Page 133 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

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It’s the kind of Saturday night that entails fancy clothes. Rory informs me in passing, in case I hadn’t yet heard, that I’m freed from all official cultural exposure, that tonight is a celebration of progress: of mine, of Luke’s ability to talk like a real person, of all of us managing not to murder each other for two months.

The way he announces this, with something of a twinkle in his pale gray eyes, has me wondering exactly how raucous Rory’s planning on allowing us to be.

I buy a tight spangly black dress for the occasion, and despite Rory giving me money to get something extra-special, old habits die hard because I pick it up on sale at a steep discount. It has long sleeves, a peek-a-boo neckline and a short, short skirt.

When I pull back the curtains of the changing room, Danny, my shopping companion and personal stylist, blinks for several moments and remains curiously still before giving me a slow nod of approval.

“Are you trying to set the place on fire?” he asks, more of a croak, and I laugh. I don’t really believe him, but I also try to ignore the fact there’s no kindliness in his voice, that it’s more of a pure, awed statement.

I spend more time than I care to admit getting ready. Danny pops in to do my make-up, because I’m incapable when it comes to sticking inky pencils into my eyes in the pursuit of conforming to female beauty standards. In his new gray button-down, with his shirt sleeves rolled up and his tongue poking from his mouth in concentration, Danny delicately lines glittery kohl beneath my lashes, and I trust him implicitly not to stab my eyeball as I gaze up at him, eyes wide with admiration as I linger over each one of his adorable freckles.

Danny looks pleased with his handiwork, in much the same way he’d been pleased when he’d fastened wings on my back for the talent contest, when I’d shone as white and angelic as a star.

I do not look angelic tonight. The dress is so clingy, it feels like I may as well just save the tease and walk around naked. With a neckline that angles all the way down my chest to give me some actual cleavage, and a hem that barely covers my upper thighs, the only thing missing is Li’s pair of devil horns from Hallowe’en. Only the sleeves save it from being something totally trashy, long tight glittery black fabric that hugs my arms.

When I slide into the awaiting taxi, with a lateness that speaks of last-minute nerves, I’m finally able to see everyone else. They’re dressed in similarly formal fashion: like Danny, the chiefs are also in crisp button-down shirts, although Danny has eschewed smart black dress pants for a pair of relaxed jeans. Only Finlay dares to rock the boat.

To the irritation of our driver, Finlay arrives even later than me to the taxi, wearing what appears to be a cropped, ripped Clash tee coupled with a pair of black skintight leather pants and a spiked black choker.

From inside the taxi, I gape at him. Beside me, Rory does, too.

“What the hell are you wearing?” Luke asks, disconcerted as his gaze flickers down in the direction of Finlay’s proudly bared navel.

Hell is right. Finlay looks like he just came back from there. He looks insane. His black hair stands on end, gelled into wild, pointy spikes that remind me of anime hair. His abs are taut beneath the exceedingly cropped tee, and he slides into the back seat beside me and Rory with a litheness that shows off just how damn athletic he is beneath a boring school uniform.

Across from us, Luke and Danny watch him in astonishment.

For the first time all summer, Finlay’s whole lower arm flashes with bright colored ink — of rainbow stripes wrapped around a lethal-looking neon thistle, the wordPEACEwritten in a chunky jet black scribble underneath. The design extends from the crook of his elbow to the very tips of his fingers.

Finlay grins at me in the dark, totally boyish and pleased with himself. On top of his head is a pair of orange plastic aviator glasses. Gold shimmers from the crown of his hair, and I wonder how much glitter he put in to make himself almost as sparkly as the lamplight that streaks past us.

It’s a ridiculous ensemble but… it’s kinda sexy. He’s sexy in a way that steals my breath. He looks like the ultimate party boy and shows off almost as much skin as me, and that makes me feel suddenly comforted. That I’m not the only one whose nakedness will attract eyes tonight. By the looks of Finlay, he wants to have fun tonight. And so the hell do I.

“Where are we going?” I ask Rory, a thousand times more eager about the night now that Finlay’s decided to dress like a crazy disco pixie.

With a slow smile, I realize Rory, who’d adamantly turned his head to the side the moment Finlay slid into the cab, has been staring at Finlay’s reflection in the adjacent window all this time.

“Er…” Rory says with a start, and then, with a polite clearing of his throat, answers, “Hype. Best club in Edinburgh.”

“Onlyclub in Edinburgh,” Finlay corrects with a dry laugh. “Only club in Edinburgh where they’re no’ completely anal about how much ye can drink, too. As long as ye’re paying, ye can get as fucked as ye fuckin’ want.”

I stare at Finlay with a flutter of nervous anticipation. As the taxi rocks and rattles across the cobbled streets, my gaze catches on the thick band of muscle along Finlay’s forearm as he grips the handrail beside his head.

“Th-that’s the goal, is it? Getting fucked?” I lick my lips. “I don’t think I’ve ever got… fucked.”

Finlay snorts, treating me to a smug little smirk. “Then I dinnae think Rory’s daein’ his job properly,” he says, and warmth cascades down my body.

I sense rather than see the slow roll of Rory’s eyes.

“I mean drinking,” I correct, marveling at how I still manage to sound like a scared little schoolgirl. Like the goody-two-shoes they’d always gauged me as. “I’m not… I’ve never…”

“Relax, sassenach,” Finlay says, and there’s something reassuring in his tone that makes me feel compelled to do just this. “It’s the end o’ summer. One night o’ gettin’ fucked, gettin’ aff oor tits, and then we’ll return tae school like the perfect wee Head Boys and Head Girls we’re totally gonnae be.”

I swallow, but I can’t deny it sounds tempting. All the stresses and strains of summer, of Oscar Munro’s treachery, of Benji’s betrayal, of the tension and heaviness between Luke and Finlay, of an entirely different heaviness and tension, almost burningly competitive in its existence, between Finlay and Rory. Of runaway Danny whose only family seems now to be all of us, of my endless excursions to the theater and ballet and opera, of the prudent adjustments in my speech and standing and soul, like snipping carefully at a bonsai tree, of the love and furious lust I feel for all these complicated, mixed-up boys.

All of it unraveling in one blessed, hedonistic night.

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