We’re going to play Never Have I Ever.”

Chelsea makes the declaration after we all have a couple of pizza slices in our bellies, and Brandon has mixed us all cups of something called “screwdrivers.” Apparently, they are a mix of vodka and orange juice, and they taste like paint remover.

We have gathered in the living room, seated in couples around the rickety coffee table. Shane and I are squeezed onto the tiny loveseat. Everyone else is crowded onto the old sofa, which burped up a bunch of stray feathers when they sat down. Tim is by the armrest and Kayla is squeezed in so close to him that their thighs are wedged together. Chelsea has her legs on Brandon’s lap, and they’re all lovey-dovey, even though Chelsea confided in me that she is sick of him cheating on her and she’s going to break up with him after the next big game.

“What’s Never Have I Ever?” I ask.

Chelsea clutches her chest in shock at my naïveté. “Brooke, seriously?”

I shrug, trying to ignore the hot feeling in my cheeks. I’m not as experienced at drinking or partying as my friends or boyfriend are. This is only the second time I’ve had alcohol and I’ve never been drunk before. To be fair, my parents barely let me out at the beginning of the year because they were so panicked after that girl Tracy Gifford was found dead.

“It’s very simple,” Chelsea explains. “So I say something I’ve never done, and anyone in the circle who has done that thing has to take a drink. For example, if I said, ‘Never have I ever gotten a hundred on a math test,’ then you two nerds”—she looks pointedly at me and Tim—“have to take a drink. Got it?”

Brandon runs one of his large hands over the curve of Chelsea’s thigh. “It’s not exactly rocket science.”

“Sure,” I say. “Sounds fine.” Even though I am terrified this game is going to reveal my embarrassing lack of experience with just about everything. The best I can say is that I don’t have any secrets.

Well, not many.

“Hey.” Kayla is looking down at her phone. “I’m not getting any signal, Shane. What’s going on?”

“Oh.” Shane glances over his shoulder at the window, where the rain is pouring down in buckets. “Sorry, the signal out here is spotty. It dies completely anytime there’s any kind of storm. But we have a landline if you need to make a call.”

Kayla grumbles something under her breath and then slams her phone down on the coffee table. But she recovers quickly and smiles sweetly over at Tim. Now that she doesn’t have her phone distracting her, she has refocused all her energy on him.

And that idea doesn’t make me particularly happy.

Brandon rubs his hands together. “I’ll go first. But it’s going to be difficult to come up with something I’ve never done.”

Tim’s eyes meet mine for a split second, and he rolls them skyward. I have to suppress a giggle. Chelsea thinks Brandon is hot, and he is a big shot on the football team, but the truth is I can’t stand him.

“I got it.” Brandon lifts the paper cup containing his screwdriver. “Never have I ever… been dumped. What can I say—the ladies love me.”

Chelsea and Kayla both drink to that. Tim and I keep our cups down. Shane is my first real boyfriend, so I’ve never had the opportunity to be dumped before. I look over at Shane, and he doesn’t drink either. Interesting. This game is definitely going to be an opportunity to learn a little more about my boyfriend.

We go around the circle once, reciting our quasi-confessions. Kayla has never been skinny-dipping, but to my horror, Chelsea has (with Brandon, apparently). Shane has never cheated on an exam, and nobody else will own up to that honor either. I admit that I have never used a fake ID, and Brandon drinks heartily to that. Shane doesn’t, and I’m a bit relieved—maybe he isn’t quite as wild as I thought he was.

“I’ve got one.” Chelsea has a wicked grin on her bright lips, which have already stained the rim of her cup. “Never have I ever kissed my neighbor.”

She’s looking at me and Tim as she says it. Tim looks at me, and his eyebrows raise about a millimeter. I shake my head, also by about a millimeter. Neither of us drink.

Chelsea’s face falls. “Liars,” she says under her breath.

She’s absolutely right. We’re lying. Tim and I kissed once, but it was a long time ago. He was, in fact, my first kiss. But it wasn’t a real kiss.

