IT’S POURING DOWN when Dad drops us off in Camberwell. He pulls into the driveway of Abigail’s house and parks behind two BMWs and a Mercedes. He turns the engine off, but the windscreen wipers of the Corolla are still going double time, squeaking on every forward swipe. I peer out at the house shining through the night-time storm; it looks like a huge illuminated frosted-glass cube. I can hear a pounding beat under the drumming of rain on the car roof. Dad twists around in his seat, his damp leather jacket squeaking against the upholstery, to face us in the back.

‘Okay, now you two have fun. Let me know when you’re ready to be picked up.’

Edwin nods. ‘Thanks, Kevin.’

‘Yeah, thanks, Dad. We’ll call you.’

I pull my jacket over my head, and Edwin and I run for the front porch, splashing and crunching up the gravel driveway. We knock at the door, but nobody answers. Edwin tries the handle. It gives, so we let ourselves in, waving goodbye to Dad as he backs out of the driveway.

Abigail’s house is enormous. I’m pretty sure my family’s entire flat could fit in the entrance hall, which is brightly lit and has a soaring ceiling and a sweeping industrial black staircase to the upper landing. The hall’s deserted. There’s not a single person in sight, or any furniture either for that matter, although there is a huge copy—at least, I hope it’s a copy—of an Andy Warhol print of Marilyn Monroe on the back wall. I glance nervously at Edwin. He shrugs at me.

‘How’s my hair?’ I ask.

He nods. ‘Yeah, good. How’s mine?’

His quiff’s a bit flat from the rain. I brush it up with my fingers, but it flops down again.

‘Um, you look great.’

He raises his eyebrows at me and pulls out his phone to check. After a couple of failed attempts to fix it, he gives up.

‘Ah well.’

Our footsteps echo on the polished concrete floor as we cross the hall, drawn to the thumping bass coming from the far door. I glance at Edwin, my heart fluttering. He waggles his eyebrows back at me. ‘Well, here goes nothing,’ he says, and he pushes open the door.

I’m smacked in the face by a wall of sound. My eardrums are throbbing and my heart is thudding in time to the tuneless, repetitive music. The room is like a scene from a movie. It’s huge, dimly lit and crowded with costumed people. It’s a dancing whirl of painted faces, wigs, cleavage and glitter. I guess it’s mostly kids from school but, even if I knew them, I’d struggle to recognise them.

The windows on our right soar up high into nothingness, making it seem as though we’re standing outside under the night sky. Beyond the glass I see an expanse of lawn bordered by shadowy bushes whipping in the wind.

I search the faces in the crowd for Evie but there’s no sign of her. There’s no sign of Abigail either, thank god. Edwin nudges me.

‘Let’s grab a drink,’ he shouts over the music.

I nod. He catches my hand and pulls me through the throng to the brightly lit kitchen. I recognise some of the guys from the first rowing eight perched on the benches, laughing and drinking Smirnoff. Someone in a long white skirt has their head buried in the double-door fridge.

‘What do you want to drink?’ Edwin asks, pulling out the six pack he snuck earlier from his parents’ garage. ‘I’ve got beer or…beer.’

‘Yeah, nah, I’ll pass. Alcohol tastes like piss.’

‘Okay,’ he shrugs. ‘All the more for me.’

He twists the top off a stubby and puts the remaining five in the ice tub on the bench. At that moment, the person in the white skirt emerges from the fridge, drinking from a bottle of violently pink something.

It’s Evie. She’s dressed as Frida Kahlo. Her hair is sprinkled with flowers and twisted up in an elaborate braid and her two eyebrows are painted into one. She even has a toy monkey on her shoulder, although it’s wobbling precariously. She looks so beautiful, monobrow and all. She takes my breath away.

Evie spots Edwin, squeals with delight, and throws her arms around him. She’s so much taller than him that she has to crouch down a little. The drink she’s holding slops down the back of his leather jacket.

‘I’m so glad you made it! Are you here on your own?’

Edwin points at me. I smile timidly from my spot by the sink.

Evie wraps me up in a huge hug. I hug her back tentatively; her boobs crush up against me as she holds me a little too tight. I can smell alcohol on her breath. I wonder how many drinks she’s had. My guess is a few, but when she pulls away to look at me, her gaze is steady. She takes in my black jeans, white collared shirt, black blazer and undone tie, and looks crestfallen.

‘Didn’t you get the memo? Why didn’t you dress up?’

I nod in Edwin’s direction. ‘We did! We’re Robert Mapplethorpe and Patti Smith.’

Edwin chimes in, ‘We were going to ride in on papier mâché horses, but…y’know. There wasn’t time.’

A smile steals across Evie’s face.

‘Oh my god. Oh my god. You are the fucking best!’

And she hugs me again.

I can feel my face flushing with pleasure. I doubt anybody else at the party will get the joke—hardly anyone knows my real name, after all—but Evie thinks we’re the fucking best.

