by Sarah Kuhn
“Ow!” I yelped, batting her hand. “Can you not? I haven’t developed those biceps of steel yet.”
“Nor will you ever, given your current nonexistent workout routine,” Aveda sniffed. “I just didn’t realize Mouse Evie was so hornt up.”
“She kind of wasn’t,” I said. “But I think she kept hoping that sex with Richard would somehow magically get better the more we did it. Or maybe she just didn’t realize it was bad—remember, my only other sexual experience at that point was with Scott during prom, and it was not good. I don’t think I quite realized that I was supposed to enjoy myself, you know? Anyway, he just wrinkled his nose and told me to come back when I wasn’t so sloppy.”
“Ugh,” Aveda said. “He just keeps getting worse and worse with every story you tell.”
“I called a cab I couldn’t afford,” I remembered. “All the way back to the city. I felt so humiliated. And when I got home . . .” I hesitated, and was surprised to feel my throat tighten. I forged on, focusing on Michelle and her amazing hair for strength. “Bea was curled up in the tiniest little ball in my bed. She had a hundred and two degree fever.”
It was shocking how quickly the feelings I’d had in that moment came flooding back: the sickly heat of Bea’s skin when I’d pressed a hand to her forehead, the sudden sensation of the walls closing in, the toxic bubble of guilt that threatened to overwhelm me. I’d managed to get my baby sister to the hospital, where she’d stayed for three days with a severe case of that year’s flu. I’d fallen way behind on my schoolwork, but I didn’t care—I just wanted her to be okay.
“Evie.” Aveda touched my hand. “I remember this a little—Bea being in the hospital and such. When I asked if you needed anything, if you wanted me to come be with you . . . you said no. That everything was fine. But it wasn’t fine, was it?”
“No, I guess it wasn’t,” I said, my gaze drifting away from Michelle. “But at that point in my life, I was so focused on keeping anything I was feeling on total lockdown, and on just getting through the day without letting on how hard it was. I don’t think I even admitted to myself how hard it was.” I turned and smiled at her. “And anyway, you and I weren’t quite in the place of trust that we are now.”
“True,” Aveda said, studying my face. “But this is convincing me even more that you should take this opportunity to do all the stuff you never got to do. Like enjoy yourself at a freaking dorm party.”
“You mean we should rage all night and spend the next day skipping class and going all in on the big, greasy breakfast hangover cure?” I rested a hand on my stomach. “I don’t think I can do that right now.”
“Okay, maybe not exactly that.” Aveda squeezed my hand. “But we can at least have fun, no?” She grinned at me, a mischievous smile playing over her lips. “You should call Nate. I know he made it through med school, but I don’t think he had the most fun college experience either, being on the run from his evil demon mom and all. Maybe the two of you could have fun together.”
I shook my head. “I don’t—”
“I mean sex,” Aveda said.
“I got that. I just meant . . .” I frowned, staring into space. “We’re not communicating very well at the moment.”
“You mentioned that you had a fight last night,” Aveda said. “But maybe that would be a good way to make up? What were you fighting about, anyway?”
“I . . .” I trailed off, trying not to let the frustration I’d felt the night before overwhelm me. “He wanted me to come back to HQ with him, give up on the mission and let you do it yourself. He’s worried about me—my health. But also . . .” I curled my raggedy nails against my palms. “He thinks Shasta might be back.”
“What?!” Aveda shook her head at me. “Why?”
“A combination of underground chatter and some dreams he’s been having,” I said. “I don’t know. I . . . I hate seeing him like this. I hate that he’s worried. But I feel like he’s smothering me right now, and I don’t know how to convince him that I’m really, really fine. Anyway. I think it’s better for us to make this a girls’ night.”
“In the midst of our Slot and Kayley superheroine detective work,” Aveda said, studying me. I could tell there was something she wasn’t quite saying—but she was trying to let it go.
“Scott and Bailey,” I corrected, happy to change the subject. “But speaking of detective work, what’s our plan for tonight? I’m going to try to casually talk to Shelby, building on our obvious mutual disdain for Richard and all the meaningful eye contact we made during class.”
