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“What?” I say, a little bit shitty. “I’m not driving.”

“No,” she says. “The only Black girl in town is. We get pulled over, who do you think the shit’s going to land on? The pretty white girl, or me?”

I take another slug of beer, knowing she’s right. But still, it’s not like we’re going to get caught. “There’s nobody out here,” I say. “And besides, your dad is white.”

Brynn sighs heavily. “That doesn’t outweigh my mom being Black. Might even make it worse.”

I’m quiet after that, the beer can slick in my hand. I don’t know what to say. Except my brain doesn’t get that message to my mouth in time, and I hear myself mutter, “Well, there’s nobody out here, anyway.”

It’s true, which is why the Allan house is such a great spot. It’s an old brick house, three stories, surrounded by acres of woods that have crept right up to the house in the years it’s been abandoned. Gretchen’s mom says nobody has lived here since she can remember, and her grandma says the same. The Allans built this place, had the money to fill it with expensive shit, too. Sometimes I wonder if they roll in their graves every time Cecil Allan comes into town, drunk and depositing a wad of cash at the bank, staring down the teller with one eye and daring her to ask where it came from.

Gretchen’s mom told us the Allan name was tainted before him, though. Something about a drunk in the family, embarrassing stories, glory won and lost, slipping between their fingers. She claims they just split one night, owing everybody money and a few people more than that. Cecil’s line were the poor relations without the money to even skip town. Which is why he jumped at the chance to marry an Usher, eyeing the house and the land that came with it, even if his family name dropped by the wayside as part of the agreement. She says Cecil may be the last person with the Allan name left in Amontillado, but the Allan boys had fun in their day, so there’s still plenty of their blood walking around, claiming to be something else.

Bastards aren’t exactly news around here. We all know each other well enough to spot a family trait on a face without the name it belongs to. But like my dad says, when you point at someone, there’s three fingers pointing back at you. Regardless, most of the Allans split, leaving behind a few babies without their name and a mansion full of furniture, the people in town picking and choosing what they wanted, less and less leaving the house over the years as it rotted where it stood.

There’s not much left now, just the stuff that was too heavy for anyone to move, like a grand piano and a big old grandfather clock that stands at the foot of the staircase. It’s freaked me out more than once, when I’m high as hell and come up those stairs to see my own reflection staring back at me in the glass front, lost, confused, a mess. There’s more than a little bit of my spit dried on the front of that clock, when I told that girl what I thought of her, not using words.

Brynn pulls into the drive, branches scraping the top of my car as she winds her way back to the house. It’s already a rager. Somebody hauled a generator out here, and there are naked light bulbs strung around what’s left of the sagging porch, the glow of electricity coming from inside as well.

“Sweet,” Brynn says, but I’m not thrilled about it. I’ve got to meet up with Tress, and that requires darkness. She won’t do business anywhere people can see. We could go out to the yard, or the woods, but the lights also mean that couples who rely on the dark corners of the Allan house will probably be going outdoors for their privacy tonight.

Something hits the car. Something big, and we both jump; Brynn lets out a little yelp, hands tightening around the wheel.

“Ladies,” Hugh says, face pressed against the windshield as he sprawls across the hood.

I smack the glass where his face is. “Get off my car, shithead.”

He smiles but moves, and Brynn puts a hand on her chest.

“Scared me,” she says.

I act like it didn’t, like my heart isn’t racing. My bells jingle as I get out, and Hugh flicks at one of them. It spins around and hits me in the eye.

“Sorry,” he says, but it’s a half-assed apology; he’s beelining for Brynn. He passes me and catches up to her, as she hauls her taco outfit under one arm.

“Tacos! Awesome!” he says, and she gives him a side-eye before she realizes he’s serious, and then she starts to show him how she made it. His interest is more on where her leotard gapes at the chest than the properties of foam. I laugh a little to myself, the second beer I’m already chugging starting to flow in my veins. She catches his gaze and chucks him under the chin.

“My face is up here, and you’re a monument to testosterone,” Brynn says.

And one big-ass monument. When we clear the rise he’s backlit by the house, hulking over Brynn, even counting all her taco parts.

“Huge! Wait up!” Dave comes streaking past me, leaving a trail of pot smoke behind him. It’s skunky and cheap. He must’ve got it from Tress.

I help Brynn pull her taco costume over her head, adjusting her lettuce and arranging her hair down the back so that it hangs nicely. I’ve got to admit, she looks good.

“Sexy taco,” I tell her, and she laughs. I forgive her for being such a mom back on the road when she made me hide my beer.

We get past the hangers-on at the porch: underclassmen and people not confident enough to walk right in. A few of the younger football players latch on to Hugh, trying to get him to bitch with them about the canceled game. He talks to them for a second, but it just takes Brynn’s hand resting on his arm, urging him on into the house, and he caves. I hand off my empty can to a kid who’s leaning against one of the pillars, taking the full one off his hands. He treats it like the compliment it is.

Felicity Turnado just acknowledged his existence.

Once we’re inside, I definitely decide I prefer the Allan house without lights. There are holes in the walls, little piles of plaster on the floor and mouse prints running through where it’s been ground to a fine dust. There’s wallpaper still attached in places, sloughing down and sagging from the walls, a few studs visible. The nails that stick out of them are pure rust, with square heads, something Dad says is how you know something is really old. I head for the stairs, which still have a bit of grandeur about them, like the mom at the pool who still has great legs and knows it.

People are crowded on the staircase, and I’ve got to pick my way through them. Somebody sneaks a squeeze of my ass, and I give them a little kick for it. Whoever he is, he yells and drops his drink, earning a shove from whoever he splattered. I don’t turn around to see who it was. I’ve got a goal. I need to find Tress, and sooner rather than later, while I’ve still got a little bit of liquid courage to talk to her. I thread the crowd, slipping past a couple of geek sophomores who are—I think—trying to fix the clock at the head of the staircase.

“Are you serious?” I ask them, and one of them turns to look at me, unfazed by my naked legs so close to his face.

“It’s got a pendulum,” he explains. “Which means it’s a harmonic oscillator. If we clean it up, put the parts in working order, and introduce some kinetic energy, it’s completely feasible that we could get it running.”