Escaped from the mafia

« I’m not going. »

« You’re going. »

« I’m not. »

« Yes, you are. »

Thirty minutes later, I am dressed in a slutty pumpkin costume―and don’t ask how it’s slutty. It just is.

Standing on the doorsteps of Adam Rochester’s house in the chill October weather, shivering in the barely-there costume next to Lindsay Sheer, I can’t help but regret all the life decisions I made that led to this one.

The echo of the doorbell is still lingering in the cold air when the door is flung open.

It takes me two seconds to deduce that the person greeting us―dressed as Mr. Incredible―is not the owner of the house. But he waves us in anyway, the fruit punch in his red Solo Cup sloshing onto his shoes, grinning like he’s the Cheshire Cat.

« Jesus, » I mutter to Lindsay. She takes off her mittens―the only article of winter clothing she relented to wearing. What, exactly, is the point of wearing mittens without a jacket ? A hat ? A scarf ? Or pants, for that matter ?

I follow her through the enormous hallways and try not to stare. The chandeliers are burnished in gold and the paintings hanging on the walls are originals.

Rich. These people are rich.

Well, what was I expecting from a party in Santa Monica ?

« I can’t believe I let you drag me into this, » I whisper. It’s not even ten, and there are people black-out drunk, sprawled out on various items of antique furniture. « The polish on these wooden floors probably costs more than my net worth. »

« Don’t be ridiculous, » Lindsay says, falling into place next to a tall fraternity boy in pastel pink khakis. To me, she says, « You don’t have a net worth. You’re in debt. »

The boy rakes a hand through his sand-brown hair and grins. Oblivious. « I like your costume, » he says to Lindsay.

« Of course you like her costume, » I say under my breath. She is dressed as a slutty pink bunny―think Legally Blonde.

Lindsay runs her tongue over her lower lip, a casual caress. Almost like an unsuspecting fly in a spider’s web, the boy’s eyes linger on her mouth as she says, « What are you dressed as ? »

This isn’t exactly something I want to stick around for.

« I’m going to go find―um, fruit punch, » I say, and I kiss Lindsay’s cheek. Whispering, « Be good. And if he’s passed out on our living room couch tomorrow morning, I’m moving out. »

She laughs and says, « Try not to leave before 11 p.m., please ? Parties can actually be fun. It’s kind of the point. »

I can’t keep the smile off my face as I say, « Whatever. » To Chad or Brad or whatever the frat boy’s name is, I add, « See you later. »

And by that, I mean : See you in twelve hours when you’re half-naked on my couch and I’m forced to make small talk with you while Lindsay figures out a way to politely kick you out.

Good times. It’s practically a routine by now.

I make my way to the bowl of fruit punch―shaped like a cauldron with a clawfoot spoon, and I pour some into a red cup.

Then I survey the room. All the college kids, dressed up as everything from Spider-Man to a ticket ballot (yes, someone is dressed as a ticket ballot, and I bet he’s an engineering major). As a second-year student with Lindsay for a best friend, I should be used to parties by now. I should be having fun right now. I should be having the time of my life.

I down the drink in one swallow. The fruit punch burns as it goes down―a lot stronger than I thought.

Are parties supposed to inspire an existential crisis ?

« You know, we mixed that stuff with hardcore vodka, » remarks a boy lounging next to me. « I wouldn’t . . . » He trails off as I give him my best did I ask ? face and swallow the contents in one breath.

« Thank you for the advice, » I say sweetly.

The boy mutters something and slinks back off the crowd. The house is brimming with people who dance skin to skin, shoulder to shoulder, dressed as Donald Trump and Little Red Riding Hood and Buzz Lightyear.

I’m ready to call a cab home when I hear the beginnings of Chug ! Chug ! Chug ! down the hall. The last thing I want to stay for is an ambulance.

As I make my way through the labyrinthine hallways of Adam Rochester’s mansion, I catch Lindsay pressed against the boy with pastel pink shorts. The funny thing is, I don’t think it’s a costume.

I’m rolling my eyes, ignoring the catcalls of drunken boys who appear to find my slutty pumpkin costume aesthetically pleasing, when I get to the door. But before I can open it, someone beats me to it.

The door swings inward, and I stumble back.

« Hey ! » I say indignantly.

A girl in a mob boss costume stands breathless on the front steps.

« Can I come in ? » she asks, and it strikes me that she is gorgeous. Completely and utterly gorgeous, with full pink lips and thick brown hair. She must be of Japanese descent ; her uptilted eyes are bright and glittering in the moonlight.

« Not my house, » I say, grinning, « but yeah, why not ? »

Outside, I hear the sound of fireworks. Tires screeching.

Before I can peer outside, the girl rushes forward and closes the door behind her. She stands against it for a moment, breathing hard.

« Cool swords, » I say, motioning to the wicked-long, curved blades that are crossed on her back. « They look almost real― »

Something passes across her face, so fleeting I think I must have imagined it. In less than a breath, the restless fear is smeared off her face and a dark grin replaces it.

« I’m Veah, » she says. « I like your costume. How I Met Your Mother, right ? »

In less than an instant, I decide to stay.

« Let me guess, » I say, nodding to her. « Swords. Japanese mythology tattoos. And that missing pinkie finger―wicked special effects. Yakuza, right ? »

She doesn’t miss a beat. « That’s right. » Then she nods to my fruit punch. « Tell me . . . where can I get some of that ? »