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Then I remember that Ribbit himself lives in a place just as crumbly as this one—stone, not brick—but still. And he actually lives there, whereas we only hit this place every few weeks.

“But it’s cool,” I say quickly, putting my hand on his arm. Somebody bumps into me, and I’m pushed forward, fully into him, my chest and belly flat against his.

“Whoops,” he says, grabbing both my elbows, and I’m suddenly, weirdly, flustered.

“Sorry,” we both say at the same time, then laugh at each other.

“I got some beer on you,” I say, brushing at the front of his shirt where the foam landed.

“Oh, it’s . . . fine . . .” Ribbit’s voice trails off, strangled when I touch him.

“You didn’t wear a costume,” I say, flicking the beer off my fingers.

Ribbit looks down at his T-shirt and jeans, almost apologetically. “No, I . . . it took longer than I thought to get all the lights strung. I was going to go back and change. I still can? I mean . . .”

He’s offering to leave the party and change his clothes because I sounded slightly disappointed. That’s Ribbit Usher for you. Kinda cute. Very pathetic.

“You look perfect,” he blusters on.

“Yep,” Tress agrees. “Perfect.”

But the way she says it isn’t a compliment. It comes out the same way I said neat to the sophomores with the clock. She’d been tacitly ignoring whatever weird flirtation was going on between me and her cousin, but now I’ve got her attention.

“You look . . .” I don’t know what she looks like, or if it’s even supposed to be a costume. She’s got on all black, and her hoodie is pulled up loosely around her face, shadowing her eyes.

“Like death,” Ribbit says. “I mean, I don’t know if it’s on purpose or not, but Tress looks like death.”

Tress sighs then, eyes going back to the crowd. “You need anything?” she asks quietly.

“Yeah,” I say, dropping my voice, too.

“Okay.” She swigs from a red Solo cup, still not looking at me. “Through the kitchen, there’s a door down to the cellar. Five minutes. I’ll meet you.”

I nod, then look back at Ribbit. He smiles immediately, like he’s a character in a video game that is programmed for one thing only. “Get me a drink?” I ask.

I only have to ask once.

Chapter 9

Tress

Ribbit comes back with two beers and hands one off to Felicity, who takes it with a smile and then disappears—obviously not the reaction he was hoping for.

“What did you expect?” I ask him, as he stares into his own cup. “You really thought she was going to hang out with you?”

He shrugs and takes a swig, seeming to forget that he’s not going to drink tonight . . . and that it’s my job to keep him from doing it.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe? It’s not impossible, right? I mean, she was totally talking to me for a second there.”

“Yep, one second.” I scan the crowd again, looking to see if anyone noticed Felicity slipping out to the kitchen. I’m checking for Hugh, especially. He keeps an eye on her most of the time, and I need him distracted.

Beside me, Ribbit tilts his beer back all the way, drowning his sorrows. There’s a small gathering at the front door, a lot of cleavage and sequins clustered around Gretchen as her voice rises, a high panicked noise above the general party talk.

“He should be right there, I mean right there,” she’s saying, tears ruining her Cleopatra makeup. “I told him to stay in the car because of last time, and William Wilson always stays. He would stay if he was on fire. But I left my window down, and I . . .”

Ribbit is on his way over to help as soon as he sees the tears, and I shake my head. Not so much at him being a total pushover, but because a missing dog—again—is not quite the distraction I’m looking for. I need more.

Suddenly, midsentence, Gretchen pukes.