If You're Out There(19)

Finally, the light changes. “I get the sense he’s a pretty social guy. Priya said he had joie de vivre. Anything festive and he’s there, especially if costumes are involved. Priya’s like that too, actually. As of last spring they were already planning Halloween. They were going to go as Napoleon Dynamite and Deb.”

As I ramble on, I notice Logan has a funny look on his face, and I stop in the middle of the street. “What?”

“This is fun,” he says. He raises an eyebrow. “I feel like a spy.”

“Me too,” I say, smiling wide. “We’re being way creepy, and I love it.”

“Excuse me! Hey! Excuse Me! Coming through . . .”

My body collapses into itself, impossibly, like a roach through a wall, as I squeeze through the maze of pressed-together people. Turns out the AlgoRhythms have a Twitter account, which provided details for a show earlier tonight. They were to perform along with several groups, but by the time we reached the chapel, we’d missed their set. I didn’t spot Nick in the audience, but luckily a young lady from Tonal Destruction told us where most of the groups would be partying tonight.

“Sorry, coming through . . . Excuse me . . .”

We found the building easily enough, but it took us a while to locate the right suite. First we stumbled into a room full of Ultimate Frisbee types, eating bulk trail mix and dried fruits while giggling in a cloud of weed. We tried another party a few doors down, but it turned out all the noise had come from a small gathering of girls taking down-the-hatch shots followed by squeals. The correct room was another floor up. We heard music booming from the stairwell, and once inside I spot several members of the Sexy Pitches as confirmation.

This party appears to be more of a destination, disgusting as it may be. I guess a cappella fans come to rage. The furniture has been stashed away, the floors sticky with beer. The elbows in my back are sharp, the skin grazing mine sweaty. As someone who hates most forms of touching, this is pretty much my hell.

“I said, excuse me!!!”

I’m spit out from the crowd onto a patch of open dance floor. A bro-looking dude teeters before me in a worn-out pastel pink cap. “Hey!” I yell over the pulsing music. “Hey you!” I hold my phone up to his face, a picture of Nick zoomed in. “Do you know this kid?”

The bro shakes his head through half-closed eyes. “Wan’ dance?” he asks, his body swaying slightly.

“Not even a little,” I call back.

He purses his lips and talks to the floor. “Whatever.”

I search for Logan’s face before returning to the mob. My foot catches on someone’s outstretched leg, and when I fly forward, a row of guys hold their Solo Cups above me like a canopy of swords. I steady myself as the song changes—prompting an excited “Ohhhhh!” from the room because new songs are apparently exciting.

I’ve been to parties, mostly with the older girls from soccer, but even on those rare occasions, you wouldn’t find me shooting Jell-O shots or doing keg stands. It’s not that I have some big stance on drinking. I just prefer to be in control. And for other people to not be idiots.

I realize my white shirt is glowing under a black light. Everyone’s teeth look a little weird. “This is ridiculous,” I mutter.

I see the light from another screen glowing across the room. A few girls in tube tops and miniskirts crowd Logan’s phone and shake their heads. I watch them eye him hungrily as he heads for the next group. One whispers something that prompts a round of giggles, and I catch myself feeling strangely territorial.

I shake my head—moving on—and elbow my way to another patch of miraculously open space. A small brunette sits on the floor, her legs splayed out as she hurls into a miniature trash can. That may explain the breathing room. The friend holding the girl’s hair calls out, “I guess we know she’s a lightweight now!”

I crinkle my nose. “I don’t envy you tonight!”

“It’s my fault! I shouldn’t have let her play beer pong. Some people just aren’t coordinated.” Puke Girl lifts up then, and for a moment the friend appears hopeful. Then the retching starts again.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Hey,” says Logan. “Any luck?”

“No. This sucks.”

He nods to Puke Girl. “We’re having a better night than she is.”

I hold out my screen to the friend. “You know this kid by any chance?”

She takes the phone with her free hand. “Yeah! That’s British Nick!”

I feel my spirits lift. “Do you sing with him?”

“No, but he’s in my psych class.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well, any idea where we might find him tonight?”

“Sorry,” she says. “I don’t know.”

I think a moment. Nick likes festive. . . . What would be festive? “Do you know of any costume parties happening tonight?”

She considers this, and Puke Girl says something in her ear.

“What?” I ask.

“She saw a Tinker Bell earlier. Someone on campus must be doing Disney.”

“Perfect,” I say, giving Logan a nudge. “Sounds like we have our next party to track down.”

“All right, then,” he says, scanning the room once more. His face falls.