“You’re missing the point. Sexy’s fine, but it should be a choice, not a rule. I mean look . . .” Susan pointed through the door to the front room. “Sexy witch, sexy car mechanic, sexy sentient tree, sexy crayon, sexy mobile phone . . . sexy tin of beans. But the boys . . . gross zombie, gross swamp monster, gross monk, gross rugby player . . .”

“Hey!” The boy whom Susan had none-too-subtly pointed out last took offense. “I’ve just come from the rugby social. I’m not in costume.”

“Even more horrific.” Susan shooed him off.

“What about that hunk over there? Looks like a pretty sexy nurse to me . . .”

“That’s just someone in scrubs. All the nurses look like that.”

“I’m clearly doing the wrong course,” Esther said, fanning herself and giving the male nurse a little more attention.

“My point is: Why are the men fully clothed and the women in their underwear?” When Susan failed to get any response from Esther, she turned to Daisy. “You’re with me on this, right?”

“Umm . . .” Daisy’s attention was bouncing around the room like a pinball. “Many bras. So objectionable. Much patriarchy.”

“Daisy!”

“Sorry, Susan. Maybe it’s just that men aren’t as nice to look at, whatever they’re wearing?”

The smile Susan bestowed upon her was both indulgent and knowing, and Daisy blushed beneath her face paint.

As Esther made a beeline for the press of rhythmically flailing bodies in the front room, where the music was loudest, Susan gave Daisy a subtle nod toward the back of the house.

“Everyone knows the cool kids hang out in the kitchen.”

“Cool kids?”

“Us, Daisy.” She gave Daisy a gentle pat on the arm and steered her farther down the hall.

The dance floor was crammed with chisel-chested boys and loose-limbed girls writhing and whooping to the music.

“ESTHER!” someone screamed, and she found herself facing a big grin beneath a black headscarf, eye mask, and penciled-on mustache.

“NOOR!”

The two embraced like long-lost sisters rather than two casual acquaintances who had spent no more time together than the length of an ill-fated Harry Potter quiz. Within seconds, they were joined by Grace—dressed as a ghost in a faded old T-shirt and bleached-out jeans—and there ensued a flurry of compliments as each commented on the others’ outfits.

“Less talking, more dancing!” Grace yelled at the two of them, and Noor bowed. “As you wish . . .”

Halfway through the song, Grace waved them closer, pulling them in for a series of selfies.

“Which one shall I post?” She scrolled through them, Noor and Esther looking on, pointing out minor flaws in their own pictures and telling one another how amazing they looked.