“Wow,” I manage. “I know I’ve seen it before, but you look great.”
“You too, Thelma,” he returns, gesturing to my dated ensemble. “Don’t even think about letting all this go to waste.”
I’m wearing the tight, high-waisted jeans and a denim shirt Marcela transformed with a pair of scissors and a spool of thread so it’s sleeveless and ties in the front just below my belly button. We’d found a curly orange wig at the drugstore and topped off everything with red lipstick, sunglasses, and a plastic pistol. I thought I looked pretty good, but without Louise, I just look like a trashy criminal. The reason the movie’s so awesome is because they’re a team. And now I’m flying solo. As always.
I force a smile and take another sip of beer. “I won’t,” I lie. As soon as Kellan leaves I’m shucking this denim and pouting in bed.
“Nuh-huh.” He sets his jaw and stubbornly shakes his head. “The second I leave you’re going to take off that costume and cry yourself to sleep.”
My mouth falls open. “That is so far from true—”
“Fine,” he says. “You don’t go, I don’t go.” He starts to undo his tie.
“You have to go,” I protest. “Every girl on campus will bawl her head off if you don’t. And half the guys, too.”
“I’m not going to leave you home alone on the one night you’re supposed to have fun. I know you aced those assignments, now get your ass out the door.”
“I can’t go as Thelma—”
“Where’s Louise’s outfit? I’ll go as Louise if you need a partner.”
I laugh at the idea of Kellan squeezing into Marcela’s size four jeans. “The outfit is at her place. There’s nothing here.”
“Fine. Do you have a business suit? I need a Lois Lane.”
I think we both know there will be at least a dozen Lois Lanes at tonight’s party. As soon as word got out that Kellan was going as Clark Kent—and maybe a few people knew Crosbie would be Superman—Lois became the campus’s most popular costume idea.
“Of course I don’t have a business suit. I work at a coffee shop.”
Kellan crosses his arms and manages to look terribly sexy doing so. “Then figure something out. Because we’re spending this night together, Nora—whether it’s here or there is up to you.”
I run an exasperated hand through my fake hair. “Kellan, just go, please. I’ll come later.”
“Liar.”
I totally am. “I don’t have—”
“You have a white sheet? Be a ghost.”
“I—”
“Or put on that outfit you wore the day we first met. We’ll stick a book in your hand and call you a librarian. Wait—that’s too close to the truth.”
“Har har.”
He sticks out his tongue, refastens his tie, and tosses me my coat from the back of the chair. “Get your ass out the door, Thelma. You don’t need Louise to have fun.”
I suck in a breath, then slowly exhale as I shrug into my coat. Okay, maybe I am overreacting a little bit. I’m just not someone who knows how to show up to a party alone and not stand around awkwardly. But if I’m showing up with Kellan McVey, I won’t be alone, will I? And if things go south, I can just head home early—we’ve already established I’m virtually invisible at frat houses, anyway.
“When was the last time you went to a party?” Kellan asks as we trudge through the cold night. Leaves crunch under our feet and our breath puffs out in white clouds as we make the fifteen minute trek.
“Last year,” I say, stuffing my hands in my pocket.
“Last year?”
“I mean, last school year,” I amend. “Late spring.” Specifically the Alpha Sigma Phi May Madness party where we screwed in a coat closet and you followed it up by getting a blowjob from some girl while a crowd looked on. Remember? No?
“Did you have fun?”
I hedge. “Mmm.”
“Crosbie said you almost flunked out.”
“Yeah.” I shoot him a smile. “I had a little too much fun.”
He smiles back. “I hear you. So did I.”
“You’re still having fun,” I point out. He’s been more than true to our promise not to bring dates home—I never hear him having sex, never see anyone sneaking out in the mornings. I know he sleeps out fairly frequently, but I also see him studying regularly and last week he boasted about the B+ he got on an English essay.
“Why not?” he asks, shivering and picking up the pace, forcing me to speed walk to keep up. “I mean, if there’s no one tying you down, why not?”
I frown. That seems like an odd thing for Kellan McVey to say. “Was there?” I ask. “Someone?”
