The next Monday marked the beginning of the second quarter of the school year. Report cards were handed out in fourth period; I watched as students' faces lit up or fell, as friends high-fived or tried to offer each other comfort.

I didn't dwell too long on mine. It sucked, but I'd been expecting that. Besides, I had other matters on my mind.

Like the fact that I had absolutely no idea what to do about Lucas.

Our eyes met once, when I was heading from lunch to sixth period. He smiled at me. I'm not sure what I would have done—smile back, scowl, avert my gaze—had Tyler Fiero not opened his big mouth to loudly say, "Yo Nate, the queer's got his eyes on you! Ha!"

    Lucas looked away then, and so did I. Tyler nudged me with his elbow, as if he was waiting for me to acknowledge his joke. So I chuckled half-heartedly and said, "Nah, man, I think it's you he's got eyes for."

     Tyler laughed and made a face. "Dude, that's, like, nightmare fuel."

Late October temperatures were perfect for soccer—the summer's heat and dryness subsided, making practice more refreshing than torturous. The cold stung a bit, but it was better than melting into a nasty, sweaty puddle.

That said, anytime Lucas Morgan looked at me, the temperature in the air turned to 100 degrees Fahrenheit on an arid day. Extremely torturous.

I was half-dreading our conversation in the locker room, because I still had no inkling of a clue how to approach him. He wanted to be friends, and though I wouldn't admit it, I did, too. But could a guy like Lucas and a guy like me ever really be friends? We were in two different worlds.

Nevertheless, the time eventually came when the boys finished their chatter and the locker room cleared out, when I was alone with Lucas. I didn't so much as look at him—I was trying and failing to formulate some sort of game plan in my mind—until we were both ready to go and I had no choice.

He leaned against the wall next to the exit and raised an eyebrow at me as I approached. "You're being weird. Stop it."

"I'm not being weird," I said defensively, pushing open the door and stepping past him.

Lucas snorted. "Oh, you're being so weird. C'mon, I thought we were past this."

I sighed and ran a hand through my hair, frustrated with myself. "I did, too," I admitted.

     Lucas used to be someone I both genuinely hated and really liked at the same time. Over the first quarter of my senior year, he'd managed to dissolve any traces of the hate I'd felt, leaving me with only the sweeter, much scarier feelings for him that I'd spent so long trying to avoid. Now, I just really, really liked him. Here he was, trying to be friendly with me. And I was acting like a freak.

Lucas seemed to realize that something real was bothering me, because he smiled reassuringly and said, "Whatever's freaking you out, ignore it. The world won't end if we're friends. You don't have to commit social suicide and, you know, talk to me in front of your dude bros or anything. Just relax."

Maybe I should have felt guilty for it, but his words did make me feel better. I didn't know what I'd do if the boys starting asking questions about why I was suddenly friends with Lucas, if they began spreading rumors.

"Sorry," I said remorsefully. Lucas shrugged.

"S'okay."

We climbed into my car and he glanced at me as he pulled on his seatbelt. "You going to Shawn's party Saturday?"

I rolled my eyes—I'd nearly forgotten about the Halloween party that Shawn was throwing at his house that weekend. Their parents were away on a short vacation to Alaska or something; it was bound to be a shit-show. "Do I have a choice?"

Lucas chuckled and offered his lopsided smile. "You know, I'm starting to think that you don't like my brother much more than I do."

I shifted my car into drive with a scoff. "That's because I don't."

Who would have ever guessed that Nathaniel Jean and Lucas Morgan would spend their drive home that Monday bonding over their shared hatred for Lucas' brother? I don't know, but it felt good to rant.

Lucas and I kept it up like that for the next few days. Talking while I drove him home about whatever came to our minds. The conversations were no longer one-sided or reluctant. I finally gave in and let myself talk to Lucas Morgan like a friend without feeling as though I was doing something wrong. Guilt sometimes found me during the nights, sometimes didn't. Occasionally, I even let myself try to think his way; to tell myself that I didn't have to hate who I was, because I was right, and the rest of this hell-town was wrong. Those moments never lasted too long.

     Still, I was starting to find less and less excuses to push myself away from the amazing boy who was so whole-heartedly offering his camaraderie.

And if I thought I'd liked him before, I was in deep shit now.

