered conversation through the portal. Couldn’t be too comforting to escort your girlfriend to the house of her ex while he was busy earning his homecoming crown.

Then Delia disappeared into the dining room, leaving the door to swing on its hinges.

A thump of deep bass masked his sudden tachycardia, and the wail of a guitar snaked up his spine. As it was happening, he knew. This was a moment.

A goddess in a blue dress glanced around, her arms down at her sides, instead of wrapped around her body like the rest of her self-conscious kin. Austere, smoky eyes ticked from group to group, assessing the social dynamics of every clique within seconds, daring anyone to challenge her. She tilted her head back and her hair fell across her face, just so. Her shoulder shrugged, just so. Her hip tilted, just so. And Carter’s whole body responded.

He lurched away from the wall instantly, but met another as the track team crashed through the door and displaced the angel from her stoop. Swearing, he gave a few obligatory chest thumps and handshakes, and maneuvered through the kitchen. Delia was arranging food on the breakfast bar.

“Who the hell is that?” he hissed in her ear.

“Who?”

“Come on! Who? The…stunning girl you just dragged through my front door!”

Delia’s glance sparkled in mischief. “Caught your eye, huh?”

“Among other things. Seriously.”

“My cousin, Layla. She’s visiting before school starts.”

Carter blinked. “I didn’t know you had a cousin.”

Delia shrugged and went back to her task. “Well, she’s sort of not related to me. She’s my dad’s best friend from college’s step-kid.”

“So…it wouldn’t be weird if I—”

She patted his chest distractedly. “Good luck, Romeo.”

“Why, she stuck up or something?”

“What? Oh, god no! She’s super-awesome! It’s just…well, let me talk to her before you pounce, okay? She’s here to chill, not get pawed by lustful boys.”

Carter gave her a wry look. “If that’s what she was going for, she should have worn a sack.”

“Trust me, she would kill in a sack.”

The image was an enticing one. “Point taken. Let me know when she’s prepped?”

“I’m so the best wing man.” She swatted at his hand as he reached to pick up an empty bottle. “Let me manage the party. You go back to your people-watching.”

They shared a knowing glance, and he was once again glad to have her on his team.

He wove through the house, participating in all of it with cursory enjoyment, his eye peeled for Layla in her drop-dead dress. Near the back door, he spotted her, standing off to one side of what was quickly proving to be an altercation.

Bambi and her gaggle of mean girls had cornered one of the free spirits and were dissing her avant-garde ensemble, their voices laden with sarcasm. Carter hung back, his attention focused on the hard disdain on Layla’s face. As her green eyes flicked from bully to victim, they began to glow with pent up rage; He knew at once that she had been bullied herself, and hated it in her core — another point in her favor. When at last she’d had enough, his heart danced to watch her swagger into the fray and shut the shit down.

“Did you get that in Harajuku?” Her voice was just as he’d imagined, low and sultry, and completely calm in the face of aggression.

The unfortunate target, a sophomore he thought he remembered transferring from Saint Cat’s, looked close to tears. “I went to Tokyo with my oba-chan this summer.”

“Watashi wa sōda to omoimashita. Goth-Loli desu nā?”

Carter’s head bolted upright, and every voice in the immediate vicinity was silenced by the enthusiastic fluidity of Layla’s tongue.

“H…hai,” the grateful girl smiled. “Sukidesu ka?”

“Subarashi! Urayamashī! Onamae wa?”

“Yuki. Yoreshiku onegai shimasu.”

“Yoreshiku. Layla.”

Their polite bow was a welcome change of pace, and when Layla turned an imperious eye on the listeners, it became clear that they were the ignorant savages.

“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you ladies that Harajuku is the place where fashion goes to be reinvented. Clothing is so expensive in Tokyo, that outfit probably cost Yuki more than a computer. Unlike your getup from Express. It’s basically wearable art.”

Bambi sucked in a breath, on the verge of unleashing a tirade. “Who cares how much it costs if it’s fucking ugly? She looks like a dead French maid.”

“And you look like every other rich girl on the planet. Well done with blending in, despite your vile personality.”

Bambi was always high strung, but when she made to suddenly slap Layla, Carter’s smile slid off his face. If there was one thing the party couldn’t absorb, it was a cat fight. But Layla didn’t seem bothered. She caught the raised hand easily and squeezed.

