“That’s you you smell, salsa boy,” Ganke insisted. “Now, can we please get to the party? I got some standing in the middle of the floor to do.”
They could hear the music blaring from the outside when they got to the party, a splattering of teenagers pushing through the double doors to join. The auditorium was packed with dancing students dressed in kooky costumes, some as elaborate as C-3PO, the golden robot from Star Wars, and others as simple as whiskers drawn on a face. The side walls were lined with tables of food and drinks, and up on the stage was Judge, dressed as a judge with a fat pair of headphones on his head, standing behind two turntables.
“First let’s do a walk-through,” Ganke screamed in Miles’s ear. The two of them wormed through the crowd, trying to see who was there, and who wasn’t. They recognized Winnie first because she was dressed in regular clothes—a sleeveless dress and heels. Miles asked her who she was supposed to be.
“What?!” she yelled back.
“Who are you?!” Miles leaned in closer.
“Oh. Michelle Obama!” she said, pointing to a small American-flag pin on her chest. The triplets, Sandy, Mandy, and Brandy, were dressed as the sun, moon, and stars, which were basically hokey costumes made from felt and an overused glue gun. Of course Ryan was there. Miles was expecting him to be dressed in something cheesy like a three-piece suit, but he was a shoddily crafted monster, which technically made him a good-looking monster. But then he opened his mouth and there were fangs. Of course. Any way to work in sucking on some girl’s neck. There were teachers there as well, some dressed in costumes, and some not. Mrs. Khalil had elaborate feathered-wing attachments connected to her arms and a beak over her nose. It was enough of a costume for her to look cool but still be able to walk around and monitor the students, who were constantly looking over their shoulders for a chance to grind against one another. Ms. Blaufuss, on the other hand, went all out—Edgar Allan Poe. The jet-black hair, the stark white face, the black suit, and a stuffed raven perched on her arm the whole time. Nailed. It. Mrs. Tripley was dressed not as Frankenstein, but as Mary Shelley, the lady who wrote Frankenstein. As if anyone could tell. And Mr. Chamberlain was there too, as expected, dressed as a Civil War Confederate soldier, ghosting through the crowd, slipping in between dancing couples, wagging fingers.
When Miles and Ganke saw him coming toward them, Ganke stopped cold, put his hands together, and froze in Chamberlain-pose.
Miles, however, rushed out of the crowd. He didn’t want to have any brush-ups with his teacher. At least not yet. He walked over to the punch table to pour himself a cup, but there was a line. The…thing waiting in front of him had a hunchback and a mess of matted hair. And smelled of sandalwood.
“Alicia?”
The ogre turned around, and sure enough it was her, her brown skin painted an awful green. She was ladling red juice into a red cup.
Alicia looked at Miles, but didn’t say anything.
“Oh,” he said, realizing he had his mask on, which also muffled his voice. “It’s me.” He yanked it up over his face.
“Oh, hey,” she said, her tone sizzling with awkwardness as she dropped the scoop back in the bowl and stepped to the side. She opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something, but didn’t.
First pour a drink. Then, spill the salsa, Miles reminded himself.
But before he could execute his plan, Alicia had ducked back into the crowd.
“Pour me one, bro,” Ganke said just then, coming up on Miles’s side. He took the full cup from Miles’s hand, pounded it back.
“It’s like she didn’t even notice me.”
“Oh yes she did. She was blushing!”
“Her face is gree—”
Before Miles could finish Ganke shouted, “But he didn’t even notice me! Everybody else knew exactly what I was doing, but Chamberlain is so oblivious it’s like he didn’t even see me. Such a weirdo!”
Miles looked over Ganke’s shoulder, scanning the room for where Alicia might’ve gone. He spotted her mixing into the mob of costumes.
“We’ll talk about it later,” Miles said, dashing off toward her. He burrowed through the crowd, trying his best to avoid bumping anybody and splashing juice all over the place. Not that it would’ve mattered. If anything, it would’ve just looked like more fake blood.
Miles, still unmasked, found Alicia in the center, huddled with some other people Miles recognized. At least the ones who weren’t wearing masks. Most of them were her Dream Defender friends, like Dawn Leary, but others were students from class, like Brad Canby, dressed as a professional tennis player.
“Alicia!” Miles tried to get her attention, but she didn’t hear him. He had been waiting for this moment all day, planning out in his head how he was going to do it, to say it. He slipped the folded poem out of his pocket. “Alicia!” She turned away from Dawn. “I have to tell you something!” Miles took a step toward her. As soon as he did, a volcano erupted in his stomach, an earthquake in his head. Oh no. And before he could say another word, Mr. Chamberlain came out of nowhere, wedging himself between Miles and Alicia. He eyeballed Miles. Miles swallowed hard.
“How about a little distance between you two, Morales. If I see you try anything inappropriate, we’ll have a problem.”
“Nobody’s trying anything!” Alicia puffed up.
Miles’s skin got hot, as if he were cooking from the inside out. But he held his tongue and nodded his head. Mr. Chamberlain walked away, pushing through the teenage jumble.
“Such a jerk,” Alicia muttered. “And by the way, I have to tell you something, too. I’m sorry about what happened in class. I should’ve said something or…done something.”
“It’s, um…it’s fine.” Miles was distracted.
“Okay, well, there’s something else I need to talk to you about, but first, what did you have to say?” Alicia asked, her face, though green, still pleasant.
“Huh?”