He’s quiet for a second. “Nah,” he says finally. “There’ve been a lot of someones, but no one special.”
Ouch. “I see.”
“What about you?”
I force a smile. “No one special.”
“And tonight? You have anyone in mind? Want me to introduce you? Because honestly, Nora? You’re super hot. And in that outfit, you could have anyone you want.”
I laugh because I can’t help it. “I’m steering clear of green paint,” I say, “otherwise, I’m keeping my options open.”
He gives me a weird look. “Green paint, huh? I’m making a mental note to ask about that in the morning.”
“I’m sure I won’t know what you’re talking about.”
“McVey!”
Ten feet from the front door of the Alpha Sigma Phi house, it’s like a starting whistle has been blown. Every guy and girl in the vicinity start to cry Kellan’s name, and he grins and waves and greets them like the world’s best politician. Almost immediately I feel myself fading into the background.
The walkway leading up to the front door is lined with modified tiki torches, each boasting a severed head with flames licking out the eyes. There are jack-o-lanterns and stuffed black cats, ghosts dangling from bare tree branches, and the entire front lawn is covered in tombstones, many of which appear to have been recently disturbed.
The front door is open, crime scene tape fluttering on either side, chalk outlines of broken bodies etched on the steps and floor. Dance music fights to be heard over shrill screams and ghostly howls, and the laughter of the living is barely audible over the sounds of the dead.
Kellan shoots me an apologetic look over his shoulder as he’s quickly whisked away, some sort of beverage in a plastic skull shoved into his hand. I shiver a little in my coat, wishing I’d come up with an outfit that didn’t bare my midriff and show more than a hint of cleavage. I try not to look uncomfortable as I climb the steps and enter the dim house, every light swapped for either red bulbs or flickering black lights, casting everyone in an eerie glow.
I shrug out of my jacket as I make my way through the throng of writhing bodies, barely miss walking through an enormous web, and finally find a table full of bowls of spiked red punch, tiny spiders and eyeballs peeking out between bubbles.
“It’s not bad,” comes a voice from over my shoulder. “If you don’t mind blood and guts.”
I glance back to see a zombie smiling at me, part of his skull missing, his overalls and plaid shirt covered in blood and gore as his innards spill out. “If it’s got spiders, I’m drinking it,” I say.
He takes in my costume. “Did you come with somebody?”
“Louise got a bad case of food poisoning.”
He ladles punch into my skull cup and pours himself a glass. “Lucky me.” He touches his cup to mine. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
We sip the sickly sweet liquid, dosed heavily with vodka. I try not to wince as it burns on the way down, telling myself it’ll soon wash away all this awkwardness. I came here to have fun, dammit—and I’m going to.
“I’m Max,” the zombie says, extending a hand.
“Nora.” We shake and he smiles and under the gruesome makeup, I think he’s probably quite handsome. “Do you live here?”
He shakes his head. “I did two years ago
, but I moved off campus. I come back for the parties, though. Are you in a sorority?”
“No. My, uh, roommate has friends here.”
“Cool.”
“Thelma!” someone bellows.
I jump back as a bright blue blur cuts between Max and I, zipping around in a circle before coming back to stand beside us, hands on hips, chest proudly thrust out to reveal the iconic S on his skin-tight suit. It’s Crosbie, clad head to toe in spandex, a red cape hanging down his back. Even in the darkness I can see his clearly defined muscles, and just as quickly as I notice, I chastise myself for noticing.
“Hey, Cros,” Max says dryly.
Crosbie spares him a formal nod. “Maxwell.”
Max rolls his eyes.
Then Crosbie takes my arm. “Let me borrow Thelma for a minute, would you? I need her help with something.”
“I didn’t think Superman had a sidekick,” I say as he drags me through the crowd to the staircase. I grab the banister before he can pull me up. “What’s going on?”
“Kellan told me your friend bailed,” Crosbie explains. He stopped when I stopped, so now he’s one step up, looking down at me. “And he said you wanted to meet somebody. Well, I’m here to help.”
