I’m on the saggy plaid couch in the Sigma house, brushing my hair like it’s the most important thing on planet Earth, because it is—every stroke goes shhhh, shhhh, and my brain kind of purrs with it. The room smells like pumpkin beer and caramel candles and sweat, the TV is paused on a football game, and I’m in a super cute, super tiny Halloween costume with fuzzy ears and a clip-on tail. I keep forgetting which animal I am. Bunny? Kitty? Uh… giraffe? Whatever, it’s purple and soft and my boobs look amazing.

There are like six guys in front of me—my guys, I think?—all standing in a nervous clump as orange string lights blink-bink-blink behind them. They keep looking at me and then at each other like they’re waiting for someone else to handle it. I give them a sunny little wave and the captain-looking one flinches like I just pulled a knife. “Hi, boys,” I say, and my voice is bubbly and high and I kind of love it.

“Dude,” whispers one with a backwards cap, “this is so fucked.”

“Language,” I chirp, then giggle, then cross my legs, then uncross them because my skirt rides up and I like the air on my thighs. My head feels floaty, like cotton candy spun around a stick. I’m trying really hard to follow what they’re saying, but then I notice a strand of hair caught in my brush and I’m like, ooh, shiny.

“She cursed him, the frat president— Everyone saw it. He called her a—”

He stops and looks at me. “He said awful shit all night. He got in her face, he tried to grab her, and he laughed when she told him to back off. So she snaps her fingers, lights flicker, and now we’ve got… this.”

“Got what?” I ask cheerfully, and show them my brush like it’s evidence. “Do you like my… beaver ears?”

“Those are bunny ears,” says another guy, eyes glued—well, not to my ears.

I beam. “Oh my god, really? I love bunnies. They’re the ones that go meow, right?”

A ripple of panic goes through the room like somebody opened a window to a hurricane. The tallest guy blurts, “Jesus, she’s actually—” and then he bites it back.

I scoot forward, the sofa squeaking. “So anyway, I was just, like, brushing, and thinking how fun it would be to twerk for a little cardio, and also maybe, you know, adult fun? It is Halloween, and I’m such a good trick, or treat, or maybe both—”

“Stop,” the captain says. “Just—please stop.”

I blink, all innocent. “Stop what?”

“Being… that.” He makes a vague circle at me, like I’m a hurricane, which is so flattering.

I look down at myself, at my purple fuzzy top with the little straps I keep wanting to tug off because it’s toasty in here, and my thigh-highs, and my heels that make my calves pop. “Being cute?” I offer. “I can try harder.” I bounce my shoulders and the room makes a collective strangled sound.

“Bro,” whispers Backwards Cap, “this is a nightmare.”

“It’s karma,” says the tall guy.

“He deserved it. The shit he said to the sorority president? ‘Smile for me, baby,’ and ‘you’ll do whatever I say by midnight,’ like he owned her. He tried to corner her by the punch bowl. He literally bragged about keeping pledges scared so they’d ‘stay in line.’ And when she said no, he laughed.”

My brush slows. Somewhere inside, like deep under the marshmallow fluff, a memory tries to move. A voice with my name—but it’s not this name, it’s heavy and blunt—booming orders. A hand slamming down on the arm of this very couch. A girl’s face pinched with anger and fear. My stomach squirms like I’ve swallowed a bee.

The room tilts, then levels, then gets all sparkly again. I smile because that feels better. “She must’ve been a witch,” I say. “Like a real one. Did she have a broom? I could ride a broom. Brooms are hot.”

“Yeah,” the captain says flatly. “She’s the sorority president, and she’s a witch.”

“That tracks,” I say, very seriously. “Also, I’m a… koala.” I scratch my tail thoughtfully. “Wait, koalas don’t have tails. I’m a… wolf?”

“You’re a bunny,” the tallest guy says again, like he’s clinging to facts. “You were our president half an hour ago, and now you’re a girl in a bunny costume who can’t remember her own name.”

“My name is…” I start, and then I stall out. I fluff my hair to keep from falling into the hole where a name should be. “It can be whatever you want,” I say sweetly. “I’m, like, super flexible.” I wink. “In lots of ways.”

The couch groans when I hop to my knees. I lean forward, elbows on the sofa back, cleavage suddenly an event. Two guys whimper. “Okay, so plan,” I say, because plans are cute, “you boys hold me—like, really tight—and I’ll think super hard about being a boy, and if I get, um, distracted, just keep holding me. For science.”

“Absolutely not,” says the captain.

“Absolutely yes,” says Backwards Cap at the same time, then coughs. “I mean—no. No, no, we’re not doing that.”

I pout, playing with the strap of my top. It slips and I gasped like a cartoon. “Oopsies.”

“Jesus Christ,” mutters someone. Another guy throws a blanket at me like I’m a campfire. It lands across my lap. I hug it, giggling. Warm.

