“Oh my god,” he says, voice cracking. “Jessica Rabbit. That’s… wow.” He shakes his head as if to reset it, then points at me with genuine delight. “Best costume. Hands down.”
His friend, a guy in a pizza onesie, nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, you win. Like, no contest.”
I thank them, voice pitched in what I hope is a flirty tone. The banana guy laughs, then claps me on the shoulder a little too hard and disappears into the night.
Sara’s eyes glint with amusement. “See? You’re a sensation.”
For a second I feel it—the weight of all those years spent invisible, canceled out by the sudden, ferocious attention. It’s terrifying and addictive. I wonder if this is how Hunter feels all the time: alive in every nerve, craving the next hit of recognition.
We drift back inside. The house is louder, the music now a remix of something that was never meant to be remixed. Hunter is at the epicenter of a drinking game, refereeing with a devilish gleam, but he spots us and signals with a tilt of his cup. I sense he has formed a plan, but I’m not sure I want to know what it is.
Sara and I settle at the base of the staircase, half-sheltered by a tattered spiderweb decoration. She watches the room, always scanning for threat or opportunity. I focus on my breathing, on keeping the wig from slipping, on not letting the sequins cut into my ribs every time I twist.
And then, across the living room, I see him.
Aaron Thompson stands with a squadron of his usual lieutenants, the Deadpool mask pushed up so his face is visible. Even at a distance, I recognize his posture—the cocky lean, the way he dominates the space around him without moving. He’s talking to a girl in a nurse costume, but his eyes keep darting past her, searching the room.
He catches sight of me. For one sickening heartbeat, I think he recognizes me, but then his mouth quirks up in a way I’ve seen a thousand times: appraisal, not recognition. The look he gives me is slow, deliberate, and a little hungry. It lands like a jolt of current up my spine.
Sara notices. “He’s looking at you,” she whispers.
“No way,” I say, but it’s true—he’s staring, and now so is half the room.
Sara grins. “I think you have a fan.”
I want to disappear.
Hunter materializes at my side. “Okay, this is perfect,” he says. “We need to get you into the main room. There’s a contest at ten, and I want you front and center.”
I balk. “Absolutely not.”
Sara looks at me, then at Hunter. “What kind of contest?”
Hunter shrugs. “Costume walk-off. You don’t have to say anything, just walk, pose, then get off the stage.” He leans in, dropping his voice. “If you win, no more bets for the rest of the semester. Swear to god.”
It’s a hell of a prize, and we both know it.
Sara touches my wrist. “You’ve already done the hard part. This is just a parade.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, feeling the grit of Sara’s lipliner still holding. “Okay,” I say. “But after, we leave.”
Hunter salutes. “Deal.”
We move toward the living room, Hunter running interference like a pro, Sara keeping pace behind me. The press of bodies is suffocating, but also liberating—I’m just another spectacle, another burst of color in the human centrifuge.
The contest is chaos. Someone shouts my name—Jessica, not Spencer—and there’s a roar of approval as I take my place near the makeshift runway: a strip of black duct tape down the center of the room. I keep my head high, remembering Sara’s walk, the way she made it look like a challenge and a promise all at once.
One by one, the contestants go: a werewolf with perfectly shaded abs, a goth Maleficent, a gender-swapped Thor in silver hotpants. Then it’s my turn.
I walk. A hush falls over the room, then the cheers rise in a wave, people chanting “Jes-si-ca! Jes-si-ca!” as I reach the end of the tape. I do a slow turn—almost tripping, but not—and strike a pose. For a second, it feels like I’ve left my body, like I’m watching a movie about someone braver than me.
Then I retreat, heart pounding, hands shaking so badly I nearly spill my punch. Hunter catches me at the edge of the crowd.
“You killed it, man” he says, eyes wild with pride. “Total knockout.”
Sara hugs me from behind, careful not to displace the dress. “I knew you could.”
I want to say thank you, or maybe never speak again. Instead, I just breathe.
