Oh, hell no. I’m picturing stupid-ass togas. And beer kegs. And red plastic cups strewn around a poorly lit room. Just imagining Kimberly and Nia walking across a sticky floor is making me cringe on the inside. “I’m not so sure about this, Peter. What’s the crowd going to be like? Because I’m not taking Kimberly and Nia to an all-white frat party.”

He shakes his head. “No, no, it won’t be anything like that. I asked that very question because I had the same concerns and was assured it’s going to be a sophisticated and diverse crowd.”

Huh. That’s surprisingly post-Neanderthal for Peter. Maybe he isn’t as bad as I’ve made him out to be. “Okay, sounds fine to me.”

“Great, great,” he says, rubbing his hands. “I’ll send you the details. There’s just one thing: If you don’t mind, I’d like you to send out the invitation to the group. See, the law school buddy is actually an old girlfriend, and I don’t want Molly to get worked up about it.”

Never mind. He’s definitely a Neanderthal. “I don’t know, Peter. That seems shady.”

“It’s not, trust me. Just send out the invite. I’m sure it’ll come up when we’re there, but until then, I’d rather not subject myself to the third degree. Word is, my buddy’s going to announce her engagement at the party, so there really is no reason for Molly to be concerned.”

Okay, that sounds harmless enough. “Fine. Send me the details and I’ll invite everyone.”

“Perfect,” he says, jumping up. “I’ll owe you one.”

Given that it’s coming from Peter, I’m not expecting that IOU to be worth much.

Not long after leaving my office, Peter conveniently texts me an invite that I can pass along to the women. How considerate of you, Peter. I reformat it, deleting his hokey “Hey, Party People” greeting and composing my own. Kimberly accepts on her and Nia’s behalf within minutes. Solange responds an hour later:

I’ll go but I’m NOT wrapping myself in a bedsheet or taking Jell-O shots

I bark out a laugh. A single text from Solange and my day is already improved, assholes be damned.

Solange

“Ms. Pereira, hang on a minute!”

Merda. Caught. Just a few steps more, and I would have made it to my classroom. I spin around and watch the head of Victory Academy stride toward me. He’s in his forties, I think, swaths of premature gray near his temples blending nicely with his dirty-blond hair. And he’s never not in a suit. Which immediately makes me think of Dean. Indeed, this is how I picture my fake boyfriend looking in a decade or so.

“Dr. Cabrini—”

He waves away my greeting. “You’ve been here for eight months. Please call me Greg.”