Saturday rolled around pretty uneventfully. I didn't bother buying a costume for Shawn's party; instead I showed up in jeans and a leather jacket. All I brought was a twelve-pack of beers that I stole from my parents' "off limits" cupboard and the hope that no girls would try to advance on me tonight. I just wanted to get shit-faced and not worry about where I woke up in the morning.

I could hear the music from nearly a block away, which meant that this party was probably gonna be cop-crashed eventually. I'd have to remember that and get out early.

The house was packed, but nothing less was expected of a Shawn Morgan party. All around me, girls and boys in slutty costumes grinded against one another, whether they knew each other or not. The music was deafeningly loud and about as vulgar as music could get. Just about every underaged teen here—aka everyone here—was holding a red solo cup or a shot glass. I knew from Shawn's past parties that there was beer pong being played just a room away. There were a couple of dudes in one corner smoking weed, some girls in another doing lines of cocaine, and several people throughout the house were vaping, making the air around them foggy.

It was funny to think that pretty much everybody in this house was Catholic. Lucas was more right than I'd realized before—we were so hypocritical, it hurt.

Not that that would stop me from getting wasted and having a shit-ton of fun.

I navigated through the mass of sweaty bodies into the kitchen, where I knew all of the hard stuff was. I was greeted by the sight of Shawn Morgan himself, between the legs of a girl sat up on the counter who I was almost positive was a freshman. "Yo, Casanova!" I called.

Shawn pulled away from the girl, who groaned in protest, to look over his shoulder at me. His mouth was smeared with her crimson lipstick. He grinned and left her entirely to stumble over and give me a high five. "Heyyy man! Almost thought you weren't gonna show!"

I laughed and gave him an incredulous look. "Me? Do you even know me?"

Shawn laughed way too hard and slapped me roughly on the back, half-stepping, half-tripping past me towards a cooler on the floor. "Whatcha lookin' for, bro? Beer?"

"Something that'll fuck me up," I told him. His grin widened.

"I like the way you think, Jean. Tequila good for you?"

"Hell yeah, pour it up."

Shawn clumsily grabbed a red solo cup and a half-empty bottle of tequila. "You gotta drink this shit slow, man," he said as he filled the cup with so much tequila that liquid splashed onto the floor with every movement. "Don't die on me."

I laughed and took the cup, raising it to my lips and took a small sip that left my throat burning. This was strong shit. "If I do, take some artsy-ass pictures for me, alright?"

Shawn chuckled and nodded. "Will do. Now go get out there and get fuckin' wasted! And laid, dude. You don't get laid tonight, I'll be disappointed."

The party was intense, and by the time an hour had gone by, I couldn't tell my right foot from my left. Hell, I couldn't tell my foot from my hand.

     I didn't know how or why, but I was dancing with Madeleine Montgomery, the deacon's daughter. Her body was pressed against mine and her lips were on my neck, her hands going anywhere and everywhere. It wasn't exactly a pleasant experience on my part, but I had to admit, Madeleine was gorgeous. She was tall for a girl—model height, for sure—with long brown hair and tanned skin and cute freckles. Her body was the kind that straight boys ogled at in porn magazines and insecure girls looked to with awe and jealousy, wondering what workouts and diets and waist-trainers they could use to achieve it. Madeleine had a soothing voice, deeper than most girls', and her hair smelled intoxicatingly good.

     She was everything I wished I was attracted to. If I wanted a girl like Madeleine, I could have her. But I didn't want her, and that was the tragedy of it all.

     Dancing like this with her, in a way that was anything but innocent, was what I needed to uphold my reputation. It was girls like Madeleine, who saw me as rich and hot and figured that was all that mattered, that kept me on top of the high school food chain.

     She kissed me, and I let her; I always let them. No amount of alcohol could make me like it, though. Even now, as drunk off my ass as I was, the kiss was gross and sloppy and made me want to recoil into myself.

     When her hands went to my jeans and her lips to my ear, whispering that we should get away and find somewhere more private, I drew the line. I wasn't sure why—it wouldn't be my first time—but I really didn't want to sleep with her. I didn't want to spend my Halloween pretending to enjoy something that never gave me the slightest bit of pleasure. For some reason, the idea seemed especially appalling  tonight. I told her I needed some fresh air and I bolted.

