Marvyn Callan. There’s just something about this kid. Never have I met someone whose creepiness seems so rehearsed. It’s like he was engineered and grown in test-tube conditions to get under my skin. His normally blond hair is dyed forest green tonight because, sure, why not? He’s always already smiling by the time he makes eye contact with you, leaving this vague impression that he’s been watching you and chuckling to himself since before you saw him. What does not endear him to me is that he’s a Harvard and Columbia legacy who never fails to bring it up as though it were an unfortunate skin condition he’s been living with since infancy. Not to put the cart before the horse, but I predict deep depression if I end up living in the Callan Building dorms.

I then make the mistake of glancing at Corinne.

“Ooh, she’s cute,” he comments, following my eyes to Corinne across the room. “You’re watching her like a hawk too. You must be smitten. Evie will be heartbroken.”

His friendship with Evie is just a fact of life of FATE Academy. Unlike those of us who lucked into FATE a few years ago, the two of them have been attending the best kindergarten, elementary, and middle schools of Manhattan together for most of their lives. The city is full of rich kids with that same our-parents-summer-together connection.

“Knock yourself out,” I say. I’ve seen Marvyn slapped across the face twice before, and I can’t think of a better person to make it three for three than Corinne, should he try his chauvinist crap on her. “Now, if you guys will excuse me, a profound piss beckons.” With a pat to Marvyn’s shoulder, I disentangle from the group, effortlessly sliding him into my former spot. Gary is already talking about the dorms at Stanford, but Abdel glares at me for having substituted myself with Marvyn Callan, king of douche. Sorry, dude.

“Can I ask?” Evie says, startling me after I come out of the bathroom. “What’s with the Big Brother/Little Sister act with Corinne Troy?”

I walk her puppy, and she’s blackmailing me with outing my less-than-completely-honest dog-walking venture.

“She lives in my building.”

Hooper throws another look toward Corinne’s corner of the party, where “Cori” is moving her arms animatedly, explaining something to a girl that actually seems interested. Probably a refresher on the Pythagorean theorem.

“She’s treating my party like a petting zoo, H.” Evie laughs.

“I’m sorry.”

Evie takes another sip of her drink, signaling that it’s still my turn to speak. The upper hand always defaults to Evie Hooper. Especially when she has home court advantage.

“I should have asked before just inviting her,” I apologize because, really, I should have.

“That’s okay.” She eventually smiles. “Want to go upstairs?”