Stop thinking about Jack Masselin. Jack, who doesn’t want you, at least not enough to give it a chance. Focus on Mick from Copenhagen and his shiny teeth and his giant hands.

When Mick says, “Come with me,” I go with him. As Bailey watches, mouth open, I follow him up the stairs into what must be Dave Kaminski’s bedroom. Mick turns on the desk light and sits down on the bed. I stand in the doorway staring at him. He smiles and I smile, and then he says, loud enough so I can hear him all the way over here, “I was wondering if I could kiss you. I’ve wanted to kiss you from the moment I saw you.”

And even though he’s not Jack Masselin, or maybe because he’s not Jack Masselin, I walk across the room and sit down next to him, and suddenly we’re kissing.

My neck is twisted, and I want to move it, but I don’t want to move it because it’s Mick from Copenhagen, and now I’m getting a cramp in it, so I shift just slightly, and now I’m getting a cramp in my calf. It is the worst pain of my life, but here is a gorgeous boy kissing my face off, so I soldier on.

In spite of the fact that my body is seizing up everywhere and I’m in excruciating pain, he’s a good kisser. I’m guessing he’s had a lot of practice, because it feels like he’s showing off a little, doing all these intricate circle dances with his tongue. He’s working it like a ringmaster, and don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing bad about it. This is probably the way they kiss in Copenhagen. He’s probably been kissing people like this since he was two.

Then the kiss is over and we pull apart, and I feel this weird urge to applaud because it seems like he expects it. He says, “Wow.”

“Yeah,” I breathe. “Wow.” Because what else am I supposed to say? Next time, don’t try so hard. And Excuse me while I walk off this cramp.

“Have you ever been to Scandinavia?”

“No.” I haven’t been anywhere except Ohio. I wonder then if he knows I’ve spent part of my life locked inside my house.

“You should go sometime.”

But what I hear is Maybe I’ll take you there. Maybe we’ll go back and I’ll show you where I’m from and you can meet my relatives and I will love you forever.

And even though I don’t want to meet his relatives and I don’t want him to love me forever, I kiss him again. Because while I’m kissing him, there is no America’s Fattest Teen, at least not for tonight. No cranes or hospitals. No dead mother. No Moses Hunt. Most important of all, no Jack Masselin. There is just me. And this boy. And a kiss.

I’ve never seen Caroline cry before, so for a minute I sit there, completely stupid, trying to figure out what to do. She is hiccupping and wheezing, like she’s trying to catch her breath. I start petting her like she’s a dog, and she shrugs me off.

“Why don’t you want me?” She sounds small, like she’s folded herself in half and then another half and then another. “What is it about me?” And now I go even more stupid because here is a side of Caroline I never knew existed. Is it possible she’s as insecure as the rest of us?

I say, “You’re beautiful. You’re Caroline Amelia Lushamp.” But this isn’t what she’s asking me. Tell her you want her. But I can’t because I don’t, not like that. I start to scramble. I give it my all. I tell her over and over again who she is and how beautiful she is, even as she’s pulling on her clothes, even as she’s grabbing her phone. Even as she says, “I can’t do this anymore,” and throws the door open, letting the light in. I’m temporarily blinded, and by the time I can see again, she’s gone.

We kiss for what feels like hours.

We kiss even when someone stumbles into the room and blinds us with the overhead lights and then stumbles out again.

We kiss until he has many, many hands and a tongue in my ear, and I think, I don’t want to be Pauline Potter. I don’t want him to be my first. I don’t want him to be my anything.

So I pull away and say, “I’m sorry, Mick, from Copenhagen. I’m not Pauline Potter.”

And he sits back and says, “Who?”

“Never mind. I think I need a drink. I’m sorry, but I don’t want to make out anymore.”

And I kind of expect him to be devastated, but he just shrugs and smiles at me. “Okay.”

He helps me up, and we walk out as I smooth my hair and shirt. I walk behind him, and even though I don’t want to make out with him, Mick from Copenhagen is so cute I can’t help thinking, Girl, you ARE wanted. And it feels pretty damn good.

I find Kam in the kitchen, knocking back shots. His white hair is plastered to his head and he’s got one arm thrown around a girl who may be Kendra Wu (small, Asian, long black hair in a braid). I say, “What are we drinking?” The Girl Who May Be Kendra hands me something brown that doesn’t look like beer.

I throw it down my throat. My esophagus burns like I just inhaled gasoline. I say, “Another.”

And then they’re all handing me shots.

Kam empties his own glass and slams it onto the counter. He pumps both fists into the air and howls.

A while later, I work my way through the party, searching for a black Mohawk because I am too fucked up to drive home, and suddenly I want to go home. I want to go home right now. I find the Mohawk attached to someone who is probably Seth outside by the pool. At this point, I don’t bother lurking, trying to make sure it’s him. I walk right up to the Someone Who Is Probably Seth and say, “I need a ride home.”