Page 7

The question almost comes out, but I swallow it down like cough medicine. “Crowd” Ira is still here. Not me. I have my own rules in place for public stuff.

I smile and nod.

He keeps smiling and nods.

We’re two bobble-heads.

“You’re kind of cute,” he says after a while, finishing his drink. “Not like, I’d nail you cute, but like… cute-cute.”

I haven’t brushed my hair since this morning, and I’ve been elbow deep in dirt for the past four hours doing a project. There’s still some under my nails. I think it’s on my face, too.

Zippity-doo-da standards there.

I laugh at my own joke and cover my mouth to try and hide it. He laughs too, then hands me a new cup of punch.

This is definitely how you make friends. Best friends. We’ll be posting drunk group selfies together by midnight. Then we can get waffles.

Or.

Or I can make him my “response” picture—for the Strangler. It’s rude if I leave the first Polaroid as it is without saying thanks. Obviously he wants a friend.

My cup’s empty the next time I glance down. I don’t remember drinking it.

The guy that was here is gone, too.

Looking around, everyone outside has just… up and disappeared like magic. The fire’s still going, and there are cups on the tables and ground.

A girl from my earth science class leans out the back door, waving her hand at me. She’s dressed like a rainbow clown. I can see her glitter from space.

“We’re playing a game, Ira. You want to join?”

“Sure.”

Games are always fun.

I’ve never played Stranger Danger before. I’ve never even heard of it until now. All I know is they split the party into two groups.

I pull my legs up on the couch and sip my second drink, half-listening to dude-with-smiley-face-keychain and earth-science-girl ramble on.

What are we playing exactly?

Is it like Clue? Guess Who? Do I get a candlestick?

Someone screeches from the kitchen, then someone else bursts into uncontrollable laughter.

The TV room explodes into whoops and hollers, and I clap my cup along with everyone else.

Still no idea what’s going on, but—hey, it sounds fun. It’s hard to be in a bad mood when there’s booze, purple streamers, and someone lit a pumpkin candle; probably Beckett’s handywork.

A dude in a mummy costume comes out the side door off the kitchen, bowing aggressively and flourishing his hand. He still has a blindfold on.

“Thank you, thank you. One point for us.”

I can hear the group upstairs laughing and groaning.

“Dammit, Sarah,” floats down from the ceiling.

I finish my cup, set it down on the table—