The girls have put music on and laid towels on my bed, picnic-style, the snacks arranged in the center.

“Zoe, your mom looks so great!” Syd exclaims.

“She really does,” Erin adds, her blue eyes wide. “I didn’t know what to expect, but she seems good!”

I nod. “Yeah, she is,” I say. But it’s a relief to hear them confirm it.

My phone buzzes from the dresser, and I lunge for it, hoping it’s Sam with some undoubtedly hilarious Halloween update. But it’s just my dad sending my mom and me a photo of a nineteenth-century pie safe at a colleague’s house. Thought my girls would like to see this, he writes.

“Oh, no — no way. Not tonight.” Cammie shoves a bite of pizza into her mouth. “Set it aside for a while?”

Syd nods and reaches out a hand. “Come on, Zo. Tonight is just for us. Okay?”

“It’s my dad,” I protest, but I let her take the phone from me, even as mild panic and irritation prickle in me. If Sam messages me, I don’t want to miss it. What if tonight is the night we find the dungeon in Starworld? And if it comes when my friends are here, I at least want to be able to tell her I’m waylaid and will be back ASAP, so it doesn’t look like I’m just ignoring her. But Syd slides my phone into my desk drawer. I don’t want to make a scene, so I do nothing.

Erin opens up her paper bag. “Guys,” she says softly, with a nervous glance at my door, “you are not going to believe how delicious tonight’s drinks are going to be.”

I hadn’t anticipated booze, but then it’s Erin, so I should have known. I wonder how my mother would advise my handling guests’ contraband in my bedroom. How am I meant to be both the perfect hostess and the perfect daughter?

Syd bounces on the bed. “What is it? What is it?”

Erin pulls out a bottle of caramel-flavored vodka, followed by little bottles of Starbucks Frappuccino.

“Oh. My. God.” Syd turns to me, flapping her hands with excitement. “Get ice!”

“Just three glasses,” Cammie says. She makes the sign for the letter D against her forehead. “I’m driving.”

I get up and do as I’m told, increasingly unhappy with the invasion. I love my friends, and I’m grateful for them, but I’d rather be having a quiet night with my mom, or questing with Sam in Starworld. And I’d rather not be sneaking around so my friends can drink in my room.

In the kitchen, my mom is filling and rolling the enchiladas, craning her head to see the TV in the living room. She suspects nothing when I get glasses with ice, which makes me feel even worse. She trusts that I’m a good girl.