He stands, pacing the two steps it takes to reach the far wall, and peers into my mini-fridge. “Got any beers?”
“Fridge is dead. Just like what little social life I have is gonna be after you ruin it.”
He straightens, holding aloft a forlorn can of La Croix. “Can I shotgun a sparkling water in your honor?”
I ignore him, returning to my textbook, but my focus is gone. All I can see are the mocking red pixels of that dress. All I can hear is the blood pounding behind my ears.
He plops back onto my bed and props one foot up on my chair. “Look,” he says, and his voice dips low, almost gentle, which is how I know I’m about to be manipulated. “You’re always the smart guy. The invisible man. For once, why not do something memorable?”
I open my mouth to deliver a scathing retort, but the words tangle in my throat. I want to tell him that being invisible is a feature, not a bug. That in every group project, every family photo, every high school party, I perfected the art of disappearing. I want to tell him that Jessica Rabbit is a nuclear option, and I have no idea how to handle the fallout.
Instead, I say, “What if someone recognizes me?”
“So what?” Hunter shrugs. “Besides, done right, you’ll be unrecognizable.”
“And if anyone finds out—”
“Spence.” Hunter leans forward, his face suddenly earnest. “You trust me, right?”
I level a glare. “Last time I trusted you, I lost a bet.”
“Touché.” He grins, knowing he’s won. “But trust me anyway. This is going to be epic.”
I press my fingers into my eyes and rub, my glasses shifting upward from the motion, and take a slow breath. “Fine. But only if I don’t have to do the voice.”
“Oh, but you do!” he says, triumphant. “And the strut. And you gotta stay until midnight.”
I groan, but my resistance is dissolving, the way sodium acetate does in warm water—swift and complete.
Hunter pulls out his phone again, thumbing through contacts. “Let’s call in the cavalry. Sara can help with the makeup.”
“Wait,” I protest, but he’s already typing, tongue between his teeth in concentration.
The light above me pops, plunging the room into sallow half-darkness.
Hunter slaps my shoulder and laughs. “See? Even the universe wants you to be a bombshell.”
As he fires off a text, I close my eyes and imagine myself—Spencer Montgomery, human nonentity—trapped inside a red dress in a room full of strangers. My hands start to sweat.
How do I let Hunter always talk me into stuff like this?
Outside, somewhere down the hall, a raucous yell signals another dorm room conquest. Inside, I sit in silence, waiting for Sara’s inevitable reply, and count the seconds before my life is ruined.
“Hey, Spence,” Hunter says quietly.
I look up. His smile is softer now, a little less predatory.
“You’re gonna kill it,” he says.
I swallow and nod. “If you say so.”
—ΠΩ—
The smell of burnt popcorn and incense wafts in the hallway outside Sara’s apartment, but inside, it’s all lavender and acetone. With a sheet tacked up in front of the window to block out the blue campus light, a collection of ring lamps lights the room, every bulb pointed at the vanity like a crime scene.Sara’s “studio” is her actual bedroom, but she’s transformed it into a cosmetics command center: brushes fanned out in size order, jars and palettes ranked by frequency of use, sponges floating in a Tupperware like mutant embryos.
The chair in front of the mirror is already pulled out. I sit in it, because that’s what’s expected, and try to ignore the fact that my knees are shaking.
Hunter surveys the room, hands in his jacket pockets. “Damn, Martinez, you ever sleep in here?”
