Chapter 3
The Pi Omega house shudders with subwoofers, a living, breathing monster of thumping bass and sweat and too-bright LEDs strobing the front porch like a cop car.
For a wild second I consider faking a medical emergency and bailing, but Sara has my wrist in a death grip and Hunter’s already halfway up the steps, a low-slung leather whip coiled at his belt for maximum Indiana Jones effect.
I hover in the shadow of the doorway, the sequined red dress glued to my chest like a second skin, the wig itching worse than mosquito bites in August, and for the first time in years, I wish I had a vape, or a valium, or a time machine.
Sara tugs me inside. We pass through a knot of half-familiar faces, none of them clocking me for more than a heartbeat before moving on.
I register only fragments—a firefighter helmet, plastic devil horns, a full-bodied Pikachu so yellow it leaves afterimages.
The entryway is a graveyard of discarded solo cups and empty chip bags, the smell a chemical fog of J?ger and Pine-Sol and something sweetly rotten beneath.
My feet—strapped into too-tight purple stilettos, the closest wearable size at Goodwill—slide a little on the sticky hardwood.
“Just keep moving,” Sara murmurs, steering me with gentle but absolute force. Her hand is warm and small in the crook of my elbow. “The faster we blend, the less anyone cares.”
I want to correct her—there is no way to blend when you’re a six-foot cartoon sex bomb—but I don’t trust my voice not to betray me, so I just nod.
I blink, my eyes still re-adjusting to the contacts I keep for times when glasses just won’t work.
Every nerve ending from my cheekbones to my shins buzzes with static.
I can feel the eyes, the ripple of interest as we push deeper toward the kitchen.
“Hunter’s gone full reconnaissance,” Sara says, tilting her chin to where our mutual friend is already holding court at the keg, surrounded by a double ring of costumed undergrads. “I give him fifteen minutes before he’s invented a drinking game and/or started a small fire.”
I glance through the haze. Hunter’s in his element: sleeves rolled, forearms gleaming, a whip crack away from narrating his own highlight reel.
The crowd orbits him, helpless. For the first time, I feel a flicker of gratitude—this is Hunter’s show, his chaos engine, and maybe I can just play the prop for one night.
No pressure to ad lib, just stand here and look vaguely like myself in an alternate universe.
A crash from the living room, then a chorus of whoops. Two frat boys in minotaur masks arm-wrestle on the dining table, egged on by a mob. Sara navigates us past them and into the kitchen, where the air is marginally less humid but twice as loud.
“Drink?” Sara asks, gesturing at a cauldron of electric blue punch.
I stare at the options: the cauldron, a row of sodas, a bucket of ice filled with unlabeled beer cans. “Any idea what’s in the punch?”
She grins. “Probably everything you fear.”
I shudder and fill a cup halfway. The punch is so sweet it burns, like Gatorade with an existential crisis. I’m about to ask if it’s normal to taste the color, when Sara whispers, “Don’t look now, but I think you have some admirers.”
I follow her gaze to a cluster of girls by the fridge. One is Cleopatra, her gold headpiece listing to one side; another wears a slinky black cat suit with cat ears. They’re staring at me—not at us, at me—and their expressions are a fractal of curiosity, confusion, and what might even be respect.
Cleopatra nudges her friend and stage-whispers, “That’s actually incredible. The makeup? Like, fuck, whoever did it, is a true artist.”
Catgirl gives a thumbs-up and mouths, “You slay, babe,” then turns back to the fridge. Just like that, the moment passes.
Sara beams. “Told you.”
I’m not sure if I want to hide in the pantry or climb onto the table and claim my Oscar. The paradox hums inside me. This is the most visible I’ve ever been, and it’s somehow safer than being ignored. I take another sip of punch, this time letting it sting.
From the other end of the kitchen, Hunter waves us over. “Mission update!” he calls, already slightly flushed.
Sara tucks my arm in hers, and we shuffle our way through a gauntlet of sticky spills and wandering elbows.
At every step, I feel the dress resisting my movement, the weight of the wig shifting on my scalp.
I force myself to keep my chin up, imagining the camera angles, the GIFs and Snapchats already ricocheting through the party.
“Report,” Sara says as we reach Hunter, who’s cradling a red cup in one hand and the keg tap in the other.
He leans in, glancing around like he’s undercover. “Our VIP is upstairs. Thompson.”
My stomach churns. A part of me had hoped he wouldn’t show.
Hunter takes a swig of beer. “He’s in a Deadpool costume. Full mask, gloves, the works. And I have a plan.”
