Chapter 3 #2
One by one, the contestants go: a werewolf with perfectly shaded abs, a goth Maleficent, a gender-swapped Thor in silver hotpants. Then it’s my turn.
I walk. A hush falls over the room, then the cheers rise in a wave, people chanting “Jes-si-ca! Jes-si-ca!” as I reach the end of the tape.
I do a slow turn—almost tripping, but not—and strike a pose.
For a second, it feels like I’ve left my body, like I’m watching a movie about someone braver than me.
Then I retreat, heart pounding, hands shaking so badly I nearly spill my punch. Hunter catches me at the edge of the crowd.
“You killed it, man” he says, eyes wild with pride. “Total knockout.”
Sara hugs me from behind, careful not to displace the dress. “I knew you could.”
I want to say thank you, or maybe never speak again. Instead, I just breathe.
From across the room, I see Aaron still watching, his gaze heavier now. He says something to his friends, then starts moving toward us.
I freeze, but Sara and Hunter close ranks, forming a buffer.
“Showtime,” Hunter says, grinning like a madman.
And as the party swirls around me—music, lights, bodies moving in impossible synchronization—I realize I’m not just surviving this night. I’m at the center of it, burning brighter than I ever thought possible.
—ΠΩ—
I’m still riding the adrenaline aftershock of the contest, which I apparently lost to Lady Thor, when Hunter finds us in the kitchen.
His eyes flicker with the kind of wild glee that means he’s already five steps ahead.
He’s sweating only slightly, which for Hunter means he’s in total control.
He grabs two cups, sloshes them full of the blue punch, and leans in.
“Montgomery,” he says, “I have a once-in-a-lifetime shortcut for you.”
I shake my head before he finishes the sentence. “That’s what the costume contest was supposed to be.”
He ignores me, flashes a smile at Sara—who cocks an eyebrow, unimpressed—then continues, “There’s a game in the back room.
Classic party tradition. You go in, you get paired with a stranger, and the lights are out.
You kiss, then you’re both free to go. No questions asked, no explanations, no names. ”
I snort. “You want me to kiss a total stranger?”
Sara makes a face, halfway between skeptical and curious. “What’s the catch?”
Hunter’s eyes narrow. “No catch. One kiss and you’re done. It’ll satisfy the terms of the bet. You make an appearance, you participate, then you can peace out early. Everyone wins.”
I stare at my drink. The cup sweats in my grip, the plastic warped into an oval where my thumb presses into the seam.
I try to picture it—me, in this Jessica getup, stumbling into a closet with some random Pi Omega pledge and swapping spit for a laugh.
The thought is enough to make my scalp crawl, or maybe that’s just the wig again.
“I don’t know,” I say. “What if it’s someone I know?”
Hunter shrugs. “Who cares? That’s the beauty of it.”
Sara looks at me sideways. “Where’s the harm? I say go for it. And you can blame the punch if it goes sideways.”
Hunter beams at her, victorious. “See? Even Sara agrees.”
I open my mouth to protest, but Hunter is already moving, signaling with two fingers to someone across the room. “Gotta get in line, though. It’s a crowd-pleaser. Come on.”
He steers us out of the kitchen and down a hallway lit by blacklight, the walls plastered with old event flyers and neon graffiti. Each step sinks my resolve a little deeper, but I keep walking, afraid of the spectacle if I bail now.
The back room is dim, filled with low, predatory laughter and the sound of a playlist even worse than the one in the living room.
A couple of guys in sports jerseys lean against the wall, snickering at each other.
There’s a short line by a black curtain.
A sheet of notebook paper tacked to the door says “KISSING CLOSET: CONSENT = SEXY” in Sharpie.
Hunter positions me at the end of the line. “I’ll be right back,” he says, then disappears.
Sara, for once, seems at a loss for words. She fiddles with her phone, then glances up at me. “How are you doing?” she says quietly.
“Fine,” I lie. “Totally fine.”
“You want to leave?”
“I wouldn’t be in this line if I didn’t.” I glance up as a costumed couple exits the closest. “It’s just a kiss. Right?”
“Right.” She squeezes my forearm. Her hand is steady, but I can see her chewing the inside of her cheek, the way she does before a difficult quiz or a bad date. “If you want me to run interference, I can.”
The idea is comforting, but I’m not sure what that would even look like. “Maybe just wait out here. In case I collapse.”
She gives me a crooked grin. “Deal.”
The line inches forward. A girl in a toga repeats the instructions to the next person: “You go in, the lights are off, someone from the other line will enter. You have sixty seconds, and then you both come out. The safe word is ‘jalapeno.’”
Two people enter separately, one from my line and one from a line around the corner, then a minute later, they emerge—sometimes giggling, sometimes stone-faced, sometimes refusing to look at each other at all. The anticipation is worse than the deed, I decide.
I try to keep my eyes down, but I notice people staring—some with blank party faces, some with open fascination. I’m not sure if they’re trying to guess if I’m a guy or a girl or just reveling in the spectacle. For once, I don’t care. I’m more focused on keeping my knees from giving out.
“Next!” the toga girl shouts.
The person ahead of me vanishes into the closet. I’m on deck. I can hear the blood in my ears, the rushing sound almost drowning out the music.
Hunter reappears at my elbow, breathing hard. “You’re up next,” he says, barely disguising the glee in his voice.
I glare at him. “This is all part of your master plan, isn’t it?”
He looks at me, eyes shining. “You’re going to crush it, Spence. Remember. Play the part. It’s just one minute in the dark. Then you never have to see them again.”
