And nearly gagged. Because beer tasted even worse than I remembered. Like worse than that skunk Papaw ran over smelled.

But since no one else was making a face every time they drank from their beer bottle, I tried to control myself, and settled for taking very small sips. That made it a little more bearable. Maybe that’s how beer drinkers stand it. By taking in very small amounts of it at a time. I kept on taking small sips until I noticed J.P. had Lilly’s camera, and was pointing it right at me. At which point I hid the beer behind my back.

J.P. lowered the camera. He said, “Sorry,” and looked really uncomfortable.

But not as uncomfortable as I felt, when Lilly, who was standing next to him, went, “Mia. What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” I said to her in an annoyed voice. Because that is how I imagined a party girl would feel about her friend asking her what she was doing. Unless she was one of those party girls from Girls Gone Wild, in which case she’d just have lifted up her shirt for the camera.

But I decided I wasn’t that kind of party girl.

“You’re drinking?” Lilly looked sort of shocked. Well, maybe more amused than shocked, actually. “Beer?”

“I’m just trying to have a good time,” I said. I was excruciatingly aware of J.P.’s gaze on me. Why that should have made me feel so uncomfortable, I don’t know. It just did. “It’s not like I don’t drink all the time in Genovia.”

“Sure,” Lilly said. “Champagne toasts with foreign dignitaries. Wine with dinner. Not beer.”

“Whatever,” I said again. And moved away from her—

—and smacked right into Michael, who was like, “Oh, hey, there you are.”

And then he looked down at the beer in my hand and went, “What are you doing?”

“Oh, you know,” I said, tossing my head again, all casually and party-girl-like. “Just having a good time.”

“Since when do you drink beer?” Michael wanted to know.

“God, Michael,” I said, laughing. “Whatever.”

“She said the same thing to me,” Lilly informed her brother, as she took her camera from J.P. and stuck the lens into both our faces.

“Lilly,” Michael said. “Quit filming. Mia—”

But before he got to say whatever it was he was going to say, his computer’s Party Shuffle (he’d wired the speakers in his parents’ living room to his hard drive) started to play the first slowish song of the evening—Coldplay’s “Speed of Sound”—so I went, “Oh, I love this song,” and started dancing, the way Lana had said to.

The truth is, I am not even the biggest Coldplay fan, because I don’t really approve of the lead singer letting his wife, Gwyneth Paltrow, name their kid Apple. What is going to happen to that poor kid when she gets to high school? Everyone is going to make fun of her.

But I guess that beer, skunky as it had been, did the trick. Because I didn’t feel anywhere near as self-conscious as I had before I’d started sipping it. In fact, I felt sort of good. Even though I was the only person in the whole room who was dancing.

But I figured that was okay because a lot of times when one person starts dancing, everyone else does. They are just waiting for someone to break the ice.

Only I couldn’t help noticing that as I danced, no one was joining me. Especially Michael. He was just standing there staring at me. As was Lars. As was Lilly, although she was doing it through a camera lens. Boris and Tina, over on the couch, stopped kissing and started looking at me instead. The college girls were staring at me, too. One of them leaned over to whisper something to one of her friends, and the friend giggled.

I figured they were just jealous because I had actually made an effort to dress up for the party, what with my beret and all, and kept dancing.

Which was when J.P. totally came to my rescue. He started dancing, too.

He wasn’t really dancing with me, since he wasn’t touching me, or anything. But he kind of walked over to where I was and started moving his feet around, you know, the way really big guys dance, like they don’t want to draw a lot of attention to themselves, but they want to join in the fun.

I was so excited someone else was finally dancing, I sort of shimmied (Feather taught us that term—it’s when you wiggle your shoulders) closer to him, and smiled up at him, to say thanks. And he smiled back.

The thing is, after that, I guess—technically, speaking—we were sort of dancing together. I guess, technically, what was happening was, I was dancing with another guy. In front of my boyfriend. At a party being given by my boyfriend.

Which I guess—technically speaking—constitutes really bad girlfriend behavior.

Although I didn’t realize it at the time. At the time, all I could think about was how stupid I’d felt when no one would dance with me, and how happy I was that J.P.—unlike my other so-called friends—hadn’t left me hanging there, dancing by myself, in front of everyone… particularly Michael.

Who hadn’t even told me I looked nice. Or that he liked my beret.

J.P. had said I looked more beautiful than the loveliest Mediterranean sunset. J.P. had come over and started dancing with me.

While Michael just stood there.

Who knew how long J.P. and I would have kept dancing—while Michael just stood there—if just then the front door hadn’t opened, and Dr. and Dr. Moscovitz hadn’t come in?

And okay, Michael had gotten permission to have the party and they weren’t mad about it at all.