     Before I could reach the front doors, Trevor Cazamn appeared out of nowhere, a blunt between his fingers in one hand and a beer bottle in the other, and punched me in the shoulder in greeting. Except he was so fucked up that me missed, and the momentum would have carried him off his feet had I not held out an arm to catch him. I realized too late that I was just a screwed as he was, and we both crashed to the floor in a laughing, drunk heap.

    "Fuck," Trevor groaned, making no move to get up from on top of me. "Dude, this party is so fucking lit. Jessica . . . Jessica wants me to meet here somewhere. I forgot where. Fuck."

     I tried to push him off, but he stayed limp like dead weight. "Better go find her before Shawn does," I joked, because Shawn was notorious for snatching a girl right from your fingertips.

     Trevor just groaned again. I called his name, and he snored in response. The bitch had passed out on me.

     I inwardly rolled my eyes and struggled to get him off. He rolled onto the floor and I left him there, only half-caring if he got stepped on or choked on his own puke. His weight on top of me had left me feeling sweaty and more claustrophobic in the crowd than ever. I had no recollection of which part of the estate I was in—there were so many useless rooms in this big-ass house, I could get lost in it sober. Drunk, I stood no chance.

     So I made a beeline for the only feasible escape I could see—the stairs. I pushed past people and couples and a few guinea pigs, which I decided was a question better left unasked, until I reached the spiral staircase leading to the second floor. I stumbled at least seven times on my way up, despite my tight grip on the railing, and nearly fell back down once trying to step over the bodies of two oblivious teens with their tongues so far down each other's throats they were poking out of their asses.

     It was a journey, but I managed to trek the incline, only feeling slightly nauseous afterwards. There was a second staircase leading to the third floor of the huge house, but I wasn't sure I could scale another one and stay in one piece.

      I barged blindly into rooms, finding a bedroom, a laundry room, a bathroom, and some kind of movie room, all of which were occupied by people who were really enjoying their night. With a final, somewhat desperate hope, I pushed open the last door in the hall. To my relief, there were no naked teenagers.

     The room wasn't empty, though. Staring at me from the queen-sized bed, looking very amused at my current state, a thin paper book in his hands, was my sort-of-friend, Lucas Morgan.

     "Woah, you live here too," I breathed, as if it were some sort of revelation. Lucas held back a laugh and nodded.

     "That I do," he agreed.

     "Well whatreyoudoinguphere?" I asked with a pout, my words slurring together to create one big mess.

     Lucas raised an eyebrow. "I don't think I'd be exactly welcome downstairs."

     "Stop with the big words," I whined, although it processed in my brain two seconds later that he hadn't said any big words. I shrugged to myself and stepped into the room.

     "Shut the door," Lucas said. I narrowed my eyes suspiciously, and he rolled his. "Calm your shit, I'm not gonna rape you. But that trash music is really loud and really annoying."

     "Hey, I like that music!" I protested, but I shut the door nonetheless and stumbled into Lucas' room. It was a big room, with posters and records on the walls of plays and musicals that I'd never heard of. My eyes were set on the bed, though, so that's where I went. Collapsed is a better word, really; I let myself fall face-first into the comfortable mattress, and giggled at the way it bounced underneath me.

    "I'm drunk," I said intelligently.

    "Your face is in the mattress, I can't hear you," Lucas informed me. How kind of him. I rolled over onto my back. "Dumbass."

     "That's offensive!" I exclaimed to no one in particular, my eyes focused on watching the ceiling fan revolve around and around, until it made me dizzy and I turned my head to look at Lucas.

     He was sitting cross-legged, the paper book still in his hands, and his shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter. "You're funny when you're fucked up," he said. "Also, there's lipstick on your neck. Don't get it on my bed."

     "Blah, blah, blah," I mocked. "I bet you wish it was your lipstick."

     "I don't wear lipstick," Lucas deadpanned.

     "Let's talk," I suggested randomly. He stared down at me rather quizzically, but his eyes sparkled with amusement.

     "About what?" He asked. I shrugged.

     "Normal stuff. Politics, the weather, GTA."

     "Don't you have a party to get to?"

       I groaned. "And get more lipstick on my neck? Let's not."

     "You could just tell whatever girl did that to stop, you know," he said as if it were obvious; I guess it sort of was.

     "I've got a reputation to uphold," I reminded him. "Straight douchebag player who gets all da ladies."

     Lucas rolled his eyes. "God forbid people find out that you're not a douchebag."

     "Dude, that's probably the most accurate part of my description."

