On the patio directly in front of me sits an inflatable kiddie pool, about ten feet long and five feet wide, bright blue and covered in red cartoon dinosaurs.

The strange humming sound is whipped cream cans. People are lining up around the pool, filling it up. A pallet full of cans waits off to one side.

“No huffing the cans, babies!” Jude yells, overseeing the project.

I head in his direction. “What’s going on?”

“The first round of House Gladiators!” he proclaims, arms outstretched. Then he scratches his chin on a wince. “No, that’s not it. Room Tournament!” His arms lift again with the pronouncement.

I shake my head. “That’s terrible.”

“You’re right.” He sighs. “The Special Victors Squad!”

“Too much like special victims unit.” Although the most accurate of the choices so far.

He shrugs. “Probably.”

“Are you going to explain what’s up with the whipped cream?”

“You shall see, my friend.” He claps me on the back.

A throat clears.

Behind us, Reese stands silent and pale, her jaw firm. She does not look happy. She looks a little green, actually, if determined.

“I’m not getting naked.” Her voice wavers slightly.

“No worries, babies. This ain’t that kinda house. We are all about consent here. You keep your clothes on, put more on, take them all off, whatever you want. But you might want to put on something you don’t mind getting sticky. And you might consider having a beer. All drinks on the house for our . . . Roommate Death Battle Heroes of Doom!” The arms rise again.

Reese considers Jude with a frown. “You know, you don’t have to come up with something relating to a competition or event, necessarily. A name or title is effective enough if it describes the mood of what you’re attempting to produce. One good word can evoke the desired result.”

I blink at her. Is this the same person who followed me here like an awkward puppy? I didn’t know she could string so many words together.

Jude smiles at her, mustache twitching. “Oh yeah, smarty-pants? What would you suggest?”

“What about something like . . .” She thinks for a moment, her eyes narrowing in concentration. “Mischief, mayhem, chaos, pandemonium . . .” She murmurs a few more words, then stops, lifts her eyes. “Bedlam. Since we’re fighting over an actual bed. And the term bedlam is derived from an actual historic asylum, Saint Mary Bethlehem in London.”

“Huh.” Jude tilts his head at her. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

She flushes and glances over at me, as if just realizing who she’s talking to and what she’s doing. “I have to go . . . clothes,” she mumbles before disappearing inside.

I watch her leave. I can’t figure her out. One minute as gawky as a newborn foal, the next spouting SAT words like a walking thesaurus.

“Drink?” Jude asks, pulling my focus away from the open sliding door where Reese disappeared.

“No. Gotta stay focused for,” I glance down at the cream-filled kiddie pool, “whatever this is.”