“I’m pretty sure Superman’s skills can be put to better use. Plus, if you didn’t notice, I was talking to someone.”
“You do not want to hook up with Max Folsom,” he says seriously. “Trust me. Now come on.” He reaches around my shoulder to draw me up the stairs.
“How am I going to meet somebody upstairs when the party’s downstairs?” I ask, trailing him down the hall toward his room.
He pulls a single key from a nearly invisible pocket and unlocks his door. “Vantage point.”
I’m not sure what he means until I follow him inside, watching as he goes to the window and shoves it open. Frosty air rolls in, and when Crosbie gestures for me to crawl through, I peer out cautiously. The window opens onto a small eave that overlooks the front lawn. We’re high enough up that someone would have to crane their neck to see us, but from here we can easily spy on everyone who comes and goes.
“See?” he says, tapping my back to indicate I should start moving, which I carefully do, shivering while I put my coat back on. Crosbie follows, and when I hear glass clink I look over to see two bottles of beer have materialized in his hand.
I accept one after he twists off the cap. “Where’d you get this?”
“Personal stash.” It’s the same local craft brew Kellan drinks. I’d never heard of it until I found it in the fridge one day, and while I don’t drink it often, I’d mentioned once that I liked it.
“This is good,” I say. “Kellan buys it.”
“I know.” Crosbie sips his beer and studies the mass of people below us. Like me, his knees are drawn up to his chest for warmth. There’s about a foot of space between us and the cold shingles chill my ass through my jeans.
“Do you come out here a lot?” I ask when he doesn’t say anything.
He shakes his head. “No. What for?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.” I scan the crowd. I don’t see Kellan or Max or anyone else I recognize. Not that I’m likely to recognize many people given my determined homebody status. “What was wrong with Max?”
“The Walking Douche?” Crosbie asks, angling an unimpressed look my way. “We call him that even without the zombie getup.”
“He seemed nice.”
“You can do better.” He tips his bottle at a guy dressed as a lumberjack. He’s even carrying a fire log. “How about him?”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know. He’s probably getting a degree in forestry. Smart and environmentally friendly—doesn’t get much better than that.”
The guy drops the log and promptly pukes behind one of the tombstones.
“Not him,” I say at the same moment Crosbie says, “Moving right along.” He scans the crowd and points at someone dressed in chef whites. Even from here we can hear him cursing viciously at people in a British accent.
“Seriously?”
“What? It’s Gordon Ramsay. He can cook you breakfast in the morning.”
“After calling me names all night.”
“Some girls are into that.”
I drink my beer. “I’m not.”
Crosbie smirks. “I didn’t think so. Okay—what about him?” I swat his hand when he points to a guy dressed in a long blond wig and red bathing suit, Lifeguard stenciled across the chest, pubes poking out at his crotch.
“Pamela Anderson?”
“Bet he’s good at mouth to mouth.”
“You’re terrible,” I accuse. “I think you brought me out here because you need assistance finding somebody.”
He grins. “I don’t need your help, Nora.”
I think of his abruptly-ending list. “Really? I think you might.” I tap my chin and study the selection. “Let’s see. How about…her?” I point to a pretty brunette in a predictable cat costume. It’s mean, but Crosbie probably prefers things simple.
“Been there,” he replies. “Done that.”
I mock gag. “Fine. What about her?” I point to a cute ballerina, her blond hair twisted into a high bun, pink satin toe shoes laced up her calves.
“Ugh,” he says. “Too much work getting under that tutu.”
“Good grief.”
He laughs. “I mean, first you’ve gotta get the tutu off, then the body suit, then the leggings… I’m looking for something with a little easier access.”
I hit him in the leg with my empty bottle. “You’re disgusting.” I sit up straighter when I spot a guy dressed as a baseball player. There’s nothing especially creative about the outfit, but I have a thing for athletes, and he’s the definition of tall, dark and handsome.
Crosbie sits up, too. “What are we looking at?”
“Number nine,” I whisper, though he couldn’t possibly hear us. “Do you know him?”