Sara gives me a sideways look. “Not sure that’s a comfort.”
Hunter shrugs. “Don’t sweat it, Monty. Just avoid him, enjoy the party, and leave everything to me.” Hunter disappears into another room.
Sara elbows me gently. “You good?”
I’m not, but I fake it. “Yeah. It’s just hot in here.” My upper lip is slick with sweat, but Sara’s contouring job holds up, blurring the evidence.
“Let’s get some air,” she suggests.
The backyard is less crowded, lit by string lights strung between trees and a firepit throwing off crackling heat. We slip outside and hover at the edge of the patio, scanning for a patch of silence.
It’s easier to breathe here, and for the first time I realize how long I’ve been clenching my teeth. Sara moves to stand in front of me, blocking my view of the house.
She studies my face. “If you want to bail, I’ll cover for you.”
I swallow, then shake my head. “No. I can do this.”
She squeezes my hand. “You really look amazing, Spence.”
I want to believe her. Instead, I stare at my reflection in the glass door, the way the wig flares around my jaw, how the dress reshapes my body into someone halfway between a joke and a fantasy. I try to picture the effect from a stranger’s perspective. I almost succeed.
The patio side door bursts open, and a guy in a banana costume stumbles out, trailing laughter and spilled beer. He catches sight of me and stops cold.
“Oh my god,” he says, voice cracking. “Jessica Rabbit. That’s… wow.” He shakes his head as if to reset it, then points at me with genuine delight. “Best costume. Hands down.”
His friend, a guy in a pizza onesie, nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, you win. Like, no contest.”
I thank them, voice pitched in what I hope is a flirty tone. The banana guy laughs, then claps me on the shoulder a little too hard and disappears into the night.
Sara’s eyes glint with amusement. “See? You’re a sensation.”
For a second I feel it—the weight of all those years spent invisible, canceled out by the sudden, ferocious attention. It’s terrifying and addictive. I wonder if this is how Hunter feels all the time: alive in every nerve, craving the next hit of recognition.
We drift back inside. The house is louder, the music now a remix of something that was never meant to be remixed.
Hunter is at the epicenter of a drinking game, refereeing with a devilish gleam, but he spots us and signals with a tilt of his cup.
I sense he has formed a plan, but I’m not sure I want to know what it is.
Sara and I settle at the base of the staircase, half-sheltered by a tattered spiderweb decoration. She watches the room, always scanning for threat or opportunity. I focus on my breathing, on keeping the wig from slipping, on not letting the sequins cut into my ribs every time I twist.
And then, across the living room, I see him.
Aaron Thompson stands with a squadron of his usual lieutenants, the Deadpool mask pushed up so his face is visible.
Even at a distance, I recognize his posture—the cocky lean, the way he dominates the space around him without moving.
He’s talking to a girl in a nurse costume, but his eyes keep darting past her, searching the room.
He catches sight of me. For one sickening heartbeat, I think he recognizes me, but then his mouth quirks up in a way I’ve seen a thousand times: appraisal, not recognition. The look he gives me is slow, deliberate, and a little hungry. It lands like a jolt of current up my spine.
Sara notices. “He’s looking at you,” she whispers.
“No way,” I say, but it’s true—he’s staring, and now so is half the room.
Sara grins. “I think you have a fan.”
I want to disappear.
Hunter materializes at my side. “Okay, this is perfect,” he says. “We need to get you into the main room. There’s a contest at ten, and I want you front and center.”
I balk. “Absolutely not.”
Sara looks at me, then at Hunter. “What kind of contest?”
Hunter shrugs. “Costume walk-off. You don’t have to say anything, just walk, pose, then get off the stage.” He leans in, dropping his voice. “If you win, no more bets for the rest of the semester. Swear to god.”
It’s a hell of a prize, and we both know it.
Sara touches my wrist. “You’ve already done the hard part. This is just a parade.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, feeling the grit of Sara’s lipliner still holding. “Okay,” I say. “But after, we leave.”
Hunter salutes. “Deal.”
We move toward the living room, Hunter running interference like a pro, Sara keeping pace behind me. The press of bodies is suffocating, but also liberating—I’m just another spectacle, another burst of color in the human centrifuge.
The contest is chaos. Someone shouts my name—Jessica, not Spencer—and there’s a roar of approval as I take my place near the makeshift runway: a strip of black duct tape down the center of the room.
I keep my head high, remembering Sara’s walk, the way she made it look like a challenge and a promise all at once.