And that’s precisely what we do. One house after another, we shuffle in and out of front doors where everyone’s invited, into crowded rooms packed to the brim. Plenty of pot smoke and not nearly enough furnishings. But even after half a dozen parties, nobody’s heard of Jane Eyre.

“They should have at least read the book in school,” I mutter.

In one place, nobody speaks at all. They’re all too busy sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor, listening to young men with long hair strum songs on Silvertone guitars. Some of the boys are rather good. Some of them aren’t. Regardless, they all seem convinced they’re geniuses.

“I don’t think I can take another wannabe Bob Dylan tonight,” I say, as we walk to the next party down the block.

Daisy snaps her tongue. “You’re too cynical,” she says, as though she’s old enough and worldly enough to decide such things.

I scrunch up my nose. “I’m not cynical,” I say, and Bee chirps up a laugh, as if to say I am.

At the next house, we’re barely through the door before we’re separated, Daisy blithely showing Bee around, explaining her odyssey to locate this mysterious Jane.

“Can you help us?” she asks, and everyone closes in around them.

I back away into a corner, the only place I feel safe, but it doesn’t take long until someone else joins me. A young man, no older than Michael, in buckskin and fringe, his scent like sandalwood and sweat. He’s standing too close, but then again, everyone here is too close for my taste.

“We could go upstairs,” the guy says, as though he’s finishing a conversation we weren’t even having.

I scowl. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Because it would be fun.” He sucks his cigarette down to the filter and then nods at the urn. “Is that an ashtray?”

My whole body goes rigid as he moves toward me, his hand on the lid, ready to unscrew it and flick the butt of his Winston into Dracula’s remains.

“No,” I say and bare my teeth. They aren’t even sharp, but he recoils anyhow.

“I was just asking,” he says. “Jesus Christ.”

Cursing to himself, he charges off, slipping back into the sea of partygoers. I settle against the wall, grateful he’s gone. A moment later, though, I see him talking to Daisy, his arms flailing, his eyes wide and bewildered. Tattling on me like a child. I count to ten, and Daisy’s already starting toward me.

“Lucy, darling,” she says, “I want you to feel free to be yourself and everything, but could you maybe not growl at my friends?”

I shrug. “Maybe your friends shouldn’t bother me.”

“If you keep growling at them, I doubt they will.”

“Then we’ll all be happy, won’t we?”