Stella lay awake most of the night, staring at her ceiling and running through scenarios in her head. There were quite a few options for her to take.

She could just ignore Jefferson’s request, simple enough. Maybe pretend she’d tried and failed, or even tell Victoria that maybe a party wasn’t the best idea right now, that Kate was still in the hospital, and that the whole school was traumatized.

In fact— no, she wouldn’t need to tell her that. Victoria may have been dumb, but she wasn’t *this* dumb, and even she knew that holding a party so soon after what could’ve been a tragedy would be insane.

But then Stella thought about Jefferson’s face when he’d complimented her photograph. Ah, the way he’d said “I believe in you.”… well, nobody at Blackwell had ever said that to her before. Not her parents, who saw photography as a phase, and not even her so-called friends, who saw her as useful but replaceable. Just Jefferson, who’d taken the time to return her phone personally, and who thought she had potential.

Stella eventually realized that, no matter what she did, she was going to disappoint someone. Either Kate, who deserved better than a school that moved on from her suicide attempt with a party, or Jefferson, who believed in her.

The choice shouldn’t have been hard. It really, really, *really* shouldn’t have been hard. In another timeline, Stella would be caught in a time loop preventing her from making this decision, but times had changed. At 3 a.m., lying in the dark, Stella made her decision anyway.

She’d make the party happen.

The plan came to her around 4 a.m., somewhere between exhaustion and desperation. It was stupid, absolutely idiotic. What was even going on in her mind when she thought of it? (A lot, to be honest). Still, she knew that Victoria usually responded to exactly two things: flattery and dominance, especially the former. And Stella knew just the person who embodied both in the most obnoxious way possible. Or, well, at least one of them.

At 6:47 a.m., Stella stood outside Victoria’s door wearing the most ridiculous outfit she’d ever assembled. It was a gray pantsuit she’d borrowed from the theater department’s costume closet — or well, what was left of that department, which never really recovered from the embezzling that sent its money to the Vortex Club coffers. Unfortunately, the pantsuit was oversized, although definitely meant for a male actor playing a businessman. She also had a clip-on tie that was slightly too short, and crowning the whole ensemble: a blonde toupee she’d found in the same costume closet, probably from some production she didn’t want to know about.

She looked like a low-budget Donald Trump impersonator. Which, perhaps, was exactly the point.

Stella took a deep breath, channeled every good speech she’d ever been subjected to, and knocked on Victoria’s door with more force than necessary.

Nothing.

Well, what else was she expecting? It was way too early. She shouldn’t even have been awake at this hour herself, but oh well. Duty calls.

She knocked again, louder.

“What the FUCK?” Victoria’s voice came through muffled and furious. “It’s not even seven—”

The door opened to reveal Victoria in silk pajamas, her hair somewhat messy, and mascara smudged under her eyes. She looked human, which was probably the most vulnerable Stella had ever seen her.

Then Victoria’s brain processed what she was seeing.

“What the…” Her eyes traveled from the toupee down to the oversized pantsuit and back up again. “Stella? What the fuck are you wearing?”

“Victoria!” Stella boomed in what probably was her best Trump impression, gesturing broadly with her hands. “Wow, a tremendous girl. Just tremendous. The best, everyone says so.”

“Are you having a stroke?”

“I’m here to talk to you, guy, about making Blackwell good and great again!” Stella pushed past Victoria into the room, which was surprisingly immaculate even in crisis; the bed was (almost) perfectly made, everything color-coordinated, and not a single item out of place except for Victoria herself.

“I’m not a *guy*,” Victoria said, closing the door and staring at Stella like she’d grown a second head. “And what the hell is on your head?”

“Ah, relax guy—” Stella kept her shtick going, knowing that if she broke character now she’d never get through this. “You’re a winner, okay? Look, I know winners. I’ve known many winners. You’re the biggest winner at Blackwell. Huge winner, simply the best, like Tina would say.”

