Page 105 of Mad Girl

I laughed. “It’s just a costume, Casey. But you have to admit: it’s perfect for me, right?”

“But why does she have to be slutty?” you whined. “She could’ve been scary. Or cute. Or—I don’t know—just—you could be wearing a bloody skirt, for Christ’s sake. It isn’t even a whole outfit, Elliot.” Your voice deepened here. “Where’s the rest of it?”

“Calm down, Casey,” Tinsley said with a smirk. “She’s hot.” She bumped my hip with hers. “A really hot Wednesday Addams.”

“In every production I have ever seen,” you said, “Wednesday is a severe but cute, modestly dressed character who has never once walked about with her half of her bum hanging out.”

Tinsley and I giggled at the word bum, while you cast us a look that could only be described as surly. You covered your mouth again, your distraught gaze still sweeping over my costume.

My eyes were all smoky, my lips painted black. I’d parted my hair down the middle, fixing it into two braids. For my earrings, I’d chosen little meat cleaver studs, just for fun. As for the trademark white collar, well…I’d tucked it into a very tight, shiny latex bodysuit that definitely showed off my bum and had apparently worked you into a tizzy.

You should know: I mainly wore the bodysuit because I could. Because my dad wasn’t there to stop me. That costume was an act of rebellion.

Your eyes raked over Tinsley’s costume, too—in terms of subject matter, at least, the complete opposite of mine. Sexy 80s aerobics doll. Bright teal bodysuit, white tights, pastel pink leg warmers, neon yellow high heels. She was the cotton-candy sunset to my dark, stormy cloud.

“You’ll both need coats—or you’ll freeze to death.” You walked over and plucked them off the coat rack, muttering, “Fuck’s sake.”

Tinsley laughed. “Now, Casey. Don’t tell me you’ve never stood in a room full of barely dressed beautiful people on Halloween and thought about which one you might have the hottest role-play with.”

Tinsley loved to goad you like this, but I hated to think of you in any scenario where you wanted someone else—or, worse, acted on it. Rage coasted through my veins, especially when you said, “Sure I have. Which is why I feel the need to reiterate: no drinking. Keep your wits about you, please.” You thrust our coats at us, gave me a pleading look as I took mine, then lightly tugged on the end of one braid. “Be safe.”

I swatted your hand away while Tinsley strode ahead of me to the door. Yanking on my coat, I tried to avoid your gaze. But I still caught a flash of concern deepening the crease between your eyebrows.

“Hey.” You caught me by the elbow when I tried to slip past you. “I just—I want you to be careful.”

“I’ll be fine,” I snapped. “I can handle myself.”

“I don’t remember saying you couldn’t.”

“Can you lay off, please? It’s pathetic that I even have to okay this with you.”

“I agree,” you said. “Believe me, I am laying off—which is why I’m not following you to this party.” You ducked, forcing me to meet your gaze. “Despite how badly I want to.”

My heart throbbed at the implication—was this mere protectiveness or jealousy?—while I finished buttoning my coat.

I asked Hal to drive us to Willoughby’s house, and he happily agreed, promising to park outside and give us a ride back home. Since Hal hadn’t been fired yet, he’d obviously kept our arrangement a secret, and the knowledge of that—my ability to make such arrangements behind Nic’s back—made me feel powerful. Hal might’ve been Nic’s employee for more than a decade, but he was loyal to me.

When Hal dropped me off in that bodysuit, a different type of rush nearly knocked the air from my lungs. Freedom—wild, reckless, and real—for the first time in my life.

Willoughby’s brownstone resembled mine, but with three floors above the basement instead of four. He’d made the place dim—with flashing lights, smoke slinking across the floor, and cobwebs everywhere. Nearly everyone had dressed up. Lots of sexy costumes, like mine and Tinsley’s. Some scary ones, too. Loud music.

Tinsley said hey to some of our classmates before dragging me into the living room to dance. I noticed some guy—in a freaky opaque mask with eye and mouth holes—sitting alone on the couch, watching us. The curly blonde hair above the mask gave him away: Greer.

I grabbed Tinsley’s hand and pulled her through the crowd to the kitchen, wanting to get away from him. On the kitchen island, a cauldron of dry ice spilled smoke across the counter, already littered with empty glass bottles of liquor and beer cans. A big punch bowl sat in the very center, filled with lime green punch. I watched as some girl emptied an entire bottle of vodka into it.

Rory walked over to us. “Nice costume, Bancroft. It suits you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“You got my buddy kicked off the tennis team and in big trouble with his dad,” he said, tossing me a look of disgust.

“So?” I crossed my arms. “He asked for it.”

Rory laughed. “That’s funny, because everyone on the team claims you attacked him with your serves.”

“Like I said, he asked for it.”

“Nah,” someone said from behind me. It was Greer, the mask pushed on top of his head. “You owe me an apology, Bancroft.”