Chapter 3: Party Rule

By Friday afternoon, I had already said no to Tara three times.

The first no happened before homeroom, when she cornered me at my locker and informed me that “attendance was mandatory” in the tone of someone announcing military service.

The second happened at lunch, when she sat on the edge of our table, stole half my sandwich, and told Clair that if she didn’t come, she was personally sabotaging Emily's social standing.

The third happened after final period, when she physically blocked the library doors with both arms spread and declared that if I tried to spend another Friday evening with revision notes instead of actual people, she was going to start telling everyone I cried during advertisements.

Which wasn’t true. Mostly. I shifted my bag higher on my shoulder and stared at her. “Move.”

“No.”

“Tara.”

“Clifford.”

“You’re five foot nothing. This isn’t a real obstacle.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And yet here you are, stopped.”

Behind her, Leonard adjusted the strap of his satchel and looked deeply resigned to being part of this conversation at all.

“I’d like it noted,” he said, “that I was manipulated into accompanying her.”

Tara ignored him. “You’re coming.”

“I have work.”

“You have one worksheet and a personality disorder.”

“That’s not what a personality disorder is.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I absolutely do.”

She leaned in. “My party rule.”

I sighed. “That is not a thing.”

“It is a thing. It’s been a thing since year ten.”

Leonard looked at me over the top of his coffee cup. “She’s right. You did agree to one party per academic term after she caught you reorganising your notes by font size.”

“In my defense, they looked better.”

“In no world,” Tara said, “is that a defense.”

She had me there. I hated that she had me there. The so called rule had started as a joke after Tara decided I was becoming “a cautionary tale for overachievers.” One party every term. One night where I was required to be a teenager in a normal, reckless, socially acceptable way instead of acting like I was already thirty five and filing my taxes voluntarily.

Most of the time I only went because saying no to Tara was like trying to negotiate with weather.

“This doesn’t even count as one of your real parties,” I said. “It’s just people getting drunk in somebody else’s house.”

“That is literally what a real party is.”

“I hate that definition.”

“You’re still coming.”

I glanced at Leonard. “Help me.”

He considered it. “No.”

“Traitor.”

“I prefer practical.”

Tara clapped once, victorious. “Excellent. Seven thirty. Wear something that doesn’t make you look like you’re about to pitch start up ideas to investors.”

I looked down at my uniform. “I’m still in school clothes.”

“And somehow I can already tell your weekend outfit is morally disappointing.”

She turned and strode away before I could come up with a response, ponytail swinging behind her like punctuation.

Leonard watched her go. “You know, on a long enough timeline, she’ll probably become either a world leader or a wanted criminal.”

“Maybe both.”

“Most likely both.”

We started toward the gates together, the late afternoon light spilling gold across the courtyard and catching on the windows of the science block. The school felt looser on Fridays. Teachers got less strict. Students got louder. Everyone moved like the day was already over and they were just waiting for the bell to officially admit it.

My phone buzzed in my blazer pocket.

Clair: Are you actually going tonight?

I typed back as we walked.

Me: Apparently I’ve been conscripted.

Her reply came almost immediately.

Clair: Then I’ll go too. Someone has to supervise you.

I smiled before I could stop myself.

“What?” Leonard asked.

“Nothing.”

“That’s a suspicious smile.”

“Clair’s coming tonight.”

“That explains the optimism.”

I slipped my phone away. “You could try sounding happy for me.”

“I am happy for you,” he said. “In the detached way scientists are happy when an experiment proceeds exactly as expected.”

“That is the least warm sentence I’ve ever heard.”

“And yet accurate.”

We split at the gates, Leonard heading toward the bus stop and me taking the long route home through the side streets. The air had warmed a little, but the wind still had a bite to it, sharp enough to make me tug my sleeves down over my hands for the first few minutes. My thoughts moved ahead of me automatically: homework, business studies reading, the practice exam I should review over the weekend, what time I could reasonably leave the party without Tara making a scene.

And under all that, in the annoying half conscious layer I kept pretending didn’t exist, there was the possibility that Tyler would be there.

I told myself that wasn’t why I thought about it. He was exactly the kind of person who showed up to parties. That was all. It was normal to assume he might be at one. Normal to think about who’d be there. Normal to map social situations in advance so they felt more manageable. That was all.