Victoria’s expression was doing something complicated. She seemed offended, but also quite confused. “I told you I’m not a guy. I mean, *hello*… I’m wearing a La Perla silk pajama set.”

“And it’s beautiful. Just beautiful. I tell you. The most beautiful pajamas. Everyone says so.” Stella gestured wildly. “But Victoria — can I call you Victoria?”

“It’s my name. You know that.”

“Victoria, you’re *sad*. I can see it, I really do. People are saying Victoria Chase is sad. Not me, other people. Terrible people, losers. But they’re saying it.”

“I’m not—” Victoria’s voice cracked slightly. “Ugh, I’m fine.”

“No, no, you’re not fine. You’re tremendous, sure, but you’re not fine. And you know what? That’s okay. That’s fantastic, even. Because winners know when to be sad. But winners also know when to GET BACK UP!” Stella pumped her fist in the air, nearly knocking the toupee off.

Incredulous, Victoria just stared at her.

“You canceled the party,” Stella continued, though pacing now like she was at a rally. “And I get it. I do. Very sad situation, just terrible. Poor Kate — wonderful girl, by the way, just wonderful — but you know what? She wouldn’t want you to stop living. Little Kate knew, just like we both do, that every restaurant has a menu for a reason. She wouldn’t want Blackwell to stop being great!”

*What am I even saying anymore?*

“How would you know what Kate wants?”

The question was sharp, cutting through Stella’s performance. But no, she couldn’t break now. She was committed to this insanity and was not going to stop it until she got something out of it.

“Because Kate loves you,” Stella said, softening her voice just slightly but doing her best to keep her smug cadence. “Maybe not love *love*, I think at 18 it’s marginal. Probably. But deep down, she loves all of you. Even when you were… let’s say, not at your best. And she’d want the school to heal, to come together. To be GREAT again!”

“By throwing a *party*?”

“Ah, no. By showing everyone that Victoria Chase isn’t defeated. That Victoria Chase is a LEADER!” Stella pointed at her dramatically, perhaps way too dramatically. “You think I stop when things get tough? No! I build bigger! Better! I make it huge, tremendous! And you, Victoria Chase, you’re just like me. You’re like the Donald Trump of Blackwell Academy.”

“I…” Victoria looked like she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or just kick Stella out of her room for whatever she was doing at this time of day. “That’s either the biggest compliment or the biggest insult I’ve ever received.”

“It’s tremendous! You’re tremendous! The party will be tremendous!” Stella was really selling it now, despite her poor vocabulary, gesturing so hard the toupee shifted dangerously to one side. “Like, picture it: the Vortex Club party. Bigger than before, better than before. A celebration of life… of resilience… of WINNING!”

“This is insane.” (It was, naturally, even if there was no way Stella would be admitting this.)

“Insane is what losers call visionaries!” Stella grabbed Victoria’s shoulders, staring intensely into her confused eyes. “You’re the boss. You’re THE BOSS. And the boss — that is, you —, doesn’t let tragedy stop her. The boss throws the biggest party Blackwell has ever seen and shows everyone — Kate included — that life goes on. That we honor her by LIVING! By being GREAT!”

At this point, Victoria was wavering. Stella could see it in her face; the war between grief and ego, between what she knew was right and what she wanted to hear.

“For real. Everyone’s counting on you,” Stella pressed. “Not just the Vortex Club, I mean everyone. They need this. They need YOU. Are you going to let them down? Are you going to let Blackwell down? Are you going to let YOURSELF down?”

“No,” Victoria said quietly.

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”

“No!” Victoria’s voice was stronger now, her spine straightening. “No, I’m not going to let anyone down.”

She didn’t really have the enthusiasm that Stella was expecting, but given that it was in the early hours of morning, she could live with that.

“THAT’S what I’m talking about! That’s the Victoria Chase I know! The winner! The leader! The BOSS!” Stella was nearly shouting now, completely committed to the bit. “So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to…” Victoria took a breath, and Stella could see the transformation happening in real-time, her grief being pushed down and replaced with the armor of confidence, or at least something close to it. “…I’m going to throw the best party this school has ever seen.”