“Look,” the tall guy says, trying to steady the room. “We just need to, like, call her. The sorority president. Apologize. Beg. Maybe she’ll reverse it if we prove we’re not… him.” He glances at me and swallows. “Because none of us liked him, okay? He was a dick. He hazed, he cheated, he bragged about ‘owning Halloween’ like he owned everybody.”

I watch his mouth while he talks because boys’ mouths are fascinating and kissy. “I could help with the begging,” I say. “I’m really persuasive. I could show her my—”

“Nope!” the captain snaps. “We are not weaponizing your— We’re not doing that.”

I stick out my tongue. “You’re no fun.” I hop off the couch and do a little wiggle just to shake the panic out of the room, because it’s so loud, like a smoke alarm. My hips go left-right, left-right, and the lights seem to wink at me like we’re in on a joke. I start to twerk, tiny and bouncy, and the boys let out a chorus of “oh f—” that harmonizes accidentally.

It makes me laugh so hard I have to grab the arm of the sofa.

“Why is she so… so… this?” asks Backwards Cap, sounding betrayed by the universe.

“Because the curse matched what he mocked,” the tall guy says tightly. “He reduced every girl to a costume and a punchline. Now he’s the punchline, and the costume, and the joke’s on him.”

His eyes flick back to me, then away. “And on us, if we’re not careful.”

I toss my hair. “You can be careful and still have fun,” I say in my best sultry-earnest voice. “Like, I could give you a… pep talk.” I grin. “With my mouth.”

The captain pinches the bridge of his nose. “We’re making rules. Nobody touches her. She doesn’t touch anyone. She keeps all her clothes on.”

I raise my hand. “Question! What if my top is allergic to me and jumps off by itself?”

“Then we staple it on,” he says without humor.

“Kinky,” I murmur, and a couple of them choke. I don’t know why it’s so easy to make them make those sounds, but it’s addictive. They’re like little musical instruments and I’m the conductor with a wand made of hips.

Something in me flickers again—a hallway lit by cheap LEDs, a girl backing up, my old voice booming, a cruel chorus of “Just smile, sweetheart” bouncing off the walls—and the room shimmers. My eyes sting. I blink it away, swallow, and paste the grin back on.

“So if I’m a bunny,” I say, bright as tinsel, “who wants to pet?”

“Jesus, stop,” the captain says, but he sounds tired now, the fight leaking out.

Backwards Cap rubs his jaw. “Look, man… I mean, look. We can’t just… take her to the sorority house like this. They’ll eat us alive. Also, not to be a monster, but… it’s kinda nice not having him around.”

He gestures at me without looking directly. “He made my life hell. She’s… sugar.”

“Sugar rots your teeth,” says the tall guy.

“Yeah,” Backwards Cap says, “but it tastes really good.”

They all fall quiet. I can feel their thoughts like warm hands hovering two inches off my skin: don’t touch, don’t touch, don’t touch. The captain is staring at the floor, the tall guy is staring at the ceiling, two are staring at the TV where a paused quarterback looks like he’s about to throw a pumpkin.

“Okay,” the captain says at last. “We keep her here tonight. Lock the doors, keep her safe, keep us safe, and we figure it out in the morning. Nobody does anything stupid.”

He glares at each of them. “Especially you.”

I clap. “Sleepover! Can we braid hair? I can braid so good. Also, I’m hungry. Do we have snacks? Like, candy?”

Backwards Cap hands me a bowl from the coffee table, and I squeal and dig in. The wrappers are shiny and the gummies are shaped like little pumpkins with goofy faces, and they taste like Halloween itself—sweet, sticky, a little earthy. I pop one, then another, then like three more, because they’re small and I’m small and math is hard.

While I chew, I wiggle back onto the couch and nestle into the blanket. The panic-scent in the room is fading, replaced by something softer, resigned. One of the guys—tall guy—tucks the end of the blanket under my hip like he’s anchoring a tent. It’s sweet. I kiss the back of my brush and pretend it’s someone’s cheek.

“Tomorrow,” the captain says, more to himself than anyone. “We fix it tomorrow.”

“Or we don’t,” Backwards Cap mutters, then louder, “Kidding. Kidding.”

I turn on the TV again and the room lights up with the frozen football field. On the screen, men in armor charge through fog and fireworks, and I get goosebumps and rub my arms so my hands can feel them.

“I love Halloween,” I announce. “It’s, like, the one night you get to be exactly who you are.”

Nobody says anything to that, which is fine, because my mouth is busy with another chewy pumpkin. My head gets even floatier, the edges of the couch go soft-focus, and the string lights make halos when I blink. I look down at the empty bowl, at the pretty wrappers like confetti, and giggle.

“Oh,” I say, swaying a little as the room tilts into candy-clouds. “These pumpkins were, like… the weed ones, right?”

Backwards Cap stares at the empty bowl. “Oh, f—.”

I grin so big it feels like my face is a sparkler. “No wonder I feel like a very happy… um… turtle.” I pat my ears proudly. “Happy Halloween.”