“Gruesome?” I stroke a pincer of the papier-mâché crab mask. “Thank you. I made it myself.”

He blinks at me like he’s trying very hard to think of something nice to say about it. “That’s . . . impressive. It seems . . .” He clears his throat. “Complicated?”

“Ah, it wasn’t too bad. Besides, I’m an artist, so I like hands-on creativity.” And then, because I’m feeling extra juvenile, I add, “Like my tattoos.”

He swallows and blushes spectacularly as his gaze darts down my neck to my breasts, following the bumblebee’s trail. Not sure what he has to blush about, since there’s hardly anything to see. My black dress runs low, but unlike Jules, I was not blessed in the chestal department. The curse of fraternal twinship: similar face, different boobs.

Jamie is silent in the face of my latest move. It’s gloriously rewarding. Now I’m the one smiling politely, and he’s the one letting our conversation die a slow, awkward death. I’m about to declare victory when Margo pops her head in.

Smiling up at me from her diminutive height in a burnt orange jumpsuit and a fox mask that pins back her tight black curls, Margo says, “Need a cocktail, sweet cheeks?”

“God, yes.” I take the glass from her, appreciating its deep red complexion and enticing aroma. Margo is a mixologist who makes the best drinks. I’ll take anything she gives me. Like nearly everyone else at this party, she’s also one of Jules’s friends, because my twin is the nucleus of our social cell, unlike me, who’s happy existing on the edge of the semipermeable social membrane.

I have friends but only through Jules, which is enough for me. Jules is how I know Margo, who’s married to Sula. And because I met Sula, whom I now work for, I once again have a job as an artist that pays a living wage. My sister’s social strategizing can be exhausting, but it’s also made my life better. Without Jules tugging me inside her sphere, nudging me to make connections, I’d be lonelier and a lot less gainfully employed, especially since things took a nosedive nearly two years ago.

In keeping with my prove-non-chaos-demon-status campaign, I’m polite and make introductions as Margo offers Jamie her hand. “Jamie,” I say, “this is Margo.”

“Actually,” he says, taking her hand, then releasing it, “most people call me—”

“West!” a voice yells from behind us, startling me so badly, I jump half a foot and send my bright red cocktail straight into his chest.

Jamie’s jaw tics as he steps back and shakes off the liquid dripping down his hand. “Excuse me,” he says, eyebrow arched in censure. See, that eyebrow says, you are a chaos demon. Then he turns and disappears into the jungle of guests.

I beg the ground to swallow me up.