“Ah…” Crosbie scratches his chin. I hear the faint rasp of his five o’clock shadow, and when I glance over he’s closer than before, leaning in to see the guy I’m pointing out. “Yeah,” he says eventually. “His name is Phil. But you don’t want him.”
“I don’t? Why not?”
“Because Thelma hooks up with Brad Pitt,” he answers. “And he’s no Brad Pitt.”
“I’m keeping him on the list,” I say, just as a petite girl dressed in a skimpy schoolgirl costume minces up the walkway. “There,” I say, nodding at her. “That’s the one.”
“You want to hook up with a chick?” Crosbie asks. “I’m all over it. You can use my room. I’ll just sit quietly in the corner and watch. You won’t even know I’m there.”
“For you, jerk. Short skirt, no tights—easy access.”
He watches her progress. “All right. She’s in.”
I shiver as I study the partygoers.
“You okay?” he asks, shifting closer. “Want some cape?” He flings the tail end over my shoulders before I can answer.
“Thanks,” I say, fingering the flimsy fabric. “All better.”
“They don’t call me a superhero for nothing.”
We fall silent as a familiar laugh rings out from below, then Kellan jogs through the cemetery to greet the two beauty queens who have just stepped out of a cab curb side. They’re dressed in floor-length gowns, one red, one silver, with sashes and tiaras. One even has a bouquet of roses. We watch him sling an arm around each of their shoulders, grinning as he leads them toward the house.
I recognize them from parties last year—and if I’m not mistaken, the one in red appears on Crosbie’s bathroom list. “Don’t you, um…know her?” I ask, wincing as the girl in question giggles and tugs on Kellan’s tie.
“Not really,” Crosbie says, unconcerned.
They squeal in mock-terror as a chainsaw-wielding maniac charges the trio, and Kellan roars with laughter before pulling out his cell phone and trying to call someone. He frowns, hangs up, and quic
kly sends a text, waiting a moment for a reply that doesn’t come. Because I’d planned on walking home and wasn’t worried about getting separated from Marcela, I hadn’t even brought my phone. If Kellan’s texting to find out if I’ve bailed, he’s not going to get an answer.
“It doesn’t bother you?” I ask, when I notice Crosbie looking a little more tense than he had a minute earlier.
“Me?” he echoes. “No. Does it bother you?”
I think it’d bother me if my name appeared on the bathroom wall, but I don’t especially care that the girls are here. “No.”
He studies me for a second, then nods. “Good.”
A group of coeds arrives, clambering out of a limo, all but one dressed in a tight business suit, heels, and carrying a briefcase. A couple even clutch a newspaper. I toss back my head and laugh. “I’ve been wondering where they were.”
Crosbie frowns. “The businesswomen?”
I gesture to his costume. “The Lois Lanes.”
“Why didn’t you come as Lois?”
For a second my mind goes blank. Somehow I’d managed to forget I was sitting up on a tiny eave with Crosbie Lucas while he wore only spandex. Somehow I’d managed to forget I was awkward and uncomfortable. I’d even managed to forget that I’d promised myself one guilt-free night of anything goes. And now I’m remembering.
“I…” I try. “I don’t have a business suit.”
He blinks. He’s got very long eyelashes. For such a big guy, it’s an oddly endearing trait.
“But you had a red wig?”
“Well…no.”
He smiles faintly. “I prefer Thelma to Lois any day, anyway.”
“You do?”
“Yo! Cros!”
The sudden shout sends us scattering, as far as the eave will allow, anyway. We both whip our heads around to see a guy dressed as the Cat in the Hat peering out the window.
“What the fuck, Alex?” Crosbie mutters, running a hand over his face.
“Kellan’s looking for you. He’s got a couple of Miss Americas that want to say hi.”
My scalp itches under the cheap wig. “You should go,” I say. Now that whatever weird spell had been brewing is broken, I’m cold and my butt hurts. “I’m freezing, anyway.” I flash him a fake smile, then gesture for the Cat in the Hat to move aside as I clamber back through the window, my frozen limbs screeching as they unfold.
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