“YES! HUGE!”

“It’ll be bigger than… bigger than all other parties I have thrown or been to. This will be…” She could finally see that Victoria was getting into it now. “This will be legendary.”

“Now you’re talking!”

“But,” Victoria held up a finger, “if I’m doing this, you’re helping.”

Stella’s Trump impression faltered. “What?”

“I mean, honestly, you show up at my door at the crack of dawn wearing…” Victoria gestured at the entire outfit with distaste, “…uh, whatever this is. And you give me this whole speech about being the boss and throwing this party. Fine, you’re right. But you’re going to be there.”

“I can go to the party, sure—”

“No.” Victoria smiled, though it didn’t seem like a nice one. “You’re going to work at the front door. You know, finally get to be a bouncer. You and whoever else I assign, see. Real security this time. Just make sure only the right people get in.”

“Victoria, I’m not—”

“Those are my terms. You want this party to happen so badly, you can help make sure it goes smoothly.” She crossed her arms. “Unless you want to go back to Jefferson and tell him you failed?”

Stella’s stomach dropped.

*What?*

“Wait. How did you—”

“Please. You think I don’t know Jefferson’s been pushing for this? He sent me like thirty messages already asking me to reconsider, something something ‘student morale’ and ‘moving forward’ and all that shit.” She didn’t seem too happy at that. “He couldn’t get me to agree, so he sent you. Unless you actually came here on your own using that suit, which is actually kind of brilliant on your part. But still, annoying for both of us.”

Of course, Stella wanted to argue, to defend herself, but Victoria was right. Although she did come there on her own accord, she couldn’t really deny that she’d been played, and now she was playing Victoria, and they were both playing into whatever Jefferson wanted.

“Fine,” Stella said, abandoning her award winning-Oscar impression for a moment. “I’ll be your bouncer.”

“Excellent. Sunday night. 9 p.m. Don’t be late.” Victoria headed towards the door. “And Stella? I would, uh, lose the toupee. Not looking good on you. It’s tragic.”

She closed the door, leaving Stella alone in the immaculate room wearing a pantsuit and a fake hairpiece, contemplating her life choices.

“Motherfucker,” Stella muttered, pulling off the toupee and shoving it under her arm.

Well, she’d gotten what she wanted. The party was happening, Jefferson would be pleased, and all it cost was her dignity and her Sunday night. That was something, at least.

She left Victoria’s room quickly, hoping nobody would see her in the costume. Fortunately, no one did; the dorm hallways were empty at this time. As much as the universe hated her, at least she was relieved that she wouldn’t see one of her friends looking at her like this.

Having made it back to her room without further incident, Stella shoved the costume in the back of her closet where it could live in shame, and collapsed on her bed.

It was impressive, too; she’d actually done it. The party was happening. She’d impressed Jefferson, maintained her fragile social standing, and only had to sacrifice her Sunday and her self-respect.

Worth it? Well, she’d find out Sunday night.

A few days later, Warren’s room had become an unexpected hangout spot. Not officially, not with any acknowledgment that this was now A Thing They Did, but Nathan had appeared after his last class with coffee from the only good place off-campus (though Warren noticed it wasn’t Two Whales — the cups were wrong, and there was no trace of Joyce’s handwriting on the sleeve) and a bag of kettle chips he’d probably paid too much for at whatever overpriced convenience store he found.

“Those are like six dollars,” Warren had said when Nathan tossed the bag onto his bed.

“And?”

“Nothing. I mean, just saying.”

Nathan had given him a look that suggested the observation was noted and dismissed, then dropped into Warren’s desk chair like he owned it. Which, given how often he’d started showing up, maybe he kind of did.

After some insistence, they’d watched the rest of Heat — or well, the parts they’d slept through — with Nathan providing running commentary about every technical choice and Warren actually managing to follow along. Something something aspect ratios, practical effects, and why Michael Mann was “criminally underrated by people who don’t know shit about cinematography.” Warren didn’t know shit about cinematography, or well, not the fine arts of it, but he nodded along anyway, and Nathan didn’t seem to mind explaining.

