Seventeen-year old first year college student Josie Clarke would prefer not to blush the colour crimson at every little thing, but Idiopathic Craniofacial Erythema, a chronic facial condition doesn't play fair.
In fact, it's as uncontrollable...
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We arrive late, or early, if Libby's to be believed.
Apparently turning up before eleven is completely amateur, which Max and I both are and it makes me feel even more nervous about tonight.
Conning mine and Libby's parents into a sleepover switch-a-roo is one thing, but actually having to look and be cool at a stranger's party is something else entirely nerve-wracking.
Leading us along the pathway to an imposing house, set far back from the road, Libby moans at us for looking like we're about to enter a lion's den.
"It's a party guys, try and look like you're at least up for having some fun," she drawls, ringing the comically large bell next to a huge oak front door.
"Trying," Max says, fussing about with his shirt cuffs and then his hair, which is pushed back into a messy quiff. "Kind of hard when you're technically crashing it though."
"Maybe they're not in," I try and joke, when no one comes to the door.
To my side, Max sarcastically mumbles what ashame and Libby shoots him a withering look.
Our mutual apprehension and reluctance to be here builds when she rings the bell again, but it's soon squashed as the door swings open and we're greeted with drunken apathy. A guy with spiky blond hair smiles and turns to re-join the party.
As we slip in, I realise that everyone's past the point of caring because their far beyond the point of being sober enough too.
"Have fun then," Libby grins, pulling a bottle of peach schnapps from her backpack. "Enjoy."
I half nod as Max wedges himself against the hallway wall while a group of guys charge through, holding a crate of beer aloft and their t-shirts.
Before Libby can disappear into the living room to join them and others that filter in, I remind her to meet us in the garden in an hour or so. And as she giddily unscrews the cap from her schnapps I make her promise she won't drink too much.
"Yes mum," she snorts and then she's gone, leaving Max looking horribly awkward and me with the knowing feeling that she won't listen to a word I've said.
Bumping into his arm as the music pulses so loud it makes my skin tingle and chest swell, I point towards the kitchen and open doors for the garden. "Ready for the biggest party before prom?"
Max laughs at my impression of Libby and nods. "If I must." And he follows behind and cracks jokes over the roar of music about the state of the young high schoolers and sixth formers we pass.
It's a battle to reach the other side and we hover in the corner of the large kitchen for a while, trying to plan for our escape.
"We might be stuck here all night," Max groans when two girls climb on top of the breakfast table and start to kiss, egged on by drunk boys and girls who circle. Jokily, Max covers his eyes and lifts his hand over mine.