“Perfect,” Aveda said, nodding. “Meanwhile, I’ll be trying to speak to one Tess Gonzalez, the Bio student I was trying to track down today—they weren’t in class, but they do live in Mara Dash, so I’m hoping they’ll be there tonight.”
“You’ll have to drink enough for both of us,” I said, pushing off from the bed and getting to my feet. “Since I can’t partake right now.” I stood in front of the mirror, considering my reflection. Aveda joined me, resting her arm on my shoulder and leaning against me.
After chatting with a few of our dorm neighbors, we’d concluded that tonight’s dorm party dress code was casual and comfy, but a step up from wearing actual pajamas. Aveda had taken it upon herself to customize a pair of oversized Morgan College t-shirts for us, chopping off the sleeves and cutting out the necklines so they fell a bit off our shoulders, Flashdance style. We’d paired the shirts with black leggings and sneakers. I was wearing my usual beat-up pair of Chuck Taylors. Aveda, who didn’t really do sneakers unless she was exercising, had purchased a brand-new pair. They were white, pristine, and looked like she’d worn them right out of the store.
“I appreciate your dedication to our undercover disguises,” I said, cocking an eyebrow at her reflection in the mirror. “But you might want to dirty those shoes up before the party—you know, to look like you’ve actually worn sneakers before. Ever. In your life.”
“Hmm . . .” Aveda’s brow crinkled as she looked down at her feet. “You’re probably right. I think I saw a big ol’ patch of mud outside, next to the top of the hill. Maybe I’ll pay that a little visit before the party.”
I couldn’t help but grin, picturing Aveda Jupiter stomping through the mud, face screwed into a look of grim determination.
“Our jobs are pretty ridiculous sometimes,” Aveda said.
She linked her arm through mine, resting her head on my shoulder. For a moment, we did look like carefree college girls, getting ready for a party. About to have the time of our lives, nothing else to worry about.
A surprising swell of warmth rose in my chest.
“Our jobs are ridiculous,” I said. “But there’s no one I’d rather do this with.”
CHAPTER NINE
AFTER AVEDA MUDDIED her shoes to the desired level of griminess, we made our way to the party. I’d only been to the one dorm party in my entire life, so the scene gave me that reverse déjà vu—the sense I was somehow experiencing a version of my life that never quite played out.
The party was in the big TV/rec room in the dorm’s basement, a dark, dusty space with a pair of beat-up slouchy couches that had been pushed into opposite corners. Aveda and I had of course arrived unfashionably early, so girls were just starting to filter in, plopping themselves on the couches and hanging awkwardly in the wide open space of the room, not quite ready to start dancing (or whatever kids did these days at dorm parties).
The back of the room was dominated by the bar setup, a pair of long tables squished together and covered by what appeared to be someone’s flowered sheets. Plastic cups and buckets of ice sat at one end, and the middle was taken up by an eclectic collection of alcohol that had obviously been purchased for its extremely desirable low price point. I didn’t think I’d ever seen so many screw-top wine bottles in one place. A passing attempt had been made at Halloween decorations, tiny confetti shaped like witch
es’ hats dotting the tablecloth.
But the end of the bar was clearly the main event: it featured two gigantic crystal punch bowls (which, upon closer inspection, revealed themselves to be made of plastic and still sporting stickers from the ninety-nine cent store) filled to the brim with a liquid so violently bright pink, it practically glowed under the dim basement lighting.
“Wow, that looks like some very special punch,” I said. “I’m guessing it’s one part Kool-Aid, ninety-nine parts alcohol.”
“Ooh,” Aveda said, her eyes narrowing shrewdly. “I better sample some—sounds like a true collegiate experience.”
“And one you’ll need to have without me. Since I can’t drink at the moment.”
