Willow Slevin had cashed in the last fuck she had to give. Thad and Jayden and Patrick could rot in hell, and she wouldn’t even blink.

Prom had a theme—Winter Wonderland—and Wynezra and Imogen had the brilliant idea of dressing us all in accordance. Apparently, Holden and I were not so much participants in prom shopping as we were Barbie/Ken dolls they could dress up.

“But isn’t this tacky?” said Holden.

“You know what’s tacky?” said Imogen. “Your attitude. You look great.”

“I feel like Colonel Sanders.”

Yes, Holden was wearing a white suit. But it was far from Colonel Sanders. Maybe if a Hollywood biopic version of Colonel Sanders were on the cover of GQ magazine, played by Dave Franco. His suit coat had sharp black lapels and a matching black bow tie. His shoes were so shiny, they could have been sculpted out of obsidian.

“You look great,” said Wynezra.

Holden blushed. He opened his mouth, as if to say, “You look great, too,” but then seemed unsure whether he should say that to her in my body or to me in her body.

“You look finger-lickin’ good,” I said.

“Dammit!” said Holden. “I do look like Colonel Sanders, don’t I?”

“Ezra!” Imogen growled through her teeth. She smacked me with her purse. “Stop provoking him.”

“Do I look like Colonel Sanders?” said Wynezra, challengingly. “Because I think I look finger-lickin’ good.”

She was wearing a slightly off-white suit coat—like vanilla ice cream—with a black bow tie identical to Holden’s and black slacks. She strutted seductively toward him, like a practiced male stripper. Holden was paralyzed in place. Even as she grabbed his hand, lifted it gracefully to her mouth, and inserted the very tippy-tip of his index finger between her lips, and proceeded to suck gently.

“Ooooookay,” said Holden, but his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Okay. You’ve made your point. We can check you out now. I mean… we can check out now. We can check out your stuff… as well as my stuff. We can check out everyone’s… stuff.”

I made a slicing gesture across my throat at him.

Wynezra released Holden’s finger from her lips, winked, and smacked him on the butt. “There’s more where that came from, Colonel.”

Holden—in a state of sexual crisis—discreetly adjusted his slacks.

Imogen sighed dreamily. “This is so hot.”

TWENTY-SIX

AFTER WE DROPPED Holden and Imogen off, Wynezra looked at me expectantly. I looked at my phone.

Still nothing from Roscoe.

“I could call him again?” I offered, hopefully.

Wynezra shook her head.

My heart sank. That was it. Without the magic of morphine, her willingness to talk to Roscoe had passed. Like an unpleasant kidney stone.

“Let’s just go over there,” she said.

My heart bounced back, trampoline-propelled, practically lodging itself in my throat. I nearly choked on it.