Chapter 1
The fluorescent light above my desk sizzles, threatening a slow, spectacular death, and I think: there is nothing more bleakly appropriate than being stranded mid-homework by a dying bulb. Maybe it’s the universe’s way of warning me. Or maybe it’s just another Monday in Halide Hall—where the air tastes like old pizza and desperation and the hallways reek faintly of weed no matter how often they repaint.
Eyes tired and burning, I adjust the blue light filter of my digital chemistry textbook on my iPad. Pressing the bridge of my nose hard enough to ghost a thumbprint on the inside of my wire-rimmed glasses, I squint at the endless row of resonance structures I’m supposed to draw.
The chemical world is a set of perfect rules, all charge and consequence. The social world is not, which is why I try not to take part in it. Which is why, for the past two hours, I’ve been parked at my battered desk, surrounded by an ever-expanding field of empty coffee cups.
I sit back and let my mind go slack for a second, trying to imagine anyone from my old high school—my parents, even—believing that me, Spencer Montgomery, would ever become a functioning organism at a party school like Wilcox University. It’s the most far-fetched hypothesis I’ve ever considered.
Yet here I am.
A staccato knock rattles my door. I flinch so hard my mechanical pencil skitters off the page, gouging a mark across an otherwise perfect sigma bond.
There’s only one person who knocks with that much enthusiasm at this hour. I sigh, bracing for impact. “It’s unlocked.”
The door swings open, smacking into the cinderblock wall, and Hunter Caldwell pours himself into my room like he’s headlining a stadium. His hair, a mess of gold waves, frames his sharp jaw and carnivorous smile. He wears a black tank and jeans that are more tear than denim, and his energy—always abundant—now seems turbocharged, dangerous.
“Montgomery!” Hunter crows. “Tell me you’re not still doing orgo.”
I tap the iPad screen to page forward my Organic Chemistry text. “I’m not still doing orgo.”
He flops backwards onto my unmade bed. Hands pillowing behind his head, he pushes his shoes off with his toes, but not before leaving two dirty prints on my navy comforter. “You’re such a liar. I can smell the hydrocarbons from here.”
“Funny,” I mutter, retrieving my pencil. “Because all I smell is Axe body spray and Mountain Dew.”
He laughs, unbothered, and rolls onto his side to prop himself up on one elbow. “Let’s cut to the chase, Spence. Did you check your email?”
I stiffen. “Why would I—”
“Because,” Hunter says, and he's using his Camp Counselor voice now, the one that means I'm about to be in deep shit, “Professor McHugh posted the quiz scores.”
My pencil freezes mid-calculation. Last Thursday after class, Hunter had goaded me into that stupid wager.
“You said there was no way McHugh would give us a pop quiz this week,” I say, glowering at him. “You practically guaranteed it. ‘Vector Calc is safe,’ you said. ‘He loves us too much to sandbag his golden children.’”
“Yeah, well, that’s why it’s called gambling,” Hunter drawls, stretching luxuriously, “who would have thought old McHugh was a sadist after all.” He pulls out his phone, showing me the scores. “Ninety-three to eighty-six, amigo. I win.”
The horror dawns slow, a chemical reaction with no catalyst. My stomach lurches, and I feel like I've inhaled hydrogen sulfide—that rotten egg stench that makes lab partners evacuate the room.
“Shit,” I breathe.
Hunter’s smile widens, exposing teeth. “Oh, yes.” He sits up, swinging his legs off the bed, and in the cramped space between us, the air thickens. “I hope you’ve been practicing your shimmy, because you, my friend, are going to the Pi Omega party as Jessica Rabbit.”
There are moments in life when you understand, viscerally, that you are not in control of your own narrative. This is one of those moments.
“No way.” My voice comes out as a high, unconvincing squeak. “That wasn’t the deal.”
Hunter clucks his tongue. “A bet’s a bet, Montgomery. I even got you the dress. And the gloves. You’re gonna be a legend.”
He pulls his phone from his pocket and swipes to a photo. The screen glows hellish red: a dress so sequined it looks like a disco ball threw up on it.
“Do you know what happens to sodium in water, Hunter? It explodes. That’s going to be my brain at this party.”
“Exactly!” Hunter crows, either missing or deliberately ignoring my panic. “You show up in this, and no one will ever forget it. Instant meme status.”
My fingers tighten around the edge of the desk, whitening at the knuckles. “Can’t I just—I don’t know—wear a bedsheet toga? Or the banana suit from last year?”
“Montgomery,” he says, grave and condescending, “what’s the point of a wager if there’s no risk? This is college. You gotta put yourself out there. Embrace the cringe.”