     He laughed at that, which made my brain feel kinda fuzzy. Apparently, drunk Nate was extra sensitive to Lucas.

     I pointed vaguely at the book in his hands. "Watcha readin'?" I sing-songed, like that one girl from Ferbeas and Phin. Phinerb and Feas? Phinerbas and Ferbean?

     He lifted the book so I could see its cover. Through my slightly wonky vision, I managed to make out the words: Heathers: The Musical. "It's a script," Lucas explained.

I could've sworn I'd heard that name before. Had we already had this conversation? Or was this just deja vu? Was deja vu even real? We covered it in the memory unit two years ago . . .

     "What are you thinking about?" Lucas asked with a chuckle.

     "Sophomore year psychology," I said honestly. Lucas must have thought I was kidding, because he blinked several times before his mouth made an 'o' shape. "Anyways," I changed the subject, because poor Lucas looked lost, "So why are you being a nerd and reading scripts?"

     "It's for the school musical," Lucas told me. "Gotta learn my lines."

     "Ohhhhhhhhhhhh," I said, as if I'd just learned something life-changing. We'd definitely gone over this already. "Lines for what?"

     Lucas sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "The school musical, Nate."

We'd had this conversation already, too. Like, two seconds ago.

      I gave another prolonged 'Oh' and asked, "Who are you acting? I mean playing. Who are you placting? Playing! I'm drunk? Please tell me you're playing Heather, whoever Heather is."

     Lucas chuckled and bit his lip, which was very unfair to me because my tummy did a thing and it was not nice. "I'm playing Jason Dean," he answered, "Though Heather Chandler was my second choice for sure."

     "And when's the act? Play, when's the play?"

     "God, you're such a mess," Lucas laughed. "And it's a musical, by the way. January twentieth; but rehearsals start next week."

     I furrowed my eyebrows; Lucas was forgetting something very important, something that even I, in my screwed-up state, could remember. "What about soccer?"

     Apparently, he'd been expecting the question. "Rehearsals don't start till 6:15," he explained. "So I'll just have to leave practice a couple minutes early to get ready and be there on time. And I guess I'll have to miss some rehearsals for games."

      If Lucas was going straight from practice to rehearsals, that meant. . .

     "No more rides home?" I gasped. "You're leaving me alone?" Okay, even drunk me had to admit that that sounded needy. The difference between drunk me and sober me: drunk me didn't care.

     Lucas's lips quirked. "You can still take me home on Fridays, so it's not a total loss."

I rolled my eyes so over-dramatically hard, I was surprised they didn't get stuck in the back of my head. "That's ugly."

"You're ugly."

"I bet you don't think so."

Lucas shrugged. "Objectively speaking, you're right, I don't."

I blushed way more than I should have at the sort-of-compliment. Apparently drunk me was also bold me, because then I asked, "And what about subjectively speaking?"

Now we were both blushing, though Lucas significantly less than I, and he looked away. "I mean . . . Yeah."

"Yeah?"

Lucas hid his face in his hands. "Fucking hell, Nate," he chuckled awkwardly. I'd never seen him flustered before. Naturally, it was adorable. I took in the sight, hoping that I would still remember it in the morning. "You're backing me up into a corner, here. But no, you're definitely not ugly. Very not ugly. Gah, that makes no sense."

I gave Lucas a toothy grin, and made a silent vow to myself to remember this moment when I woke up. There was a certain warm validation in hearing it from him, a feeling different from any girl telling me I looked hot or sexy, or any parent gushing about how nicely I've grown. Somehow, Lucas Morgan saying that I was "Very not ugly" had to be the best thing I'd heard in a while.

"Well, if it's any consolidati—" I hiccuped, "Consolidation, I think you're very not ugly, too." And then I giggled, because Lucas was even more red now.

"Thanks," he laughed, still staring at his lap. We were silent after that, and it was a comfortable silence. I would sneak a glance at Lucas every now and then. He'd gone back to looking over his script; his dark hair fell over his face as he read, and every few minutes I'd hear him mumbling lines under his breath. He was so pretty.

I was content to stay like that for a while, just relaxing in his company and looking at him whenever I could get away with it. The minutes helped me to sober down, if only a little. Eventually, though, I got bored. I pondered for longer than necessary over what I should say—something that would start a lasting conversation—and found myself asking a question that I would never ask sober.

"You know that time you told me how you cope with the gay thing?"

