“Hunter’s gone full reconnaissance,” Sara says, tilting her chin to where our mutual friend is already holding court at the keg, surrounded by a double ring of costumed undergrads. “I give him fifteen minutes before he’s invented a drinking game and/or started a small fire.”
I glance through the haze. Hunter’s in his element: sleeves rolled, forearms gleaming, a whip crack away from narrating his own highlight reel. The crowd orbits him, helpless. For the first time, I feel a flicker of gratitude—this is Hunter’s show, his chaos engine, and maybe I can just play the prop for one night. No pressure to ad lib, just stand here and look vaguely like myself in an alternate universe.
A crash from the living room, then a chorus of whoops. Two frat boys in minotaur masks arm-wrestle on the dining table, egged on by a mob. Sara navigates us past them and into the kitchen, where the air is marginally less humid but twice as loud.
“Drink?” Sara asks, gesturing at a cauldron of electric blue punch.
I stare at the options: the cauldron, a row of sodas, a bucket of ice filled with unlabeled beer cans. “Any idea what’s in the punch?”
She grins. “Probably everything you fear.”
I shudder and fill a cup halfway. The punch is so sweet it burns, like Gatorade with an existential crisis. I’m about to ask if it’s normal to taste the color, when Sara whispers, “Don’t look now, but I think you have some admirers.”
I follow her gaze to a cluster of girls by the fridge. One is Cleopatra, her gold headpiece listing to one side; another wears a slinky black cat suit with cat ears. They’re staring at me—not at us, at me—and their expressions are a fractal of curiosity, confusion, and what might even be respect.
Cleopatra nudges her friend and stage-whispers, “That’s actually incredible. The makeup? Like, fuck, whoever did it, is a true artist.”
Catgirl gives a thumbs-up and mouths, “You slay, babe,” then turns back to the fridge. Just like that, the moment passes.
Sara beams. “Told you.”
I’m not sure if I want to hide in the pantry or climb onto the table and claim my Oscar. The paradox hums inside me. This is the most visible I’ve ever been, and it’s somehow safer than being ignored. I take another sip of punch, this time letting it sting.
From the other end of the kitchen, Hunter waves us over. “Mission update!” he calls, already slightly flushed.
Sara tucks my arm in hers, and we shuffle our way through a gauntlet of sticky spills and wandering elbows. At every step, I feel the dress resisting my movement, the weight of the wig shifting on my scalp. I force myself to keep my chin up, imagining the camera angles, the GIFs and Snapchats already ricocheting through the party.
“Report,” Sara says as we reach Hunter, who’s cradling a red cup in one hand and the keg tap in the other.
He leans in, glancing around like he’s undercover. “Our VIP is upstairs. Thompson.”
My stomach churns. A part of me had hoped he wouldn’t show.
Hunter takes a swig of beer. “He’s in a Deadpool costume. Full mask, gloves, the works. And I have a plan.”
Sara gives me a sideways look. “Not sure that’s a comfort.”
Hunter shrugs. “Don’t sweat it, Monty. Just avoid him, enjoy the party, and leave everything to me.” Hunter disappears into another room.
Sara elbows me gently. “You good?”
I’m not, but I fake it. “Yeah. It’s just hot in here.” My upper lip is slick with sweat, but Sara’s contouring job holds up, blurring the evidence.
“Let’s get some air,” she suggests.
The backyard is less crowded, lit by string lights strung between trees and a firepit throwing off crackling heat. We slip outside and hover at the edge of the patio, scanning for a patch of silence.
It’s easier to breathe here, and for the first time I realize how long I’ve been clenching my teeth. Sara moves to stand in front of me, blocking my view of the house.
She studies my face. “If you want to bail, I’ll cover for you.”
I swallow, then shake my head. “No. I can do this.”
She squeezes my hand. “You really look amazing, Spence.”
I want to believe her. Instead, I stare at my reflection in the glass door, the way the wig flares around my jaw, how the dress reshapes my body into someone halfway between a joke and a fantasy. I try to picture the effect from a stranger’s perspective. I almost succeed.
The patio side door bursts open, and a guy in a banana costume stumbles out, trailing laughter and spilled beer. He catches sight of me and stops cold.
