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Forever stymied with never the right words to say, never the right timing, Linnea shook her head and said, “Sorry,” right before Ronja’s final words slapped her: “I thought we meant something to you.”

Linnea would wonder the same when the following week Ulla and Everett were crowned Homecoming queen and king. When Ulla, in her strapless white gown, with yards of tulle skimming the floor, danced with Everett as the royal couple to Motley Crüe’s “Home Sweet Home,” whispering in his ear as his hands slid past her waist.

The Homecoming festivities continued at Fish Lake Resort after the dance ended. The resort’s stretch of rentable cabins just outside of Mora was a popular destination when nights were too cold for the drag. Whoever turned eighteen first in their senior class rented cabins on behalf of their peers. Billy Hayes, a Boy Scout and golfer, took this oath seriously, and the avoidance of hazing threats by the jocks more seriously. He shadowed the partiers, caught bottles before they shattered to the floor, and armed himself with a bucket of soapsuds and a rag to wipe spills, a readied bandana to cover his face when mopping vomit that missed the toilets.

Linnea, the only other one who remained sober besides Billy, provided a hand. She taught Billy her trick for clearing a party sooner by making the alcohol disappear faster.

Someone hit play on a boom box. “We Built this City (On Rock & Roll)” blared, and Billy ran to crank the volume down. Everett jostled through the partygoers with bottles of vodka. “Lin, help me out.” She followed him into the kitchenette, grabbed a Smirnoff from his arms, and let it slip. It shattered. Everett whipped around. “Jesus Christ, Lin, are you a fucking moron?”

Stacey Schwartz, glitter in her short perm, rebuked Everett. “Relax, your royal asshole, geez.”

He set the remaining bottles on the counter with loud clinks and left to get more. Billy swooped in with a dustpan and broom as if they were additional limbs, and hollered, “Here! I can get the glass!”

Linnea plugged her nose from the sting of alcohol fumes as she picked up shards.

Ulla popped her head into the kitchen and snickered. “Ooh, break something?” Linnea soured at the sight of Ulla’s crown atop her thick, bouncing curls, her lips coated in a pastel-pink.

“I think I got all the big pieces,” Stacey said, mopping the liquor, and Billy swept the rest. Everett returned with what was hopefully the last of the alcohol and soda. People crowded the kitchen, grabbing plastic cups.

Linnea straightened and swiped her hands free of dirt. She smoothed her long white skirts. She had an off-the-shoulder version of the same dress Ulla wore as a member of the Homecoming court, but she didn’t have Ulla’s perky breasts to fill it. Breasts she knew intimately, a lifetime ago, it seemed. Linnea followed Stacey into the living room where classmates released their dirty dancing, having left it tame for chaperones in the gymnasium.

For someone who’d spent her entire existence in Mora rebuffing the attention of her classmates, Ulla sure knew how to command it. She’d started a game of Drink or Strip. Ulla and Debbie were the only girls, surrounded by six or seven boys.

Everett needled Linnea, pinching her waist. “Gonna join?”

I’d be the first one naked, she wanted to say but shook her head. She set her sights on the array of shot glasses lining the coffee table and the open bottles on the counters. With everyone distracted, she could pillage some of the alcohol, dumping an ounce here and there, offer to make classmates drinks and add the vodka last. But Everett steered her into the bathroom. He closed the door, burying them in darkness, and twirled Linnea up against it. “Missed you,” he said, tasting like Michelob. She kissed him back. His hands raced over her body. Were they really going to do it in the bathroom? Without a lock on the door?

“Ev,” she mumbled between kisses, “wait.”

“Can you go down on me?” he breathed, “I swear I’ll come quick.”

She sighed, annoyed.

He moaned into her neck and chuckled. “It’s your fault I can’t control myself. Stop looking so gorgeous.”

Linnea rolled her eyes and worked the buttons and zipper of his tux pants.

The door opened, knocking Linnea into Everett. He slammed a palm on it. “Get your own fucking bathroom!”

“Ooh, sorry!” It was Ulla, clearly inebriated. “Is that my king in there?” she added further, “Hey, Ev, I thought you promised me a royal fuck.”

A laughing uproar exploded.

The memory of Ulla and Everett dancing as king and queen hours earlier flashed in Linnea’s mind. Everett’s hands sliding down Ulla’s butt, Ulla’s lips in his ear. Linnea pushed Everett away and opened the door. He tugged on her hips. “Where are you going?” He closed the door.

She yanked it open, hot tears burning her eyes. The envious fire made her indifferent to what her peers were about to witness. She clawed Ulla’s arm and cried, “What is wrong with you!”

“Excuse me?” Ulla demanded. “Get your hands off me.”

Someone shouted, “Fight, fight!”

“I don’t even know you!” Linnea yelled.

“Know me?” Ulla laughed angrily and then matched Linnea’s pain, yelling, “You’re the cheater!”

“Stop,” Linnea said through her teeth and scattered her gaze over the hush that settled.

Unaware of the silence—or not caring—Ulla hissed, “How does it feel?”