It happened the summer before high school started. Tim and I were hanging out in my bedroom, and I was bemoaning the fact that I was starting high school without ever having kissed a boy. Tim admitted he was in the same boat, and then he came up with the brilliant idea:

We should practice on each other!

I thought of him like a brother, but there was nothing objectionable about him. He was cute. So without much persuading, I agreed.

It was a good thing we decided to practice together because the first kiss was decidedly awkward. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, I wasn’t sure if I should keep my eyes open or closed, and I didn’t know quite where my nose should go. And once our lips made contact, I was confused about what to do with my tongue. Should I put it in his mouth? That would be weird, wouldn’t it? But would it be even weirder not to kiss with tongue? It was Tim who finally gently slipped me just the tiniest bit of tongue. And it was very nice, once I got used to it.

After twenty minutes, it felt like we were really getting the hang of this kissing thing. And of course, that was the exact moment my mother chose to burst in on the two of us without knocking. It was also the last time we were allowed to be in my room alone together with the door closed, even though I kept explaining we were just practicing.

Tim and I never talk about it though. It’s like it never happened. After all, it was just practicing.

Now that our little secret is still safe, it’s Tim’s turn. At one point, I saw Kayla’s hand creep onto his leg, but I don’t know what happened because it’s not there anymore. Tim considers his confession, looking down into the orange liquid in his paper cup. Finally, he says, “Never have I ever beaten up a kid so bad he had to go to the hospital.”

Brandon bursts out laughing. He raises his cup and takes a long swig of that awful screwdriver. Then he nudges Shane. “Take a drink, Nelson.”

Shane squirms next to me. As I stare at him, he slowly lifts the paper cup and drinks from it.

“Shane?” I say.

Brandon takes another drink, even though he doesn’t have to. “It wasn’t a big deal. It was just that dweeby perv, Mark. And he deserved it.”

Tim arches an eyebrow. “He deserved it?”

“We overheard him talking about Shane’s mom,” Brandon says. “Telling some of his weirdo friends that he thinks she’s hot. He’s been buying a few too many canned goods at that store where she works, if you know what I mean.”

I glance at Shane and there’s a flash of anger in his eyes, but he doesn’t say a word.

“The guy is such a weirdo,” Brandon goes on. “You know he’s always trying to peek in the girls’ dressing room, right?”

Chelsea smacks him in the arm. “You guys are such assholes. Do you know that?”

I can’t stop staring at Shane. The flash of anger has faded and now he’s hanging his head. I knew he was kind of a wild kid in middle school, but I had hoped now that after joining the football team, he kept his nose clean. But maybe Tim is right. Maybe he is a bully.

“It was just a broken rib anyway,” Brandon says. “He didn’t even spend the night.”

“Oh, is that all?” Tim retorts. “Just a broken rib?”

Brandon’s eyes flash as a crack of lightning makes his face glow eerily. He throws his cup on the coffee table so harshly that the orange liquid splashes out. “You want to be next, Reese?”

“For Christ’s sake, shut up, Brandon,” Shane growls. He turns to look at me. “It was stupid. Really stupid. We had just lost a game the day before and when I heard him say those things about my mom—I mean, it’s my mom—anyway, I just… like I said, we were being stupid.”

Tim’s eyes meet mine. I can see the question written all over his face.

Are you buying this bullshit? I have to look away. “Brooke?” Shane says.

“Just…” I touch my snowflake necklace—my fingers always go there whenever I’m anxious. “Don’t do it again.”

After all, he’s sorry. Everybody does stupid stuff in high school. I can’t expect Shane to be perfect. I’m sure not.

“All right.” Shane clears his throat loudly. “It’s my turn again.” We all turn to look at him, our drinks ready.

“Never have I ever,” he says, “been on a date with Tracy Gifford.”

Shane is staring at Tim as a bolt of thunder shakes the room. Tim raises his eyes, and a look passes between them that I can’t quite identify. We all sit there, our hands frozen on our paper cups. Tracy Gifford is the girl who was found dead over the summer. Obviously, none of us have been on a date with her.

But then Tim raises his cup. And he takes a drink.