By the time I got home, my dad was still at work and my mum was folding laundry in front of the television. She looked up when I came in, eyebrows lifting slightly.

“You’re home early.”

“It’s Friday.”

“That’s early for you.”

I dropped my bag by the stairs. “Tara wants to go out tonight. Apparently that means me too.”

“She still exists?”

I gave her a flat look. “I see her every day.”

“Yes, but socially. That’s different.”

I laughed a little and headed upstairs. Choosing an outfit should not have been difficult. It absolutely became difficult the second I stood in front of my wardrobe and realised Tara’s insult had got into my head. Most of my clothes were fine. Basic. Clean. Neutral. The sort of things nobody noticed and therefore nobody mocked.

Tonight, for reasons I refused to examine too closely, they all suddenly looked wrong. Too formal. Too plain. Too like me.

I ended up in dark jeans and a charcoal hoodie under a jacket, which still felt like I was dressing up as somebody with less homework. I pushed my hair back, watched it fall right back into place, considered my reading glasses, then left them on the desk. I wouldn’t need them at a party. If I did, I was at the wrong party.

Clair texted when she was on her way over.

When she arrived, she looked unfairly good.

That was the first thought I had every time I saw her outside school uniform. Unfairly good, as though the rest of us had been given one level of difficulty and she’d somehow found a cheat code. Black fitted top, denim skirt, boots, hair curled loosely over her shoulders. Effortless in the way that definitely took effort.

She stepped into my room, gave me one quick once over, and said, “You clean up nicely.”

“Thank you, I think.”

“It was a compliment.”

“You say most compliments like threats.”

She smiled and came closer, flattening one hand to my chest. “That’s because you only pay attention when I do.”

I kissed her then, because she was there and beautiful and warm and familiar, and because kissing her had become one of those things that settled me. Something easy. Something I knew how to do.

When we drew apart, she studied my face for a moment.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing.” She traced a finger lightly along my jaw. “You’ve just been weird this week.”

“I’ve had assignments.”

“You always have assignments.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m not busy.”

Clair tilted her head, deciding whether to push. Then, just as quickly, she let it go. “Well, tonight you’re not thinking about any of that. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That was sarcasm again.”

“Sorry.”

“Not sorry enough.”

She smiled to take the sting out of it, and a few minutes later we headed out.

Tara's parties all had the same basic formula: one parent vaguely present at the beginning, bad decisions made with confidence, at least one room no one should go into but everyone eventually would, and music loud enough to convince people they were having more fun than they actually were.

This one was at her cousin’s house on the far end of town, a place I’d been to exactly once before and remembered mostly because somebody had fallen off the back deck into a rosebush.

By the time Clair and I got there, the driveway was already lined with cars and people were spilling out onto the front lawn with red plastic cups in their hands. Through the open windows, I could hear bass heavy enough to rattle the glass.

Clair looked at the house, then at me. “If I get murdered here, I want you to know I’ll be furious.”

“I’ll write that on your memorial.”

“That’s romance.”

Inside, the place smelled like cheap alcohol, perfume, sweat, and whatever candles someone had lit in a doomed attempt to make any of that less obvious. The living room had been rearranged badly to make more space, and the kitchen was already packed shoulder to shoulder.

Tara appeared almost immediately, because of course she did, wearing ripped jeans, a cropped top, and an expression of triumph.

“You came,” she said, pointing at me like she’d summoned me by ritual.

“I was threatened.”

“Good. It worked.”

She kissed Clair on the cheek, gave me a drink I hadn’t asked for, and vanished before either of us could protest.

Clair took in the crowd with an appraising glance that somehow managed to be both critical and interested. People started noticing her almost at once. A few girls from school came over to say hi. Two guys I recognised from soccer hovered near enough to be irritating. I stayed close, one hand at the small of her back when we moved through rooms, steadying her past people dancing too wildly in spaces too small for them.

I was good at being her boyfriend in rooms like that. Attentive. Present. The right balance of affectionate and unthreatening. I held her drink when she fixed her hair. I leaned down so she could talk over the music. I laughed at the right things. When she tugged me into dancing for half a song in the living room, I did it despite knowing I looked like someone being blackmailed.