I want to ask if he’s rigged the lineup, if there’s an ulterior motive to this match, but the curtain opens and the toga girl waves me forward.
Sara touches my wrist one last time. “You got this,” she whispers.
I step through the curtain. The darkness is total, thick and absolute. There’s a faint chemical tang—perfume, or maybe Febreze. I hear the door close behind me, and I stand there, paralyzed.
A voice in the dark, low and uncertain: “Uh… hey?”
I know that voice. I would recognize it anywhere.
My heart spikes. “Hey,” I manage, pitching it higher, more breathy. Jessica, not Spencer.
There’s a beat of silence, then the unmistakable sound of Aaron Thompson clearing his throat. “So, uh. Guess we just…?”
I can’t see him, but I can feel him, the heat of his body, the shifting of weight in the tiny space.
“It’s tradition, I think,” I say, half a joke.
He laughs, nervous but not unkind. “Yeah. Guess we’d better not ruin the party.”
I have no idea how to proceed. I don’t know where he is, where his hands might be, if he’s as scared as I am or if he’s just bored and waiting for it to be over.
I reach out, fingers trembling, and brush against his arm. He’s close—closer than I thought. He inhales, sharp.
“You smell really good,” he says, surprised.
Sara’s perfume. I almost laugh.
I move my hand up, feeling the fabric of his Deadpool suit. There’s no mask now; I feel bare skin under my palm. He leans forward, tentative, and I realize he’s giving me the lead.
The urge to run is overwhelming. But there’s something else, too—a flutter of excitement, the potential for chaos, the possibility that for once, I could be someone else. Someone who isn’t afraid.
I take a small step, and his lips find mine.
It’s nothing like I expect. Soft, careful, a test. His hands rest gently at my waist, then flex, just barely tightening. I’m hyperaware of the pressure of his mouth, the taste of beer and candy, the faintest tremor in his breath. He’s holding back, maybe unsure, maybe just polite.
I remember what Hunter said: play the part.
I lean into it, just a little. My mouth opens, not much, but enough for him to get the message. His tongue flicks at my lip, then retreats. He makes a low sound in his throat, almost a laugh.
“Is this—okay?” he asks, lips grazing mine.
I want to say yes, but the word sticks in my throat. Instead, I kiss him again, and this time he responds with more certainty, hands rising to my lower back, bodies aligning in the small, dark space. It’s warm, and a little desperate, and for sixty seconds I lose track of who I am supposed to be.
There’s a knock on the door. “Time’s up!” the toga girl calls.
Aaron pulls away, breathless. “Wow,” he says, and then seems to catch himself. “Sorry, that was—um. You’re really good at this.”
I smile, even though he can’t see it. “You too.”
There’s a moment of awkward silence, and then he opens the door a crack. Light spills in, bleaching the moment away.
“After you,” he says, voice lower.
I’m still vibrating when I step out of the closet, the world so bright and loud it hurts.
My whole face tingles, lips electric and raw.
Sara’s there, hands cupped around a solo cup, eyes locked on me.
She doesn’t say anything, just gives a tiny nod and the barest lift of a brow.
For some reason, that’s enough to keep my knees from buckling.
“Are you okay?” she whispers.
I nod, too overwhelmed to speak.
“See you around,” he says, almost shy, as he brushes my arm in passing.
“Yeah,” I say, barely above a whisper.
Already across the room, Aaron chats with his friends beside a keg. He’s got the Deadpool mask in one hand, his hair a little mussed. He looks up and catches my gaze.
I can’t read the look on his face. Did he recognize me? Did he even see me in the darkness, or did I just taste like a dare, a random in the chemical fog of the night? The thought should be a relief, but instead it lodges somewhere deep in my chest, sharp and cold.
I start to think he knows, really knows, but then his expression flickers and he’s back to party mode.
Hunter appears, grinning like a wolf. “Well?”
I glare at him, but it’s half-hearted. “You’re evil.”
He bows. “Thank you, thank you. But you did all the work.”
Sara takes my hand and squeezes, her smile tinged with pride and something else—envy, maybe, or nostalgia. “You’re a legend,” she says, and this time, I almost believe her.
Hunter pulls us away from the crowd, his arm slung around both our shoulders. “Let’s get out of here. I think we’ve done enough damage for one night.”
We weave through the kitchen, dodging the banana and pizza boys, and out into the relative calm of the night.
We leave the Pi Omega house behind, the bass and laughter receding into the crisp air.
The campus is nearly empty, lit only by a few streetlights and the moon, which glows the same plastic white as the costume wig in my peripheral vision.
We walk in silence for a while, our breaths fogging in the chill.
Finally, Sara says, “Was it as bad as you thought?”
I shake my head. “It was… weird. But not bad.”
Hunter grins, squeezing my shoulder. “That’s the spirit.”
We walk together, three weirdos in their Halloween best, lit by the glow of streetlights and our own residual highs. When we reach the steps of my building, Sara turns to me and says, “You were amazing tonight.”
I want to believe it. Maybe, for the first time, I do.
Hunter ruffles my wig, careful not to mess up Sara’s masterpiece. “You broke the mold, Montgomery. Next year’s gonna have to be pretty epic to top this.”
I laugh, and it sounds real. “Never again,” I say, but even I don’t believe it.
In the safety of my room, I peel off the dress, the wig, the layers of transformation. Underneath it all, I’m still myself, but something is different—lighter, maybe. Or just more awake.
I shower then fall onto my bed, eyes closed, the taste of blue punch and adrenaline still lingering on my tongue.
I don’t know what comes next, but for the first time, I think maybe I want to find out.