“Let’s go chat up the bartender.” Aveda nodded toward the girl behind the bar. She was short and slight, clad in a cute blue fit-and-flare dress that had a vintage vibe to it—our friend Shruti, who owned a fabulous boutique, would be able to tell me the exact era. The bottom of her hair was curled in a little flip and she’d finished the look off with a blue headband that matched her dress. She was looking out at the partygoers with a bright, inquisitive expression, like she really wanted you to ask her for more details on the punch. “Bartenders always know what’s up, yes?” Aveda continued. “Perhaps she can help us get the lay of the land—and maybe she can help me find Tess.”
She gave an authoritative nod, then straightened her ponytail and marched toward the bar.
I shook my head and followed her, hiding my smile. Even though she was undercover, even though she was wearing muddy Chuck Taylors and Angelica Chin’s face . . . Aveda couldn’t help but look nothing less than Extremely Aveda Jupiter. She was on a mission, and she meant to accomplish it. I tried to make my walk more casual, more loping, more college student-like.
“Greetings,” Aveda said, giving the perky girl behind the bar a big smile and an overly grand wave. “Your punch looks excellent—the color is so vibrant! And we were wondering if you would be so kind as to pour us two glasses.”
“Just one glass of the punch, I don’t drink—I’ll take a Coke,” I said, stifling a full-on laugh. Aveda was currently evoking that meme with Steve Buscemi toting a skateboard and greeting some teenagers with an overly casual “How do you do, fellow kids?”
“We have both alcoholic and non-alcoholic versions,” the bartender said brightly, gesturing to the two punch bowls. Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “Would you like one of each?”
“Would we ever,” Aveda said, beaming even harder. “And we thank you so very much for that. We were wondering: you being the bartender, you must know everything about everything. And everyone.”
“I know a fair bit,” Perky Bartender said, grabbing two plastic cups with gusto. “Who are you wondering about? Do you have . . . a crush?” She gave Aveda a conspiratorial wink.
“Mmm, not exactly,” Aveda said, her eyes darting back and forth. “More like, an, um . . . curiosity. There’s this fellow student who everyone, I mean everyone, says I would be total best friends with, but we seem to keep missing each other. Tess Gonzalez?”
“Ah, Tess!” Perky Bartender said, filling our cups. “They’re real swell.”
“Are they here, then?” Aveda asked, turning to scan the room.
“Ahhh . . .” Perky Bartender’s expression dimmed a bit. “I think they went . . .” The bartender gestured vaguely with one of the cups. “. . . somewhere around here.”
“Oh,” Aveda said. “Do you have any idea where around here? And can you tell me what they look like? I keep hearing about them, but they don’t seem to have any social media that shows their actual face . . .”
“Hmm, they’re hard to describe. They have like . . .” Perky Bartender waved a hand around her head. “. . . hair?”
“Wonderful,” Aveda said through gritted teeth. I could tell Perky Bartender was trying her patience. “That helps so much.”
“Who are Tess’s friends?” I asked, looking for another way in. “Maybe they can help us find them.”
“Over there,” Perky Bartender said, making another vague hand gesture toward the couch on the far right side of the room. “Wait, who’s over there?” She squinted in the couch’s direction. “Yes, them. They should be able to help you.” She handed us the two cups, then reinstated her big, perky smile. “Tips are appreciated.”
“Uh, right,” I said, fishing around in my leggings pocket.
Aveda was giving Perky Bartender a murderous look—the kind that meant she definitely had some tips in mind, and none of them involved money.
I dropped a few dollars in the jar next to the two punch bowls, then swept Aveda away before she could start giving Perky Bartender some unsolicited advice about how to be helpful when you’re unwittingly questioned by two undercover superheroines trying to fit in with “the kids.”
“She was useless,” Aveda said, taking a big gulp of her punch. “Although this is as delicious as promised.” Her eyes widened as she stared into the cup’s hot pink depths. “I wonder what’s in it. It’s so sweet and fruity, I can barely taste any alcohol.”
“That’s how you get fucked up,” I said, taking a sip of my non-alcoholic version. Bright, artificial flavors exploded on my tongue—it was the taste equivalent of getting sprayed by a particularly aggressive confetti cannon. “This is pretty good, though. And the bartender was a little odd, but she did give us one tip—we should go talk to Tess’s friends.” I nodded toward the couch on the right side, my gaze scanning the room. It was really filling up now, the students’ voices getting louder as they drank more punch.
