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“Thank you,” Ozzy says, taking Leo’s crisp hundred-dollar bill and tucking it directly into his pocket. “Couldn’t go to a better cause.”
When I turn around again, I’m facing an angel.
Zoe’s wearing a diaphanous white gown that seems to float around her body. On her shoulders, intricately-cut wings made of paper and wire. Her dark hair is loose and shining. Her skin glows in the moonlight.
“Jesus . . .” I say.
“No.” Zoe gives me a small smile. “Just one of his friends.”
Chay stands next to her, dressed like the devil in a tight red jumpsuit.
Ozzy gives an appreciative whistle.
“Tell me who I have to kill to go to that version of hell,” he says, looking her up and down.
Chay grins. “If you take up the whole sidewalk with your friends and walk real slow so I can’t get by . . . eternal torment. If you mix the guacamole too much so it’s mushy . . . pitchfork, right up your ass.”
“Go on . . .” Ozzy says, looking titillated.
Cat trails behind the older girls, wearing an oversized black pullover and little black cat ears, with whiskers drawn on her face. It’s the obvious choice of costume for her, but it’s also fucking adorable. She really does look like a fluffy kitten, especially with her black curls wild around her face.
“You look great,” I tell Cat. She looks alarmed that I noticed her.
Chay holds out a wad of cash. I wave it away.
“No charge.”
“You sure?” Chay says.
“I never charge friends.”
“What the hell!” Leo calls back over his shoulder, still within earshot of this rank hypocrisy.
“Except him,” I tell Chay. “He can afford it.”
I can feel Zoe watching me. My face feels strangely warm.
“Go on,” I say to the girls. “Have a ball.”
Chay and Cat head inside, but Zoe pauses as she passes me.
“Where’s your costume?”
I turn so she can see the back of my jersey. “Number 23…I’m Jordan.”
She smiles. “I thought Leo was the baller.”
“Oh yeah, he’s way better than me,” I admit. “I just wanted to wear the shoes. Air 7s—same ones Jordan wore on the Dream Team at the ‘92 Olympics.”
Zoe admires my sneakers, something that usually would make me supremely happy, but right now I’m not thinking about my shoes at all. I’m looking at her face. I’ve never seen such smooth, clear skin. It makes me think of the flawless skin all over the rest of her body. I shove that thought away roughly. It’s sleazy, something that Rocco himself would dwell on—a view stolen from Zoe without her consent.
“I like vintage,” Zoe says.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes. Especially things from old TV shows and movies. Like if I was ever going to buy a gown for myself, I’d love to get one like Marilyn wore in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Do you know the one I mean?”
A crowd of students is trying to get through the door behind us. I’m blocking their way. But I want to talk to Zoe, so I say to Ozzy, “You got this?” and Ozzy says, “Yeah, go on, mate.”