It felt normal in a way Warren hadn’t experienced since Max started ghosting him, or whatever she was doing. Like he had an actual friend who wanted to be here, and not just someone tolerating his presence until they could politely leave.

Having that realization from time to time always puzzled him, but it just showed him how far things had gotten. Maybe this was a good thing.

“So,” Nathan said during a particularly long, and honestly boring, establishing shot of Los Angeles at night, “there’s this thing on Sunday.”

“A thing?”

Nathan was picking at the corner of the chip bag. “A thing, yeah.”

“A thing, yeah.”

“Ah.” Warren waited. “But what thing?”

“The Vortex Club party. You know, Victoria decided to resurrect it.” Nathan was studying the screen very intently, and not really looking at Warren. “After her… uh… how can I say… weird early morning visit from that guy from The Apprentice.”

Warren raised an eyebrow. “Trump?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Never mind, long story. But yeah, party’s back on.”

Warren shifted on the bed, pulling his knees up slightly. He’d been to maybe three Vortex Club parties total, and each time he’d spent most of the night pressed against a wall somewhere between the speakers and the gym bathroom, trying to look like he belonged while nursing the same warm beer for three hours. The bass was always too loud, and the lights always too aggressive; not exactly his definition of a good time. Not only that, but the music wasn’t really his type. “I don’t know, man. Those parties aren’t really my scene.”

“Well, they’re not really anyone’s scene.” Nathan finally stopped murdering the chip bag. “They’re Victoria’s scene. The rest of us just show up and try not to get in her way.”

“Then why go?”

Nathan finally looked at him, and there was something uncertain in his expression that Warren had never seen before. “Because I’m asking you to. Well, uh. As my…” He stopped, then started again. “As someone I’m asking.”

Warren’s brain short-circuited trying to parse that sentence. “As your someone you’re asking?”

“Shut *up*. You know what I mean.” Nathan’s ears were turning red, visible even in the dim glow of the laptop screen. “Look, it’s going to be the usual bullshit. Yeah it’s gonna be loud, crowded, Victoria being dramatic about everything, you know that. But there’s a VIP section. Very private, just a few people who actually matter.” He paused. “We could hang out there, you know? Watch the chaos from above like those old guys in the Muppets.”

“Oh, Statler and Waldorf.”

“What?”

“The old guys. Their names are Statler and Waldorf, they just sit in the balcony and heckle everyone.”

“*Of course* you know that.” But Nathan was smiling now, just a little. “So yeah, like them. We could just… be there, you know, away from the rest of those losers. Maybe some of the other Vortex members would be there, but only the chill ones. I promise.”

Warren thought about it. The idea of a party still made his social anxiety spike, but even he had to admit that he could never say no to an invite to a VIP section. In fact, if all he did with Nathan there was just have a few drinks, watching and commenting like they did with movies… oh, that actually sounded kind of nice.

“What would we even do up there?”

“Oh, the usual. Maybe drink expensive alcohol that Victoria steals from her parents… judge people’s dance moves… mock the playlist choices… except for the songs I picked, obviously.” Nathan was warming to his own idea now, sitting up straighter, and almost grinning. “Heh… maybe place bets on who’s going to hook up with who. There’s always drama, you know. Last party, we had, uh, I think Trevor and Dana breaking up on the dance floor. Again.”

“That sounds depressing.”

“Eh. It’s hilarious if you’re not involved.”

Warren laughed despite himself. “You’re kind of an asshole, you know that?”

“Yeah, but I’m your asshole.” Nathan froze. The color drained from his face, then rushed back twice as strong. “I mean— that’s not— I meant—”

“Oh no.”

“I-I meant like, your friend who’s an asshole. Not your… your actual—”

“Please stop talking.”

“Yeah, I *will*, dickface.”

