notice what they were wearing?”
I blink. “Uh, basic college party ho attire?”
“It’s a pajama party.” Bliss looks at me. “Duh! And you were the one who said we needed to get out of these dresses. Ergo . . .” She points at the sign on the wall pointing down.
LAUNDRY.
Oh.
“Ergo?” I follow her down the concrete stairwell. I don’t check to see if Meg is coming, too — she always does.
“Therefore,” Bliss shoots back. “What, you think just because I have a manicure, I have to be brain-dead too?”
“You’d be the only one of your clique who isn’t,” I reply sweetly, pushing past her into the laundry room.
Bliss — showing her usual entitlement and lack of respect for other people’s property — rummages in the dryers for clean laundry, outfitting us in an array of shorty shorts and tank tops before we hit the party. It’s easy to find the right floor: music is pounding through the walls and an, ahem, amorous couple has spilled out into the stairwell, making out against the door in an enthusiastic tangle of hands and tongue.
“Move it,” I bark. They shift out of our way, not missing a beat as they slam back against the wall instead, his hands gripping her ass tightly and both of them emitting a symphony of moans and grunts.
Meg is wide-eyed as we pass, and her expression doesn’t change once we emerge into the main party. It’s the usual college scene, the hallways packed with kids clutching beers and plastic cups — dancing, chatting, hurling themselves around with inflatable pool toys — but from the look on her face, we could have wandered into the middle of an orgy. I quickly scope out the place. Most of the bedroom doors are open and, unsurprisingly, there’s no flannel or long johns in sight, just plenty of bare-chested boys in boxers, and girls wearing shrunken T-shirts, tiny shorts, and — in a few extra-slutty cases — silky nightgowns as they bounce around to the music.
“Someone better stay here and keep watch.” I tug at my shorts. They’re printed with tiny giraffes galloping across my butt. “In case security comes to break things up.”
“Or Phi Kappa shows,” Bliss adds. Taking an abandoned cup from the floor, she pushes it into my hand, finds an almost-empty beer bottle for herself, and then steals a sleep mask from somebody’s door handle to arrange on the top of Meg’s head. In an instant, she’s transformed us from three underage girls in dumb nightwear into a trio of partygoers, perfectly blending into the crowd. I hate to admit, I’m impressed.
“I guess that means you’re up,” I tell Meg. I’d rather a vaguely functional Bliss as my buddy than her.
“But —” Her protest is drowned out by a pack of frattish guys whooping past, naked save a collection of Disney boxers and shaving-cream bow ties. They pile into the room next to us, only to emerge a moment later with one of the lingerie girls slung between them. She squeals and laughs but doesn’t put up a fight.
“We’re on our cells,” I add, already backing away. “Call if you spot Jason!”
We’re quickly swallowed up by the crowd, rowdy from the mix of cheap drinks and skin. Awesome. I can’t shake my bitterness, just imagining how I’m going to deal with this twenty-four seven when school starts in the fall.
“You think she’ll be OK?” Bliss glances back, but Meg is already out of sight. “These parties can get kind of wild.”
I roll my eyes. “Relax. She’s probably got 911 on speed dial. Or her daddy. Now, 318 . . .” I start checking door numbers.
“It’s down here.” Bliss points the way, past a gaggle of girls in matching black lace nightgowns. I guess the pajama dress code is kind of like Halloween: just an excuse to look like a Playboy refugee for the night.
“You’re sure you know where you’re going?” I can’t help but tease. She scowls.
“I haven’t got total amnesia, you know.”
I laugh at her petulant expression. “I’m just kidding. Jesus, now who’s the touchy one?”
She exhales, as if forcing herself not to snap back. “Jason’s the last room on the right,” she says instead, adjusting her football jersey shirt so it reveals one bare shoulder. “You’d better check it out first, in case he’s still there.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I mock-salute, leaving her camouflaged in the line for someone’s keg while I do a casual stroll-by. The door’s lodged half-open, and through the gap I can see a blond