One girl in particular caught my eye: Shelby Tran, slumped on the couch on the left side of the room. She had a plastic cup of punch clutched in her hand, but didn’t seem to be drinking it, choosing instead to stare morosely into space as Pippa sat next to her, chattering her ear off.
“There’s Shelby,” I said, nodding toward the girls. “Want to split up, see if we can get double the info?”
“I’ll drink to that,” Aveda said, clinking her plastic cup against mine. “But try to loosen up a little, Evie, you seemed kind of stiff back there.”
“I seemed stiff?” I hooted. “You sounded like a bad acting extra on Downton Abbey.”
“I’m crafting a persona,” she insisted, drawing herself up tall. “College Girl Angelica.”
“College Girl Angelica needs to work on this whole undercover thing,” I said, rolling my eyes at her. “Meet you back at the bar?”
“Work, work,” Aveda sang, trying to do a little “Schuyler Sisters.”
I grinned at her and took off toward Shelby Tran.
“—and it’s just so tragic,” Pippa was saying, throwing her arms out dramatically. Punch sloshed over the rim of the cup she was holding, splashing on Shelby’s jeans. “I mean, Shel, why do you have to get up so early for crew? You can’t go to bed yet, you just can’t, you’re my ride-or-die—”
“Thinking about turning in already?” I said, casually plopping myself down next to them.
“This one is,” Pippa said, jerking her thumb at Shelby. “I’m trying to convince her not to wet blanket herself out of a truly awesome party. We have to start training now if we want to have the best time ever at this year’s Halloween Courtyard Bash.” She nudged Shelby, then turned to me, sizing me up. “Hey, you’re the new TA, right—Ms. Takahashi?”
“Eliza, please,” I said. Pippa was wearing a row of studded bangle bracelets, and they jangled as we shook hands. “And I don’t know that I’ll be returning to class as your TA after the, ah, discussion today.”
“That was fire,” Pippa said, flashing me a grin. “I’m Pippa, and this is Shelby—I guess you already know that. But now we’re formally meeting, yay! And a lot of us have been waiting for someone to tell Professor Covington his discourse on media aimed at young women is hot garbage. He always makes me feel unsure of mysel
f, you know? I thought . . .” She frowned. “I thought maybe Julie would be the one to go off on him. But I guess she’s more of the ‘seethe silently’ type.”
“Wait, Julie—Julie Vũ?” I said, my ears perking up. “She was in that class?”
“Yeah.” Pippa swigged some punch and gave me a quizzical look. “She’s a Film Studies major—it’s like a sub-category of the bigger Pop Culture Studies major? How do you know Julie? You just transferred in here, yeah? I was saying to Shel, I don’t think I’ve seen you around. Although sometimes the grad students like to keep to themselves—no time to party with us lowly undergrads.” She elbowed Shelby in the ribs. Shelby just stared at her drink.
“I did just transfer in,” I said, thinking fast. “But I heard about Julie leaving. Professor Covington informed me his class was down a student, and that she’d withdrawn for the rest of the year. What happened to her?”
Man, the lies were just rolling off my tongue. Richard had informed me of no such thing. I took a big gulp of the confetti cannon punch.
“Actually, I’m not sure.” Pippa pursed her lips and fiddled with one of her bangles. “I honestly don’t know her super well, but one day she was there, and the next day . . . she wasn’t.”
“Does she have any friends who might know?” I pressed. “From the way Professor Covington described her, she seemed very serious about her studies. I’d like to encourage her in that.”
“Man, you’re a really dedicated TA!” Pippa beamed at me. “Nah, Julie doesn’t really have any friends that I know of. She kept to herself. I think she has a younger sister and they live together off-campus, but that’s about it.”
“Really? No other family?” Provost Glennon had told me Julie and “her family” wanted to put all this behind them. Was that part of some elaborate story she’d concocted about Julie’s departure from Morgan?
“Not that I know of,” Pippa said, her expression turning curious. “But like I said, I don’t know her super well.”