      Lucas looked up at me, and the expression on his face told me that he remembered that day all too well. "You mean the time you shoved me against a locker and threatened me?"

      He didn't look or sound angry, but that didn't stop me from feeling guilty. That certainly hadn't been my best moment. "Er, yeah," I said sheepishly. "Sorry about that."

      Lucas shook his head. "No harm done. What about it?"

     I was starting to think that I wasn't drunk enough for this. I was setting myself up for a conversation that would probably bring me a lot of restless nights in the future. Nevertheless, I continued.

     "I wanna try it."

     His eyebrows quirked up and his lips parted in surprise. "You . . . Really?"

     I nodded, swallowing. Drunk or not, it was true. Part of me, a part that had been there for years but had grown exponentially since I started talking to Lucas, was sick of hating myself. That part of me wanted to just be happy with who I was. "It's just . . . It's so fucking dumb, you know?"

     "What is?" Lucas asked; I knew that he knew the answer, but he wanted me to say it myself. He was staring at me intently now, giving me his full attention, and I felt like the only person in the world.

     "I don't know . . ." I trailed. Except, I did know. I knew too well. "I look at you—once one of the golden boys—and the way this place tossed you aside like you were nothing and I just think: that could happen to me. And that scares me shitless, because I genuinely can't afford that. You've got your parents, who stuck by your side through all of it, but me . . . And the more I think about it, the more fucking idiotic I realize it is. You never hurt anybody, never said anything mean or hit anyone or stole anything, and that's more than can be said for half of the snobs downstairs, yet they're just fucking perfect, aren't they?

      "It's so ridiculous and it makes me think—damn, were stupid. We're so stupid, to put so much hate into something so simple as love. And it makes me want to rebel; I wanna screw over what everyone believes—what I've always believed—and love who I wanna love and shit. But then I remember what could happen if anyone ever found out; I've got so much to lose. And I think about what this goddamn town has wired me to think about and I hate myself even more for even considering that what I am is even close to okay.

      "But then I think about you, and I wonder if I could ever be there. If when I blow this town and find my way to The Big Apple, I could actually be happy. And then I get mad at myself again for ever thinking that. My brain is so back and forth man, I'm going fucking crazy. Actually fucking crazy."

      I finished with a sigh. I hadn't expected to say so much, especially in my wonky state of mind, but once I started, each word escaped my mouth like water from a leaking dam. I couldn't stop, and I was glad I didn't.

     Lucas regarded me for a long while, but I didn't feel uncomfortable under his inspecting eyes for once. Maybe I'd gotten used to him. Or maybe I was just finally opening myself up, letting him look into me freely.

     When he finally spoke, he seemed to pick his words carefully. Like they actually meant something, like he genuinely wanted to help me. "It's called internalized homophobia, what you've got. It's been trained into you, and it's hard to shake. And it's not going to go away until you realize that what these people around you think means nothing. I know it's easier said than done, and I'm not telling you to go shouting from the rooftops that you're gay. You'd be an idiot if you did that. Wait it out until you're out of here—they don't need to know, it's none of their business. And in the meantime, work on your mentality.

     "I'm not Catholic anymore, but I know you are, and I think that one of the things holding you back is this crazy idea so many have that you can't be gay and believe in God at the same time. Get this into your brain now—that is utter and absolute bullshit. Also get this into your brain—being gay isn't a flaw. It's not defining. It doesn't make you better, and it doesn't make you worse. It's just another part of what makes you, you, just like your eye color and your voice and your blood type. Things that are defining are the things you decide for yourself—whether you're going to be a good or bad person, whether or not you'll follow your dreams, whether you're dedicated or slacking. Those are things that define you.

     "You think that being who you are is bad because it can't bring you any good in a place like this. Look to your community, Nate—they're everywhere, people like you and me, and they'll support you even if they don't know who you are. And you know I'll support you. Anytime you need a little pep talk, I'm here. This place is so isolated, so lacking when it comes to LGBTQ+ people and supporters—so I'll be your link, okay? I'll connect you to that great big world out there, because it's pretty damn awesome."

     I merely nodded, because I was at a bit of a loss for words. My mind was working in overdrive to preserve what he'd told me, every last sentence. I never wanted to forget it. Lucas Morgan would be my link to the rest of the world. He'd keep me grounded, he'd help me learn. And god, I wanted to learn.

     "Okay."