Still grinning as she lets me go, Evie says, ‘That beats my lazy Frida Kahlo any day. I just borrowed my abuela’s old clothes and pencilled in my eyebrows.’

‘No way! You look great!’

‘Aww, thanks! That’s sweet of you to say!’

Edwin coughs, although it sounds suspiciously like a snort.

‘So,’ Evie says quickly, ‘what are you drinking?’

‘Oh, um…’

She raises her eyebrows.

‘Uh, I’ll have what you’re having.’

She hands me her almost-full bottle and reaches back into the fridge to grab another one. As I put the bottle to my mouth, it occurs to me that I’m putting my lips where hers have been. This is the closest I’ve ever come to kissing a girl. I take a sip. The pink stuff doesn’t taste like piss at all. It mostly just tastes pink.

Out in the lounge room, the music dies, leaving a faint ringing in my ears. There’s a collective groan from the dancers, a moment of silence, and then the familiar guitar riff of old-school Destiny’s Child pumps through the speakers. Everyone whoops and cheers.

‘Do you want to dance?’ Evie asks us.

‘I thought you’d never ask, dear lady!’ Edwin cries, mock-pompous. ‘Lead the way!’

As Evie curtsies and prances out of the kitchen, Edwin nudges me with his hip and asks, incredibly smugly, ‘How’s the drink, Patch? Taste like piss?’

‘Oh, fuck off,’ I hiss.

We follow Evie onto the dance floor. Beyoncé is singing about her body being too bootylicious for ya babe, and everyone’s throwing their hands in the air and shaking their hips. The crowd is a whirling mass of limbs, seemingly impenetrable. Evie catches my hand, smiling, and pulls me into the throng. I grab Edwin and pull him in after me.

Unsurprisingly, Evie’s a much better dancer than either Edwin or me. She knows all the words and moves, and I feel self-conscious and awkward dancing in front of her. About halfway through my pink drink, though, I can feel myself loosening up. The beat pounds through my chest and there are sweaty bodies pressing in on all sides. Everyone’s moving together and I let myself go on the tide. After a couple of songs, Edwin disappears. He emerges a while later, clutching drinks. He hands them to me and Evie, then melts away. I spy him dancing with Tamika, who’s dressed as a wood nymph.

Whoever’s taken over the playlist has excellent taste. They follow Destiny’s Child up with TLC, Lauryn Hill and Salt-N-Pepa. I feel like a boat tossed on the ocean. Evie’s face is glowing with sweat, her body’s undulating to ‘Shoop’ and I feel hot, loose and daring. She leans into me and I lean back, our bodies moving in sync. I’d never dare do it in real life, but here, in the low lighting, floating from two pink drinks, it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Evie puts her hands around my waist. Her face is so close to mine. Like it’s nothing at all, I slip my arms around her shoulders. She smiles and pulls me closer. My heart is galloping in my chest.

At that moment, I feel another set of hands on my waist. I twist around and find Tristan pressed up against me, doing the white-man two-step. I shrug him off and try to move away, but the crowd is so thick that I don’t make it far before he grasps my waist again, laughing.

‘Dance with me!’ he yells.

‘No thanks!’ I yell back.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I don’t want to!’

‘Don’t be like that!’

I push his hands off me, more forcefully this time. ‘I said no!’

Evie grabs my hand and says, ‘Come on, let’s get another drink.’ She pulls me away, but Tristan follows us.

‘What’s your problem? I just want to dance with you.’

Edwin materialises at my side. His face is stony. He must have seen the whole thing, because he says, ‘She said no. How about you listen to her?’

His cheeks are flushed. He barely reaches Tristan’s shoulder, and his neck is about the same thickness as Tristan’s wrist.

Tristan scoffs, ‘How about you fuck off?’

Edwin stands his ground. ‘When someone says no, they mean no. Now back off.’

For a second, I think it’s worked, that Edwin has miraculously changed Tristan’s mind. Tristan leans away, and I think he’s going to leave but, all of a sudden, he swings his head forward and headbutts Edwin in the face. The force of it knocks Edwin off balance, and he falls to the floor, clutching his mouth. His glasses are askew and there’s blood dripping down his chin. The people near us move out of the way, looking shocked. A couple of people cry out, but the rest of the crowd hasn’t even noticed what’s happened.

My stomach drops. Evie looks stunned.

‘Help me! We’ve got to get him out of here!’ I yell to her over the music. She nods mutely. Her face is white with shock. We take Edwin under an armpit each and help him to his feet.

Evie leads the way, pushing through the dancers. She clearly knows her way around Abigail’s house. We head down a long, bare hallway. The music is muffled at this end of the house.

