“Well, it’s not that I don’t want to go—”
“And you’ve probably got better things to do than show me around my first party. I’m sure I can get the hang of things from the other girls there.”
She raised an eyebrow. “The other girls? Sweetie, you’ll be innocent chum in the shark-infested waters. Remember what I said about dirt? The only thing worse is a person who goes to a party alone.” She made it sound like being alone was on par with having a bedbug infestation.
“Whatever. I’ll survive. Everyone has to go to their first party sometime, right? I’ll be making memories that’ll last a lifetime.” Now I was completely improvising and starting to sound like a bad Hallmark commercial. “Gotta build up that party callus, after all.”
“Did you just call it a party callus?” Roux looked toward the sky. “Give me strength, you’re going to be socially murdered.”
“I’ve survived worse!” I said brightly. “At least we can be social outcasts together!”
“Okay,” Roux interrupted me. “I cannot in good faith, or in any sort of faith, let this happen.” She put her hand on my arm and sighed. “You owe me so big.”
“So, does that mean you’ll go with me?”
She closed her eyes for a few seconds before answering, “Yes. You’re practically a lion cub all alone in the African grasslands. You’ll be eaten alive by wild hyenas and—”
“Okay, can we just cool it with all the Lion King metaphors about how I’ll be murdered?”
“They’re actually similes.”
“Whatever. So, you’ll come with me?”
“Yes. Against all of my better judgment, yes.”
“Yay!” I leaped into the air, then started to hug her again, but Roux stepped away and put her hand out.
“Whoa, chief,” she said. “I’m still bruised from the last time you hugged me.”
“Sorry, sorry. I just get excited. This is going to be so much fun! Our first party together!”
“Waaaaaait a minute.” Roux crossed her arms and gave me a look. “Did I just get reverse psychology’d into going to this Halloween crapfest?”
“You promised you’d go!”
“I did get reverse psychology’d!” she shouted. “I’m such a moron, oh my God!”
“It’ll be fun,” I promised.
“I’m going to kill you.” She glared at me. “And that is not a metaphor.”
“Simile,” I reminded her. “So what’s your costume going to be?”
“Someone who’s plotting to murder her best friend.”
We both stopped short.
“Wait,” I said. “I’m your best friend? Really?”
“Well, there aren’t exactly a lot of candidates,” she admitted. “So don’t get all excited.”
I could feel the stupid smile already stretching across my face. “I totally accept,” I told her. “Maybe we can wear matching costumes, bestie!”
But Roux was already starting to gather her bag and walk across the quad. “You owe me!” she repeated as she walked away. “A lot!”
“Yes, I do,” I said. “A lot.”
Chapter 8
I had the Halloween party lined up for next Friday. I had Roux agreeing to go with me to the party, which was sort of like an early Christmas miracle, and with any luck, she’d cause enough of a ruckus that I could get into Daddy Oliver’s office and start snooping around. Things were looking good. I felt good.
And then I realized that I needed a costume. A spy costume.
Here’s the thing about dressing as a spy: an authentic spy costume doesn’t exist. Yeah, it looks cool in the movies, but when we’re working, we dress like everyone else. I mean, can you imagine? You’re just walking down the street and you see a guy creeping around wearing a trench coat, hat, and night-vision goggles. C’mon. Chances are you’re looking at either a conspiracy theorist or a terrible accessorizer, not a spy.
Basically, I had no idea what to wear. The last time I dressed up for Halloween, I was a four-year-old ghost, and all you need for that costume is a sheet, a pair of scissors, and Band-Aids for your knees after tripping over the sheet every six feet. (Totally not bitter, though. Scarred, but not bitter.)
On Friday morning before school, I did some searching online for spy Halloween costumes, if only to get some ideas about what I was supposed to wear. The first costume that popped up involved way more latex than looked comfortable, and the second costume came with a push-up bra and garters. Another website suggested that I wear a sleek ballgown or better, a belly-dancing outfit.
Two minutes later, I was still laughing hysterically. “What’s so funny?” my dad yelled from the kitchen.
“Nothing!” I yelled back as I started deleting my browser history. “Do people really wear these things?” I asked the computer. “How are you supposed to run in these outfits? It’s like how Wonder Woman always saves the day in hot pants and a bustier. Give me a freaking break.” The computer, of course, didn’t have a response, so I kept searching. “Stupid Halloween,” I muttered.
I thought about my costume all day, even consulting Roux in the hallway before her French class. “So what are you wearing tonight?” I asked her as she shoved books into her locker and pulled out new ones.