Page 22 of So Thirsty

“Earth to Sloane,” Naomi says.

“Yeah?”

“You’re out in space.”

“I’m not,” I say. “I hate space. It’s so smug.”

“For real. It’s always like, I’m so dark and deep and unknowable. Who cares?”

“Nerds,” I say, rubbing my forehead. My hangover headache is back with a vengeance. The wine was a bad idea.

“You know what, though? I fuck with Carl Sagan. He could get it. If he were still alive.” She picks up her phone. “Sorry, but you were sleeping on the job. Lost your DJ privileges.”

And now it’s Lesley Gore, singing, “It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to, cry if I want to…”

“Too on the nose,” I say.

“Uppity hipster bitch,” she says, knocking my hip with hers.

“Takes one to know one,” I say, grabbing my red lipstick. The shade Killer.

—

Once again, we stand shivering outside the cottage, waiting for the shuttle. At least I assume we’re waiting for the shuttle. Naomi will neither confirm nor deny.

I’m not particularly jazzed to venture off campus for this surprise, and normally I would put my practical, no-fun, buzzkill foot down, but right now I really don’t have it in me to fight.

The wind whips off the lake, through the trees.

“Why are we doing this, again?” I ask.

“Hmm?” Naomi says. She’s hunched over, checking her phone.

“Waiting outside. We did this last night. The shuttle is never on time. Let’s go in.”

Naomi doesn’t respond. She puts her phone in her pocket and stares down the dirt driveway. She’s uncharacteristically anxious.

“Nay?”

“I don’t like it in there at night,” she says.

“What?” I ask. A gust of wind lands like a kick in the teeth.

“In there. In the cottage. Too many windows. It’s creepy, don’t you think?”

The memory of my nightmare returns, heavy and searing, like someone has dropped a hot stove on my chest. Above me, behind me, is the window with a smear that looks like a handprint.

“Did you see something?” I say, my voice too high.

“Yeah. Too many horror movies. Obviously.”

“Right,” I say, sinking my head between my shoulders.

“Oh!” Naomi says. “There he is.”

I force my gaze against the tantrummy air. There’s a car approaching, but it’s not the hotel shuttle. It looks like the goddamn Batmobile.

“Um, what is that?” I ask. “Who is that?”