“It’s not bad enough you have to tear people down to make yourself feel better, you also have to hit the person pointing that out? What are you, five? Grow up.”

And the hand was discarded for one of Yuki’s. Layla pulled her outside, giggling and carrying on in Japanese as they left a stricken bully behind them. Bambi looked around at her former backers and found him. In that moment, Carter made a calculated, if risky political decision.

“Don’t look at me, Bambi. She said it. In two languages.”

Bambi stormed away. He’d pay for it later, but damn that felt good. He made the rounds in considerably better spirits, and when he got the nod from Delia, did a circuit looking for trouble. It was a bitch to find her. She had snuck off the back deck, over the expansive lawn, and found the darkened fire pit. She had her exquisite legs tucked up beneath her on a bench-swing and was texting furiously, completely ignoring the party he’d worked so hard to craft.

“What a girl,” he whispered to himself.

He skirted the pool carefully, ignoring a dozen conversations that could suck him in. Hugging the shadows of the garage, he came around behind her and considered the approach. A girl like this wouldn’t fall for flattery, but she would also know that any guy who talked to her had only one thing on his mind.

He dropped his upper body over the back of the swing beside her with a loud noise of relief. She jumped, and he had his in.

“Hi, I’m Carter. This is my party.”

She blinked at him, unmoved and even more stunning, close-up.

“You’re Layla, Delia’s guest.” When she still said nothing, he waved his beer expressively, and as the words, “She’s my ex-girlfriend,” came out of his mouth, he kicked himself.

The dark head turned away, concealing a face that was even lovely when unimpressed. “I know who you are.”

“Um…” For the first time in his life, he had no idea what to say. “You want the fire on?”

“That’ll certainly make for an interesting evening, when the football team finds it through the bottom of a vodka bottle.”

He snickered and looked at the back of her neck, finally understanding what “swanlike” meant. His mouth dried up, and his brain ground to a noisy halt. If Delia were here, she’d make fun of him, and he’d laugh and feel like a human being again, instead of a robot with a gear loose.

“Can we start over?”

She examined him. Her eyes were unreadable, depthless, and when he couldn’t tear free of them, they vanished in a fanning of long lashes.

“Give it a shot.”

“Hi, I’m Carter. It’s nice to meet you, and normally I am not a giant douche.”

“Good to hear. Have a seat.”

“I hope Delia has only said good things.”

“It’s a double standard, right?”

“What do you mean?”

Her brow lifted. “What women say about a man matters, while a girl could be a complete bitch, and guys would line up.”

“Men don’t have trust issues.”

Layla laughed out loud and shook her head. “You are so full of shit, Carter Who-is-not-usually-a-giant-douche.”

He grinned, and re-calibrated. This was not going to be a normal conversation. Layla was a different breed.

“Okay, you got me. We just think with our dicks. But that is genetic and can’t be helped! It’s as embarrassing and inexplicable to us as it should be, I promise! It’s like when we hit twelve, we lose our minds.”

She leaned back and eyed him. “Is that when you start pulling girls’ hair?”

“Yes. We have no idea why we do it! It’s just like this bizarre compulsion that controls our hands. And when they get mad at us, we hate ourselves, but we still can’t stop.” He squeezed the air and made a face that she seemed to find amusing.

“So when do you stop being idiots?”

“I’ll let you know.”

She took a sip of her hard lemonade. “See, this is one reason why Disney is so bad for young female minds.”

“Oh?” He leaned back and relaxed. How he could do that with so many butterflies swarming in his gut, he had no idea, but she somehow managed to inspire both.

“Disney says the Prince is just riding around on his white horse scanning the horizon for a shoeless damsel who fits. It’s not true. He’s actually riding around tugging on braids, violating the personal space bubble, until he meets the girl who breaks his nose. He doesn’t give a good god damn what shoe size she is.”

“You’re not wearing shoes,” he pointed out helpfully.

“True.”

“But if I pull your hair, will you sock me?”

“Right in the face.”

“Glad we cleared all that up. I was getting tired of being an aimless, if utterly charming, prince.”

She pressed her mouth down on a wry smile. “No, you’d prefer to get ahead of yourself.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

She looked away cooly. He’d touched a nerve, and if he wasn’t so eager to know the answer, he’d have felt bad about it.