Kasper Markaj dressed as a Spartan, wearing just his underwear and a red velvet curtain draped over his shoulders like a cape. Isabel Dixon teased up her hair and covered herself in charcoal, so she looks electrocuted, while her boyfriend Hiram Stokes hung a paper lightning bolt around his neck.
Everybody’s ramped up to celebrate the holiday. The party is bumping ten minutes after I open the doors. Ozzy’s collecting the cover charges as fast as he can with just one arm, and I’m pretending to welcome everybody, while actually keeping my eyes peeled for the people I want to see, as well as the ones who can fuck off back to their dorms.
Anna arrives wearing her most tattered clothes, with some pretty impressive zombie makeup all over her face. She’s done the same to Leo, but his blinding smile makes him look much too alive to be undead.
“Congrats,” I say to him.
Leo was just chosen Sophomore Captain for the Quartum Bellum. It was pretty much guaranteed to happen, after the unprecedented victory of the Freshmen last year, but now it’s official.
“Thanks,” he says. “Can’t say I’m quite as excited this time around—knowing what I’m up against.”
“Can’t be worse than last year,” Ozzy says.
“It can always be worse.” Leo grimaces.
“Yeah—like having Simon Fowler for your Captain,” Ozzy complains.
Simon is a Junior Heir with a high opinion of himself and a generous bankroll from his parents. He openly gave out cash to earn votes for the Captainship. I don’t give a shit, because I don’t give a shit about the Quartum Bellum. But I’m not exactly looking forward to taking orders from someone who would suck his own cock if he were flexible enough.
“Just you two tonight?” I say to Anna.
“Relax.” She smiles. “Zoe’s coming with Chay.”
“I was just asking. For the cover charge,” I say quickly.
“You’re not gonna charge us!” Anna cries, outraged.
“Absolutely I am. Leo can down an entire punch bowl by himself.”
“What’s the family discount?” Leo says.
“Two for the price of two.”
“I’ll pay it,” Leo says. “But only ‘cause poor Ozzy’s having such a shit week. He deserves it.”
“Thank you,” Ozzy says, taking Leo’s crisp hundred-dollar bill and tucking it directly into his pocket. “Couldn’t go to a better cause.”
When I turn around again, I’m facing an angel.
Zoe’s wearing a diaphanous white gown that seems to float around her body. On her shoulders, intricately-cut wings made of paper and wire. Her dark hair is loose and shining. Her skin glows in the moonlight.
“Jesus . . .” I say.
“No.” Zoe gives me a small smile. “Just one of his friends.”
Chay stands next to her, dressed like the devil in a tight red jumpsuit.
Ozzy gives an appreciative whistle.
“Tell me who I have to kill to go to that version of hell,” he says, looking her up and down.
Chay grins. “If you take up the whole sidewalk with your friends and walk real slow so I can’t get by . . . eternal torment. If you mix the guacamole too much so it’s mushy . . . pitchfork, right up your ass.”
“Go on . . .” Ozzy says, looking titillated.
Cat trails behind the older girls, wearing an oversized black pullover and little black cat ears, with whiskers drawn on her face. It’s the obvious choice of costume for her, but it’s also fucking adorable. She really does look like a fluffy kitten, especially with her black curls wild around her face.
“You look great,” I tell Cat. She looks alarmed that I noticed her.
Chay holds out a wad of cash. I wave it away.
“No charge,” I say.
“You sure?” Chay asks.
“I never charge friends.”
“What the hell!” Leo calls back over his shoulder, still within earshot of this rank hypocrisy.
“Except him,” I tell Chay. “He can afford it.”
I can feel Zoe watching me. My face feels strangely warm.
“Go on,” I say to the girls. “Have a ball.”
Chay and Cat head inside, but Zoe pauses as she passes me.
“Where’s your costume?” she asks.
I turn so she can see the back of my jersey. “Number 23,” I say. “I’m Jordan.”
“I thought Leo was the baller,” Zoe says.
“Oh yeah, he’s way better than me,” I admit. “I just wanted to wear the shoes. Air 7s—same ones Jordan wore on the Dream Team at the ‘92 Olympics.”
Zoe admires my sneakers, something that usually would make me supremely happy, but right now I’m not thinking about my shoes at all. I’m looking at her face. I’ve never seen such smooth, clear skin. It makes me think of the flawless skin all over the rest of her body. I shove that thought away roughly. It’s sleazy, something that Rocco himself would dwell on—a view stolen from Zoe without her consent.
“I like vintage,” Zoe says.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes. Especially things from old TV shows and movies. Like if I was ever going to buy a gown for myself, I’d love to get one like Marilyn wore in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Do you know the one I mean?”
A crowd of students is trying to get through the door behind us. I’m blocking their way. But I want to talk to Zoe, so I say to Ozzy, “You got this?” and Ozzy says, “Yeah, go on, mate.”
“Let me get you a drink,” I say to Zoe, as an excuse to keep her right by me.
I lead her over to the punch bowl. “It’s good, I promise. Not some mixed-up toilet bowl shit—quality liquor.”
“I trust you,” she says, smiling up at me.
Those words send a thrill through my whole body.
I pour her a cup of punch, careful not to splash a single drop on her snow-white gown.
“Tell me about the Marilyn dress,” I say.
“It was hot pink. Perfectly-fitted. With long, matching gloves. I don’t even look good in pink, but the color was so vivid and so powerful . . . you don’t think of pink being powerful, but it can be. On the right person.”
“I don’t believe you,” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t believe you don’t look good in pink.”
Zoe’s cheeks flush a shade lighter than her lips, and I say, “See—you’re pink right now, and you look better than ever.”
Zoe fixes me with those light-green eyes, that always seem to have a storm behind them.
“Are you flirting with me, Miles?” she asks.
I consider denying it. But Zoe is so honest, it demands the same from me.
“Yes,” I say simply. “I definitely am.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“No. And I don’t give a fuck. I’m going to keep doing it, unless you tell me to stop.”
I watch her face closely, to see her reaction to this.
She considers.
“I don’t want you to stop,” she says.
“Good. ‘Cause I wasn’t going to.”
She laughs.
I don’t know if I ever heard Zoe laugh before this year. It’s a captivating sound, low and intimate, meant only for me.