Mike wrapped his leg around me. He tried again for a kiss, but I sucked in and pursed my lips.

“Have I ever let you down?” he asked.

I crossed my arms, and I couldn’t decide whether I was fake-pouting or real-pouting. “Not yet,” I responded.

“I never will,” he said.

“I’ll believe that when you beat J.B. for Prince.”

Mike rolled his eyes and grinned. “Your one-track mind is very sexy. But I’ve told you, Balmer’s cool now. He was just showing me his costume for the party this weekend.”

Oh my God, in all the excitement, I’d completely forgotten about Rex Freeman’s infamous Mardi Gras soiree.

It was the one time a year when every kid at Palmetto, save a few of the most self-righteous youth groupers, cut loose and got a little crazy. All the typical girls would be wearing feathered masks and fishnets, but I was determined to come up with something that stood out in the crowd of wannabe sluts. The boys would be all Panama hats, flasks in their jackets, and barely buttoned French-cut shirts. Often, they ended up looking more scandalous than the girls.

I did love to pick out costumes for us to wear every year, but I think my favorite part of Mardi Gras was seeing everyone all showered and appropriate at church the next morning, when you’d still be picturing them flashing for beads. It was something I looked forward to every year, but today, the thought of Rex’s party was just one more thing getting under my skin.

“So what?” I asked Mike huffily. “You and J.B. were swapping beads in the locker room?” Mike and I had already agreed to keep our costume concept this year a surprise until we showed up at the party.

“Course not,” Mike shrugged. “Just his. Dude’s gonna wear a feather boa. It’s hilarious.”

“I doubt it,” I said. The mental image of J.B. stumbling around drunk in a hot-pink feather boa did nothing for me — unless that feather boa could be used to publicly humiliate/ annihilate him.