Iwas invited to my first ‘real’ party at 17.

For days, my best friend and I debated what to wear, who we’d see there and what we thought it would be like: cute boys with floppy hair, the speakers’ throbbing bass, the crinkle of plastic cups. Hours before, I decamped to her house so we could dress, applying eyeliner and lip gloss in the mirror as *NSYN C blasted from her stereo.

By the time we finally arrived, I was wound tight. I was a sheltered, introverted girl whose idea of a good time was spent with a book. I wasn’t an adult, I knew that, and I was unaccustomed to wanting to feel like one. This first unsupervised party held a certain significance.

Everything was in full swing upstairs. The sound of games and lively conversations erupted from the apartment; there was dancing on the

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