Undecided(35)

I laugh too. “No slutty anything. How about you go and tell me about it later?”

She gasps in offense. “Absolutely not. We’re a team. Where you go, I go— Actually, never mind. You spend a lot of time at the library. But where I say we’ll go, we go. And we’re going to this party. We can be the Black Swan and…the white one.”

“What?”

“Or the two broke girls from TV.”

I gesture to my apron. “Perfect. I won’t need to change.”

She claps her hands, bits of cream cheese frosting flying from the tips of her fingers. “Thelma and Louise!”

“We—”

But she’s on a roll. “It’s perfect. They’re classic, they’re best friends, they’re gorgeous, and—”

“They die at the end?”

“And Thelma bangs Brad Pitt. In the name of friendship, you can be Thelma. I think you could use a Brad Pitt.”

“You realize he robs her, right?”

“Your belongings fit in a milk crate. You’re safe.”

“I don’t think—”

She presses her frosted fingers over my lips. “You need to stop thinking and take the night off. Halloween is the Saturday after midterms. You can bury your nose in a book until then, but on October thirty-first, you’re mine. And we’re hitting the road.”

“They drive off a cliff.”

She winks at me. “That’s the spirit.”



*



The sensible part of my brain tells me to steer clear of all Alpha Sigma Phi parties, but when Nate closes shop early so the window guys can do their job, I detour one block over to Duds, Burnham’s only second-store. I can’t stop thinking about driving off a cliff, so to speak. It’s been a long time since I’ve “driven” anywhere with anyone, and though I have good reason for hunkering down to atone for last year’s mistakes, it hasn’t exactly been easy. Or interesting. Or satisfying.

It’s on exactly that unsatisfying note that I step into the musty-smelling store and bump into Kellan. The front row is lined with all manner of Halloween costumes and paraphernalia, and Kellan is, for some reason, pushing a shopping cart.

“Nora!” he exclaims. “I thought you were working.”

“I was. We closed up early, so I figured I’d come get some costume inspiration.”

His face lights up. “Me too. Clark Kent needs a good suit, and where better to find one than Duds?”

“Don’t you already own a suit?”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to get…bodily fluids on it.”

“Thank you for that imagery.”

“Are you going as Lois Lane, then? Because this is perfect. We can coordinate our outfits. My tie, your shoes—”

“I’m not going as Lois.”

His face falls, then immediately lights up when he spots a French maid outfit, still in its vacuum-sealed bag. “Slutty maid?” he tries, holding it up.

“No slutty anything.”

“Who’s slutty? I’m interested.” Crosbie skids onto the scene, sneakers squeaking across the tiled floor. Duds is a big store for Burnham, full of countless racks of clothing and walls lined with shelves of shoes and housewares. It’s mostly empty at this time of day, so the noise attracts nothing more than a single disapproving stare from an employee hanging up jackets nearby.

Kellan sighs and replaces the French maid outfit. “Not Nora.”

Crosbie scoffs. “Obviously. I thought we were talking about someone cool.”

I shoulder my way past the duo. “This has been fun.”

“Aw,” Kellan calls to my back. “Come on, Nora. Now that you’re here you can help me choose a costume.”

“Your costume is just a suit.”

“But when I model for Crosbie he tells me I’m fat.”

Crosbie shrugs. “You are.”

Kellan socks him in the shoulder. “Dick. I’m going to look at ties. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to begin modeling.”

“Remember blue is slimming!”

Kellan flips him off and wanders away, leaving Crosbie and I next to the costume display. For a second we just stare at each other, Crosbie rubbing his newly injured shoulder, me trying to come up with something to say that doesn’t reveal just how much I noticed his absence these past few weeks. Or how hot he looks. His hair is damp, like he’d just taken a shower, and he’s wearing jeans and a puffy black jacket that makes his brown eyes look darker than usual as they take me in.

“What’s it going to be?” he finally asks.

“Pardon me?”

“Your costume. What is it?” He nods at the options. “Witch? Scarecrow? Viking?”

“Ah, Thelma.”

“Who?”

“Thelma. From Thelma & Louise? Marcela’s going to be Louise.”

“Which one was Thelma, Geena Davis or Susan Sarandon?”

“Geena Davis. I came to shop for some high-waisted jeans and sunglasses.”

He looks me over. “I can see it.”

“What about you? Browsing for a cape? Maybe some new tights?”

“I’ve already got my Superman costume at home. I sleep in it every night.”