I take two desserts. One is a piece of baklava, and the other is something a waiter informs me is a mini taiyaki—a traditional Japanese fish-shaped treat made from a crispy waffle on the outside with sweet jam on the inside.

Another waiter in a tux offers me a flute of champagne.

“Um, I’m only sixteen,” I say, waving the glass away.

I hear tittering notes from behind me. I turn and see Lexie and the Sopranos nearby, each holding a glass of champagne. I look around and notice they’re not the only underage drinkers at the party. Considering this is a school-related event, hosted at the mayor’s house, I am surprised that none of the adults seems to care. That sort of thing would never fly in Utah.

Lexie’s eyes seem trained on my every move, like she’s judging the way I’ve arranged the veggies from the sculpture of crudités on my plate. I shove a piece of rainbow roll in my mouth and give her a sarcastic little wave. She drains her glass of champagne, takes a second glass from the waiter, and then says something I can’t hear to her friends. I gather the meaning, when two seconds later, she and the Sopranos turn on the heels of their designer shoes in a coordinated move, so all I can see of them are their backs. I swallow my bite of sushi—almost sighing at how amazing it tastes compared to Jonathan’s homemade creations—take my plate, and leave the buffet.

I nibble my food and wander the party for a while, looking for Tobin. When my efforts prove to be fruitless, I make my way through the crowd toward the patio and the one somewhat friendly face I’ve seen all evening.

“I see I’m still being stonewalled by the Sopranos,” I say to Iris, and bite off the pointy end of an asparagus spear. “And it seems to be contagious.” I use my veggie to point out a line of short freshman girls who have followed Lexie’s example and have turned their backs toward me.

“I know. I’d better be careful. I could get totally blacklisted by the Sopranos just for talking to you.” Iris smiles, but I can tell from the shaky notes coming off of her that it’s something she’s actually worried about. She’s being polite to me because she’s too nice not to be.

I clear my throat. “Have you seen Tobin?” His assertion that he had something to show me is the only reason—besides the food, I’ll admit—that I’m still here. I’ve been waiting almost a week to see what it is, after all.

Iris glances over her shoulder at the Sopranos to see if they’re watching. “Haven’t seen him yet. Maybe he’s in the kitchen with the caterers?”

“Thanks. I’ll leave you alone now,” I say, and start to turn away.

“Hey,” Iris says. “I don’t think they’re right, you know. I heard you sing at the auditions. You might not have seniority, but you still deserve the part. I … I just can’t afford to make enemies. Being a schollie and all.”

I nod. “Thanks, and I get it.” Being a scholarship kid in a world populated by the spawn of the rich and famous is probably anything but easy. I can’t blame her too much for being afraid of Lexie and her mafia.

“They’ll probably move on to a new target soon,” Iris says, trying to sound reassuring. “Like the new guy. Once word gets out that Mr. Morgan let him into the program without an audition, they’ll be out for his blood—no matter how hot he is.”

“New guy?” I ask.

A weird feeling rushes through me—I can’t tell if it’s anticipation or dread.

“Over there.” She gives a quick nod toward the large magnolia tree that’s dripping with shimmering lanterns, near the pool.

I follow her quick gesture. I’m not sure if I expected to see anyone else, or if I knew it would be him all along.

But there is Haden, standing under the tree, nursing a glass that looks like it’s filled with Coke, right in Tobin’s backyard. There had been one nice thing about the last week: Haden’s suspension meant that I hadn’t had to think about him—much—in the last few days.

“He’s in the music department now?” I ask.

But where the heck is Tobin? I have a feeling this party will go south pretty quickly if he sees this unexpected guest.

“That’s what Bridgette said.”

I don’t wait for her to fill in any more details and head toward the tree where Haden stands. He doesn’t look at me. Just takes a sip of his Coke and lifts his glass toward a few sophomore girls, who pass him, giggling. The girls are giggling, that is, not Haden. The way his lips are set on his stony face, I wonder if he ever laughs. Or smiles, for that matter.

I stop and watch him for a few minutes, all the time wondering if he’s ever going to look up at me, until a girl in a purple satin gown stumbles into him. He catches her before she falls over. She laughs, and I realize it’s Lexie. Obviously, no Soprano memo to blackball Haden has gone out yet. She smiles up at him—way up, considering she’s way more than a foot shorter than he is, even when she’s wearing heels. She tries to wrap an arm around his neck, but he politely pushes her hand away. In her other hand, she holds a champagne flute, and I wonder how many of those she’s drained since the two I saw her with.

I’m guessing quite a few, from the way she’s swaying in her pumps.

Having a biological father who clearly has a problem with alcohol, I’d always resisted the temptation to sneak a beer behind the Ellis Filler-Up on Friday nights with some of the kids from my old school. And watching Lexie make a fool of herself as Haden walks her over to Bridgette and deposits her nonchalantly with the Sopranos, I still don’t see the appeal of getting drunk.

I’ve watched too many Where Are They Now? specials on VH1 at CeCe’s apartment to know that talent won’t get you very far without a little bit of self-control. It’s a miracle Joe hadn’t washed up years ago.

Haden returns to his tree, glass of Coke in his hand. He takes another sip and pulls a slight gagging face, like he can’t stand the taste. I wonder why he keeps drinking it. And why does he seem to look at everyone here except me?

I scan the party again for Tobin and when I look back at Haden, I catch his eyes on me for a split second before he looks away at the pool.

So he has seen me.

“You’re being too obvious,” I say, approaching him.

“Pardon?” he asks, his eyebrows raised, breaking up the stoniness of his features.