Evie takes us into a large bedroom which is warmly lit, spacious and luxurious, but also messy. An unmade king-size bed is spewing blankets and pillows everywhere, plush rugs lie thick on the floor under discarded clothes, and the bedside table’s cluttered with make-up, used tissues and empty glasses. Judging by the Mountford blazer on the floor, this is Abigail’s room. At the far end of the room, a couple of doors stand ajar, apparently leading to an ensuite and a walk-in wardrobe. A wall of windows presumably looks out onto a different patch of garden, although at the moment all I can see is our motley trio reflected in the glass.

We walk Edwin over to the modular tufted couch by the window. I plump up a cushion to put under his head and ease his feet up onto the couch. Evie hovers with her hands up to her mouth. She still looks pretty pale.

‘Shit. Shit! I’m so sorry!’ she says.

‘What are you sorry for?’ I ask. ‘You’re not the one who headbutted him.’

‘I’ll get some ice,’ Evie says, and she sweeps out of the room.

Edwin groans.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Ow. Shitty.’

‘I’m not surprised! What a fucking dickhead! We should call the cops!’

Edwin shakes his head, then winces and stops abruptly. The blood’s still oozing from his lip.

‘Hang on a tick. Don’t move,’ I say.

I grab a box of tissues from the ensuite and hurry back to the couch. I kneel beside Edwin and hold a wad of tissues to his mouth. I can see a bruise blooming along his jaw.

‘You don’t look good. We should get you home. Maybe to hospital.’

‘No,’ Edwin groans. ‘It’s just a split lip. I’ll be fine.’

Evie comes back clutching a tea towel full of ice. She hands it to me and I hold it gently to Edwin’s mouth.

He groans again and puts his hands over mine, holding the ice in place.

‘How are you feeling?’ Evie asks, twisting the hem of her top between her fingers.

‘Okay,’ he mumbles through the ice.

‘He’s not okay. Look at him!’ I say.

As soon as I lift the ice away, the split in his lip starts bleeding again.

‘What do you reckon? Hospital?’

Edwin looks exasperated. ‘I told you, I’m fine! We’re staying.’

‘Shit, Edwin, your face is more important than a fucking party.’ I lean in and give him a gentle kiss on the forehead.

‘That was really brave of you,’ I tell him. ‘A terrible idea, but brave.’

‘Yeah, well, you owe me.’

‘You’re my hero,’ I grin. ‘Now, ice.’

I smile at Evie, expecting her to return it, but she looks troubled.

Behind us, the door closes with a snap. It’s Abigail. She’s dressed as an angel in a tight white dress that shows off her legs and cleavage, and large, feathered angel wings. She doesn’t look particularly angelic right now, however. Just pissed off.

‘Evie, what the hell’s going on? Michelle said that he’—she points at Edwin—‘laid into Tristan!’

‘Excuse me?’ I ask, my voice colder than the icepack in my hand. ‘Your boyfriend’s the one with the anger-management problem! Edwin’s bleeding!’

Abigail gives me a withering stare. ‘I’m sorry, was I talking to you?’

Evie rests a hand on Abigail’s shoulder. ‘Abby, it’s okay. Things got a bit out of hand. Everything’s fine.’

Judging by blood-soaked tea towel in my hand, I’d have to disagree with her. ‘Um, actually, everything is not fine. Edwin probably needs stitches.’

Abigail ignores me.

‘Evie, I’m not having the cops show up just because your loser friends can’t keep their shit together.’

‘Your dickhead boyfriend started it!’ I interject.

Abigail scoffs. ‘You’re trying to put this on Tristan? He’s a fucking mess! He has tooth marks on his forehead!’

‘Abs, I really think this is a misunderstanding,’ Evie says.

‘Oh no, I understand perfectly. I let you invite your weird friends to my party—against my better judgment—and instead of being grateful, they pick a fucking fight! There’s blood all over the Eames couch! How the fuck do I explain that to my parents?’ Abigail rages.

‘I’m sure it’ll come off—’ Evie mumbles.

‘And who gave them permission to be in my room? Fucking feeling each other up on my couch.’

‘Nobody’s doing anything,’ Evie says stonily.

‘Don’t kid yourself. These virgins are gagging for it.’

Edwin tries to say something, but his voice is muffled by the tea towel.

‘You’ve spent enough time with your charity cases. Let them hook up in peace.’

Evie looks at me. I realise that my fingers are still entwined with Edwin’s. I pull my hand away.

‘Evie—’ I start.

‘It’s cool,’ she says. ‘I suppose I should give you two some privacy, anyway.’

Abigail seizes her by the elbow. ‘Good. I need a fucking drink.’ She looks expectantly at Evie, who looks at me.

Abigail throws one last dirty glare at Edwin and me before leading Evie out of the room.

I feel hollow.

Edwin raises his eyebrows at me. He pulls the ice away from his face and says, ‘I think we might’ve overstayed our welcome.’

‘Roger that.’ I sigh. ‘You stay here. I’ll go get our coats.’