Life is fabulous for Jonathan Parish. He's seventeen, out and proud, and ready to party through senior year with his posse of best girlfriends. But the year starts off with the wrong kind of bang when Jonathan -- in an inebriated lapse of judgment -- sleeps with a friend of his...a girl friend! When word gets around that hot-but-previously-unavailable Jonathan might be on the market, the school's It girl approaches him with a proposal: pretend to be her boyfriend, and achieve popularity like he's never known. But popularity isn't what Jonathan wants. And suddenly, going back into the closet becomes Jonathan's only way to get what he's after -- a trip to see Kylie Minogue. "I can't get this book outta my head." -- Rachel Cohn, bestselling author of Gingerbread Nico Medina is the author of The Straight Road to Kylie, Fat Hoochie Prom Queen, and Go Ahead, Ask Me . He works at a publishing house in New York City. I really wish I wasn't gay right now. Seriously. If I wasn't gay right now, I wouldn't be having sex with Alex. No, not Alexander. Alexandra. That's right, ladies and gentlemen. Jonathan Parish has done the unthinkable. Out-and-proud Christina Aguilera-worshipping, Diesel shoe-wearing, lover-of-large-sassy-black-women-and-skinny-white-heiresses Jonathan Parish is having sex with a girl! These were the thoughts running through my head that insane night. I did not know what I was getting myself into. Maybe I should recap. My best friend, Joanna Marin, decided to throw herself a turning-eighteen birthday bash. Originally, her mom, Orlando-suburbanite-wishing-she-were-Winter-Park-Park-Avenue-chic divorcÉe Marsha Marin, was going to take her out for brunch and to a cute little boutique on Park Avenue. But, in true Marsha Marin fashion, she had to cancel on her only daughter to take over a fellow flight attendant's Orlando-Atlanta-Paris-and-back flights. This left Joanna alone on the weekend of her eighteenth birthday -- alone and angry...but with an empty house and a fistful of I'm-so-sorry money. What else was there to do but throw the party to end all parties to celebrate Joanna's official passage into adulthood? When she'd told me just before sixth period that she'd gotten a voice mail from her mom about the change of plans, we'd agreed to meet at Aretha (my 249,982-miles-young '91 Volvo) after school let out to drive to Amigo's for chips, salsa, quesadillas, and some serious planning. After ruling out a day at Disney World (too young for us -- she was turning eighteen for Christ's sake!), Islands of Adventure (that was getting old -- we'd bought ourselves annual passes the year before), or the beach (it was possibly going to rain), we decided to throw a debaucherous alcoholic bingefest. Yes, we were quite the original duo. "We'll need a handle of vodka," I said, starting out our list. "So go ahead and put cranberry and orange juice on there," Joanna added. "And limes." Joanna and I loved making lists. For anything. Party supplies. Party CDs. Guest lists. To us, the most exciting part of a party was hunkering down and writing out the lists. Über-cool, right? "If we're getting limes already, why not tequila and salt for body shots?" Joanna suggested. She had a tear in her eye, I think. Nothing made her happier than people licking her stomach. Give her a few drinks, and she soaked up the attention like a sponge. "Okay. But I'm gonna want beer, too. How many people are we inviting?" "I don't know. Do we have to know that right now?" "Absolutely!" And I was dead serious. Joanna blew out a horsey kind of sigh. "You are way too anal." "People who live in glass houses and make lists for fun shouldn't throw stones." Joanna took a gulp of her Diet Pepsi and let out a belch in response. The chips-and-salsa boy -- whom both Joanna and I had been drooling over since we were able to get to Amigo's on our own -- replenished our supply and chuckled. Joanna was mortified. "Oh my God, Jonathan," she whispered. "What do you think he thinks of me now? I mean, how disgusting am I?" Yay. Damage control. Why did my best friend in the world have to be so typically outgoing, but so spastic around cute members of the male race? I mean, Joanna is pretty, a natural beauty who looks amazing with or without makeup -- but she still feels she has to wear it to get guys to notice her. (It's always sort of bugged me.) She's got shoulder-length dirty-blonde hair that bounces when she walks, just like shampoo commercials say that hair should. Her skin is TV-star flawless, and she has pale blue eyes. She works relatively hard on her body, and that -- coupled with a rapid metabolism -- shows in her tight, fat-free frame. At five-foot-eight, she stares right into my matching blue eyes. But despite what she's got going for her, she never seems to get the good guys. Call it dumb luck or a curse or whatever, but it can really get to her. Which then sometimes leads to wallowing in sel