Undecided(41)

“Good grief.”

He laughs. “I mean, first you’ve gotta get the tutu off, then the body suit, then the leggings… I’m looking for something with a little easier access.”

I hit him in the leg with my empty bottle. “You’re disgusting.” I sit up straighter when I spot a guy dressed as a baseball player. There’s nothing especially creative about the outfit, but I have a thing for athletes, and he’s the definition of tall, dark and handsome.

Crosbie sits up, too. “What are we looking at?”

“Number nine,” I whisper, though he couldn’t possibly hear us. “Do you know him?”

“Ah…” Crosbie scratches his chin. I hear the faint rasp of his five o’clock shadow, and when I glance over he’s closer than before, leaning in to see the guy I’m pointing out. “Yeah,” he says eventually. “His name is Phil. But you don’t want him.”

“I don’t? Why not?”

“Because Thelma hooks up with Brad Pitt,” he answers. “And he’s no Brad Pitt.”

“I’m keeping him on the list,” I say, just as a petite girl dressed in a skimpy schoolgirl costume minces up the walkway. “There,” I say, nodding at her. “That’s the one.”

“You want to hook up with a chick?” Crosbie asks. “I’m all over it. You can use my room. I’ll just sit quietly in the corner and watch. You won’t even know I’m there.”

“For you, jerk. Short skirt, no tights—easy access.”

He watches her progress. “All right. She’s in.”

I shiver as I study the partygoers.

“You okay?” he asks, shifting closer. “Want some cape?” He flings the tail end over my shoulders before I can answer.

“Thanks,” I say, fingering the flimsy fabric. “All better.”

“They don’t call me a superhero for nothing.”

We fall silent as a familiar laugh rings out from below, then Kellan jogs through the cemetery to greet the two beauty queens who have just stepped out of a cab curb side. They’re dressed in floor-length gowns, one red, one silver, with sashes and tiaras. One even has a bouquet of roses. We watch him sling an arm around each of their shoulders, grinning as he leads them toward the house.

I recognize them from parties last year—and if I’m not mistaken, the one in red appears on Crosbie’s bathroom list. “Don’t you, um…know her?” I ask, wincing as the girl in question giggles and tugs on Kellan’s tie.

“Not really,” Crosbie says, unconcerned.

They squeal in mock-terror as a chainsaw-wielding maniac charges the trio, and Kellan roars with laughter before pulling out his cell phone and trying to call someone. He frowns, hangs up, and quickly sends a text, waiting a moment for a reply that doesn’t come. Because I’d planned on walking home and wasn’t worried about getting separated from Marcela, I hadn’t even brought my phone. If Kellan’s texting to find out if I’ve bailed, he’s not going to get an answer.

“It doesn’t bother you?” I ask, when I notice Crosbie looking a little more tense than he had a minute earlier.

“Me?” he echoes. “No. Does it bother you?”

I think it’d bother me if my name appeared on the bathroom wall, but I don’t especially care that the girls are here. “No.”

He studies me for a second, then nods. “Good.”

A group of coeds arrives, clambering out of a limo, all but one dressed in a tight business suit, heels, and carrying a briefcase. A couple even clutch a newspaper. I toss back my head and laugh. “I’ve been wondering where they were.”

Crosbie frowns. “The businesswomen?”

I gesture to his costume. “The Lois Lanes.”

“Why didn’t you come as Lois?”

For a second my mind goes blank. Somehow I’d managed to forget I was sitting up on a tiny eave with Crosbie Lucas while he wore only spandex. Somehow I’d managed to forget I was awkward and uncomfortable. I’d even managed to forget that I’d promised myself one guilt-free night of anything goes. And now I’m remembering.

“I…” I try. “I don’t have a business suit.”

He blinks. He’s got very long eyelashes. For such a big guy, it’s an oddly endearing trait.

“But you had a red wig?”

“Well…no.”

He smiles faintly. “I prefer Thelma to Lois any day, anyway.”

“You do?”

“Yo! Cros!”

The sudden shout sends us scattering, as far as the eave will allow, anyway. We both whip our heads around to see a guy dressed as the Cat in the Hat peering out the window.

“What the f*ck, Alex?” Crosbie mutters, running a hand over his face.

“Kellan’s looking for you. He’s got a couple of Miss Americas that want to say hi.”

My scalp itches under the cheap wig. “You should go,” I say. Now that whatever weird spell had been brewing is broken, I’m cold and my butt hurts. “I’m freezing, anyway.” I flash him a fake smile, then gesture for the Cat in the Hat to move aside as I clamber back through the window, my frozen limbs screeching as they unfold.

“Nora,” Crosbie says.