It’s 10:21 on a Friday night in Connecticut.  Teenagers are being teenagers, doing what they can to forget that they are not yet adults.  Their parents are waiting anxiously at home, trying to pretend their kids are better than what they raised them to be.  It’s 10:21 on a Friday night in Connecticut, and Andy Dallas is at Tristan’s house, of course, downing his third shot of the night.
“Dude, you are an animal,” Tristan says to Andy, slapping him on the back.  Andy nods and smirks in agreement, the room starting to spin around him.
It’s a decent sized living room, but the 50 people stuffed in it make it feel a little cramped.  The air is a misty fog of smoke coming from people’s joints.  Beer spills onto the hand-stitched carpet from France as kids make their way across the room with their red solo cups.  Andy, Tristan, Lucas, Willa and Katherine sit in a circle on the floor in the middle of the room They are the kings and queens of this hellhole.  Andy has one arm wrapped around Willa, the other holding a joint to his lips.  Little Fred with his glasses and acne sits on the couch a few feet away, looking over at their huddle, thinking, “Man, when I’m a senior I hope I can be as cool as Andy Dallas.”
What can possibly be so cool about Andy, a kid that seems to be totally screwing up his life, you might ask?  Well, my friend, Andy has made quite the name for himself.  He is the only person in Danbury High School to ever graffiti Principal Evan’s office and not get caught.  He was the first of his friends to get to third base, when they were just freshman.  The girls at school want to be with him and the guys at school want to be him.  Everyone knows who Andy Dallas is, and if you ever got the chance to be in his presence, you would without a doubt know that this guy seems to have it all.
Andy passes his joint to Lucas and stands up.  Feeling slightly sick of the scene he says, “I’m going to get some air.”  He heads outside and stands on the porch, the cool December breeze numbing his pale cheeks.  He notices a piece of dirt on his Jordan’s, curses under his breath and bends down to wipe it off.
Andy hears the porch door swing open and turns around to see Tristan stumbling towards him.  Tristan grabs his arm and pulls him into a bro hug.
“Andy, my man.  We are killing it with this party.  I’m so wasted right now.”
“Yo, me too.  I think in I drank like an entire bottle of Jack Daniel’s.”
“My son, you go.  So, who is the lucky lady of the night this time?”
Andy groans.  “I don’t know man. I’m not really feeling it tonight.”
“Oh come on, dude.  Don’t let me down and end your seven-week streak.  You haven’t hit Willa yet.  Ten bucks you can tap that by the end of the night.”
Andy bites his lip, knowing he doesn’t have a choice.  Does he want to stay a cool kid or not? “You’re on,” he tells Tristan as he heads back inside.
The room feels even more humid, hazy and hectic than before.  Andy makes his way back to the circle of coolness and grabs the bottle of vodka, finishing the last drop of it.  Willa leans against his shoulder, giggling and twirling her ponytail.  “Andy, I wanted some of that!” she slurs.
“Come upstairs with me.  I’m sure we can find some more,” Andy says, grabbing her hand.  He glances back at his group, as he and Willa walk up the stairs.  He sees Tristan giving him a thumbs up and waving around a ten dollar bill.
Half an hour later, Willa is asleep in one of the beds upstairs.  Andy makes his way back downstairs, zipping his tight black jeans and buttoning his polo.  Tristan and Lucas greet him at the bottom of the stairs with a series of high fives.
“And that, my man, is how you get it done,” Tristan says to Andy, handing over the money.
“Yeah.  I’m beat, especially after it got kind of wild upstairs,” Andy says, making Tristan and Lucas holler, “so I’m gonna head home.  See you boys tomorrow?”
“You bet you will.  Party’s at my place at 9,” Lucas yells to Andy as he walks out the door.
The cold air surprises Andy all over again as it nips at his neck and stings his nose.  Where did I put my car? he thinks.  He can barely see straight in front of him, but somehow manages to find his beat up baby and get inside.  He backs out of the lot, bumping into a tree on his way out.
He drives down Tristan’s street, swerving left and right.  This is routine for Andy, though, so he knows no cars will be here at this time.  He runs his hands through his brown curly hair and thinks back to when it all started freshman year.  He passes the gym he trained in all summer to buff up, and the mall he went to when he got all his new clothes.  When he entered high school, he redefined the name Andy Dallas.
Yeah, I did good tonight, he thinks as he drives onto his own street.  I definitely impressed the guys with the Willa thing.  And the amount I drank was enough to show that I am sure as hell a drinker.
Finally, he parks the car in his driveway as best he can.  Hopefully that’s not too slanted, he thinks, shaking his head.
He opens the door, trying to be silent, and squints to try and see the dining room in the darkness.  He bangs into one of the wooden chairs, bruising his hip.  “Ouch,” he scream-whispers.
“Andy?  Have a good time?” he hears his father’s voice sarcastically say through the dark.  The light turns on, burning his eyes, as he sees his mom and dad sitting at the kitchen table, looking sternly at him.
“Uh—yeah.  I’m going to sleep now,” Andy says, trying not to sound too drunk.
His mom abruptly stands up and bangs her hands on the table.  “Andy!  What are you doing with your life?  What is so wrong that you have to live like this?  Where is the Andy I know and raised?” she screams, her eyes filling with tears,
“I’m right here, mom,” he says, before turning the corner and heading into his room.
He quietly goes to his side of the room, trying not to wake up his little brother, Timmy.  He changes out of his t-shirt and jeans, getting under the black duvet.  He lies on his back, staring at ceiling.
What am I doing? I don’t know who I am anymore, he thinks, taking a deep breath.
He turns to lie on his side and looks at Timmy.  He notices his 8-year-old hands resting by his face and his loud breathing signifying deep sleep.  His face is full of innocence and goodness.  He doesn’t have to try to be Timmy; he just is Timmy.
Before he closes his eyes to sleep of the wastedness, Andy opens his mouth and whispers to his brother through the dark, “Don’t turn out like me.”