JOHN-MICHAEL

John-Michael made his way downstairs, pausing to admire the decorations that hung in the main hall and living room. He’d insisted that the housemates make the house fancy for the party. The building itself had a certain shabby, bohemian-Bauhaus chic. But inside, the walls were pretty bland. He’d bought a pile of papel picado paper decorations from a Mexican supermarket that Maya recommended and strung them along the ceiling, together with whatever colorful, slightly random decorations he’d been able to find. Silver foil paper chains, leftover Day of the Dead papel picado, Chinese lanterns in red tissue paper. It was kind of an eclectic mix, he realized, now that he was able to enjoy it without the stress of getting everything done on time. Somehow, it worked.

He moved through the throng of teenagers. To judge from the raised, excited voices, the buzz and general energy levels, this was going down as something a little bit special. Not every day you got invited to a party with no sign of parents, not even in the furnishings or bedrooms. This place was every inch theirs.

He’d recognize someone from school, watch their faces crease with momentary puzzlement to find him at such a hip party, and then give them a tiny wave as he sauntered over. Then he’d very casually slip in a reminder that yeah, he lived here and yeah, he’d made the snacks, well not all of them, not the tacos, obviously, but the teeny little cheesecakes, the jam tarts, and chocolate chip cookies, he’d done all those. Then he’d watch the expressions of sheer respect form on their faces.

And: “Dude. This is the sweetest setup ever. Seriously. Who do I have to kill to live here?”

John-Michael merely smiled a Sphinxlike smile and floated along to the kitchen, borne on a cloud of praise.

A girl was by the fridge, petite and with long, very straight chestnut-brown hair. She had large, light brown eyes lined with dark kohl. She was smoking a skinny, hand-rolled cigarette, or at least trying.

“Hey, got a light?” she asked John-Michael.

“There’s no smoking in the house. Sorry. Our landlady would kill us.”

“Landlady?” She laughed. “Good one. I should call my mom that, too.”

“You know Candace’s mom?”

“No, seriously, Candace’s mom is actually your landlady?”

He looked at her sideways. The girl didn’t look stoned. But she seemed to have difficulty following what he was telling her. “Candace’s mom is our actual landlady, yes.”

“Oh. Gosh! I only know Candace vaguely. She’s a friend of my girlfriend’s ex.”

“Who invited you?”

The girl’s expression fell immediately. “Wasn’t this, like, an open thing? I just heard there was gonna be this killer party at Venice Beach. Jeez. How embarrassing.”

“No, it’s fine—you’re welcome. I’m glad you came,” he said as gallantly as he could. “You want a drink? Lucy just made a pitcher of Sea Breeze.”

The girl followed him to the punch bowl in the living room. He poured her a glass, enjoying what was rare for him—some unalloyed female attention.

Girls could usually tell he was gay and didn’t look at him the way she was looking at him. It wasn’t that he wanted to string her along, but just that it was nice not to be dismissed. Any minute now she’d catch sight of Paolo, or one of the other tennis players who’d come to the party. Then she’d be gone and he’d be alone. The only gay guy in the house to judge by the total lack of interesting-looking boys.

“I’m gay,” he said, lifting a glass to hers. “Just thought I’d get that out there. You’re very cute and I like talking to you, though. So please don’t go away.”

She grinned, mischievous. “I knew you were gay. And I’m not going anywhere.”

“Seriously, you knew? Huh. I thought I’d at least have a shot with you.”

“Are you bi?”

“Bi? I wish.”

“Why?”

“More options. You, for example. Or the four other hot girls I live with.”

“You live with four girls?”

He laughed. “Do you know anything about this house?”

“I know that Candace lives here. And she’s having a party. I thought that’d be enough.”

John-Michael grabbed a plate of cookies from a passing boy, who barely noticed.

“Try one.”

She took a bite and gave a blissful smile.

He said, “I made it.”

“Really?” A pout. “Now I wish you were bi, too.”

He shrugged. “What are you gonna do?”

“Candace is emancipated,” the girl said. “I knew that. I didn’t realize you all were.”

“Free as birds.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. That must suck.”

He glanced at her for a second, but the girl didn’t seem to be joking. She licked chocolate off a finger and gave him an expectant, sympathetic look.

“Are you kidding? Most people are, like, seriously envious.”

“Really?” She shrugged. “Not me. I love living at home.”

He just stared.

“My folks are, like, these amazing people. I’m very lucky. They’re cool. My mom teaches music and my dad runs an ice-cream factory. Well, actually, he owns it. And a parlor, too. They’re really interesting and fun and they cook so well, I mean, both of them. I have my room and my own bathroom, my bike, my electric scooter, my car. They take me to concerts at the LA Phil and the ballet. . . . Why would I want to live apart from them? Doing all my own housework, laundry, no one to help with homework?”

“Who are you?”

She laughed. “Honestly, doesn’t it sound good? Breakfast in bed on the weekends. Mom’s blueberry waffles and bacon. I mean, I guess something must have gone wrong in your lives for you to want to be emancipated. Am I right?”

He paused, wondering if what he was feeling was jealousy or skepticism. “I guess.”

The girl continued to stare at him, then let out a huge laugh. “All right, I’m messin’ with you.”

“What?”

“My life isn’t like that, not at all!”

“So your folks don’t do any of that cool stuff?”

“Not really. Just the work bits. My brother and I hardly see them. But maybe if we didn’t actually live in the house, they’d make time to see us. Like, real time.”

John-Michael stared straight into his Sea Breeze. The mention of parents was having its predictably gloomy effect on him. “And you want that?” he said, aware that he sounded mournful.

“Yes,” she concluded. “Definitely. They’re not a bad set of ‘rents.”

“Then you’re right,” he admitted wistfully. “You are lucky.”