They sat in mortified silence for a moment, both staring very hard at the TV, which was probably the only place they could stare without it being too awkward. Warren could feel the awkwardness radiating off Nathan like heat from a space heater. His own face felt warm!

And then Warren started laughing; just a snort at first, then a full-on crack-up, and Nathan followed a second later, and soon they were both losing it over whatever the hell had just happened, Warren doubled over on the bed and Nathan covering his face with both hands.

“We’re disasters,” Warren managed between laughs.

“Nuh-uh, speak for yourself. I’m tremendously successful at everything I do.”

“You just called yourself my asshole.”

“Not happening again.”

“I’m *never* letting you live this down.”

“And this is why I don’t invite people to things…” But Nathan was still smiling.

Warren felt something warm in his chest, something that might have been happiness or friendship or just the relief of not being alone. “But okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay, I’ll go. To the party, that is.”

Nathan’s whole face lit up. Actually lit up, like Warren had said something actually good. “For real real?”

“For real real, not for play play.”

“Ah. Well, uh,” he smiled. “Good! But if it sucks, we’re leaving early.”

“Eh, if it sucks, I have a great list of terrible movies in my room for us to watch.”

“You have terrible movies?”

“Well… I have the entire Police Academy franchise.”

“Oh my God.”

Warren smirked. “You got it. Seven films of increasingly questionable quality…. which is, honestly, a good thing.”

“That’s either the best or worst thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s both! That’s what makes it perfect.”

It didn’t take long for them to settle back to watching the rest of Heat. By the time the credits finally rolled, it was past ten, and Nathan stood up with a stretch that popped something in his back.

“I should go. Victoria’s probably having a meltdown if something in the party isn’t going well.”  He started gathering his stuff: his phone, jacket, and also the empty chip bag that he crumpled and tossed toward Warren’s trash can. (He missed it by about a foot.) “The fate of the entire party somehow rests on my shoulders, you know.”

“The fate of the party hangs on you? Quite the conundrum… you want some fries with that?”

“You joke, but you have no idea.” Nathan paused at the door, hand on the frame, then turned back. Something flickered across his face. “Oh, and uh… thanks. For saying you’ll come. I know parties aren’t really your thing.”

Warren shrugged, trying to match the casual tone. “I mean… I know inviting people isn’t really yours. So. We’re even.”

Nathan rolled his eyes but stepped forward, opening his arms in what was clearly meant to be a hug. Warren, caught off guard, sort of half-stepped into it, and they ended up in what became a very awkward embrace, with their arms at wrong angles, shoulders bumping, and neither sure where to put their hands.

Warren’s elbow ended up somewhere near Nathan’s ribcage. That was probably not normal.

“Jesus Christ, you’re a terrible hugger,” Nathan said, but he didn’t pull away.

“Oh come on, you can’t just spring hugs on people!”

Which was ironic coming from Warren. Unfortunately, he knew this very well.

But Nathan didn’t pull away. And after a second, the hug became less awkward and a little more real, with Warren’s hands finally finding purchase on Nathan’s back, and Nathan’s grip loosening into something almost comfortable. They stood there for one breath, maybe two, before Nathan stepped back.

“Alright. Sunday.” Nathan’s voice was slightly rougher than before. “Nine p.m. I’ll meet you at the dorm entrance and we’ll head over together.”

“I’ll, uh, try to improve my hugging skills by then.”

“Please do. You’re embarrassing.”

Nathan left, and Warren stood in his doorway for a moment, watching him disappear down the hall. There was a stupid, really stupid, smile on his face. He could feel it and couldn’t seem to make it stop.

He had plans. Oh, real plans! With someone who wanted to hang out with him not because he was useful or convenient or happened to be standing nearby, but because they *actually* enjoyed his company.

Huh.

Warren closed the door and leaned against it, staring at his ceiling where the glow-in-the-dark stars he’d stuck up some time ago were starting to peel at the edges.

Maybe Sunday would be a good day after all.