And for a while, it was fine. It wasn't fun exactly, but manageable. Familiar. The version of social I knew how to do.

I found Leonard eventually in the dining room, of all places, standing near a bookshelf with a cup of something he was clearly not drinking.

“You came,” I said.

He looked offended. “I am a man of my word.”

“You look miserable.”

“I am miserable.”

“That also tracks.”

He leaned closer. “Someone in the kitchen is trying to explain astrology to me.”

I winced. “That’s rough.”

“I may have to fake my death.”

Before I could answer, the noise near the front door changed. It wasn’t louder, exactly. More focused. A shift in attention moving through the house in little ripples. Heads turning. Voices layering with that specific energy that meant someone had arrived who mattered more than they should have.

Tara reappeared at my elbow, already grinning. “Speak of the devil.”

I followed her gaze. Tyler had just walked in with Reece and Kyle. Reece looked like he was here under protest, broad shoulders tense under a dark jacket, expression unimpressed by the entire concept of the evening. Kyle, beside him, looked like he’d been born for parties like this, easy smile in place, greeting people before they even reached him.

Tyler was in black jeans and a faded long sleeve henley pushed up at the forearms, like he’d put in the exact minimum amount of thought required to look devastating by accident. His hair was messier than usual, and he scanned the room with a face that said he expected nonsense and would probably enjoy it anyway.

He scanned the living room, before they landed on me. Even across the packed living room, I knew the exact moment it happened. His attention caught and held for one beat too long to be accidental. His mouth curved slightly.

Then someone called his name and the moment broke. Beside me, Tara made a noise that was either delight or warning. “Well,” she said.

I kept my voice as neutral as I could. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You are deeply annoying.”

“I’m often told that by people trying to suppress revelations.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Sure you don’t.”

Clair appeared at my side again, sliding her hand into mine. “What are we looking at?”

“Tara being weird,” I said.

“That narrows it down exactly zero percent.”

“Thank you,” Tara said.

Clair’s eyes tracked briefly toward the front hall where Tyler was now being dragged into conversation by at least three different people. She looked unimpressed. “He really does bring his own weather, doesn’t he?”

I almost laughed at that. “Apparently.”

She squeezed my hand. “Ignore him. Come sit with me.”

There was no reason not to. So I went. We ended up on the arm of a couch in the den while some ridiculous drinking game started at the coffee table. Clair tucked herself against my side and let me play with her fingers while she talked to the girls beside her. Every now and then she glanced up at me and smiled like I was exactly where she wanted me.

I should’ve been settled by that. Instead, I kept noticing the edges of things. Tyler crossing the doorway in the next room. Reece leaning against a wall watching everyone like security. Kyle flirting with somebody near the drinks. The occasional flash of black hair and blue eyes between moving bodies.

At one point, Tyler laughed at something and the sound carried over the music, low and rough and easy. I looked up before I could stop myself. He was already looking back.

It happened so fast I almost convinced myself I’d imagined it. But the look on his face didn’t feel imagined. Calm. Interested. Not pushing, not smug.

Then Clair turned toward me and kissed the corner of my mouth, and the room snapped back into place.

An hour later, Tara decided the party had reached what she called “the dangerous boredom stage,” which in her mind required group intervention.

She climbed onto the coffee table in the middle of the den, nearly kicked over two drinks, and shouted, “Okay, new plan. Everyone into the living room. We’re playing something.”

A chorus of groans and cheers answered her.

Leonard muttered, “This is how civilizations end.”

Clair laughed into my shoulder. “Please let it be cards.”

“It’s never cards,” I said.

And of course it wasn’t. By the time people packed into the living room floor in a loose circle, someone had already produced an empty bottle, and the atmosphere had shifted into that dangerous, giddy kind of anticipation that only ever meant one thing.

I sat down more out of social pressure than willingness, Clair settling comfortably beside me. Across the circle, Tyler dropped onto the floor with one knee bent, Reece and Kyle on either side of him. He looked entirely too relaxed.

The bottle landed in the centre between us all. Tara clapped her hands once. “Right,” she said brightly. “Let’s make this interesting.”