I shuffle my favorite deck for the fifteenth time that hour, feeling a fizzing in my blood at the thought of getting to play tonight. I love pretty much all card games, and they love me back, though the people who play with me generally don’t. Sierra hasn’t been willing to play with me since I shot the moon in a family game of hearts without her realizing it when we were eight and nine. Claire used to like to watch me play solitaire and FreeCell—said she found it soothing—but hated anything that had even the tiniest tinge of competition. Even my parents gradually shifted from indulging me in games of rummy or spit to giving me Concerned Parent Talks about gambling addictions.

My love of competitive card playing is something I’ve mostly tried to shut off here, because the money-making games in particular bring out a more aggressive side of me than I need anyone seeing. But if I’m not trying to be Nice Evie, or Good Evie, then who cares?

Let them all see how badass I can be, without any help from Salem.

Ordinarily I’d wear sweatpants and a T-shirt to go upstairs, but with my hair in rare straightened form, my eyebrows newly shaped, and my cheekbones beautifully highlighted, I feel like I have to do my look justice. I don’t want to overdress, but I put on one of my nicer T-shirts with my best jeans, throw on a cute cardigan, and painstakingly refresh my makeup while trying to recall all the instructions from the woman at the makeup counter.

I even contemplate changing my underwear to the expensive Bellas Isabel and Co. insisted I buy in a signature color, just as they each have. (They assigned me “virginal pink,” ha ha.) But it’s not like anyone will be seeing it tonight. By the time I’m done, I barely recognize the girl looking back at me in the mirror. But that’s a good thing, right? I wanted to be someone new. I wanted to be someone who makes you look twice. I wanted to be someone who looks like she regularly stays up past nine on a school night.

And I definitely do, finally, look like a girl who knows how to have fun.

Now, off to have it.

I practically skip upstairs to Salem’s room, visions of royal flushes dancing in my head.

Chapter Eight

A RUMSON HALL DORM ROOM DOESN’T quite possess the necessary décor for a festive poker evening, but somehow, Salem and Matt have made do, tracking down a round table that’ll work well enough for our purposes and, improbably, a case of poker chips. “Buddy of mine at MCC lent it to me,” Matt said proudly, referring to the nearby community college.