Page 85 of The Build-a-Boyfriend Project

And Patricia scoffs. “Neither am I. But I think Rose is doing something.”

“Well, she’s doing it alone.”

* * *

“I still can’t believe you made me do this,” Eli mumbles as the three of them stand outside the entrance to Mulholland Drive. Despite his and Patricia’s protests, Rose had three costumes laid out for them when they got back to the apartment.

Though given how Patricia had to dress as Annabelle, complete with pasty doll makeup that leaves lines painted on either side of her mouth and an awful pigtail wig, he figures he got off easy with his Freddy Krueger costume.

He already had the sweater after all; Rose just provided the glove.

“How long have you been planning this?” Patricia asks.

“A few weeks.” Rose sounds like she’s smiling, but the creepy Michael Myers mask she wears hides all expression on her face.

“How come Eli is the only one who gets a weapon?”

Eli peers at the knifed glove on his hand, the quintessential Krueger weapon with rounded plastic blades at the tips to avoid taking any eyes out. “You can have it if you want. It’s too big for me.”

“No!” Rose protests. “We’re staying in costume.”

At least she couldn’t find a fedora, Eli thinks, grateful that his hair has been spared a flattening night.

The three of them stand in stark contrast to the sexier versions of characters that wait along with them for their turn to enter one of San Francisco’s most popular queer bars.

“Plus, Annabelle doesn’t have a weapon,” Rose reminds Patricia.

“I could’ve been that other doll, the android thing.”

Their IDs are checked at the door, the three of them pushing through the tight hallway at the front of the club, through the fake spider webs and past the stack of jack-o’-lanterns with scary faces carved into them.

The club, normally decked out in full rainbow regalia, has exchanged all of that for more spooky attire. Lights glow orange and purple, bats hang from the ceiling. Each cocktail served seems to pour out dry ice from the lip of the glass, and everyone is dressed up.

Eli passes by at least three Trixie Mattels and two sets of Sanderson Sisters before he, Rose, and Patricia find a tall bistro table where they can stand.

The last time he’d been here was with Keith, who’d dragged Eli along much as Patricia had tonight. But back then, Eli didn’t mind doing things that made him uncomfortable. He didn’t mind going on hikes, or trying new restaurants, because Keith was there next to him to reassure him. But now he can already feel his palms getting sweaty, though maybe that’s because of the sweater and the too-large leather glove with fake knives attached to the fingertips.

“Smile!” Patricia shouts at Eli over the Lady Gaga B-side that shakes the very foundation of the club floor.

“I’m fine!” he says back. “I promise.”

“Do you want a drink?” Rose asks.

“I can get them,” he shouts. “What do you want?”

Armed with their orders minutes later, he navigates the perimeter of the sunken dance floor in an effort to get to the bar, walking past two women making out dressed in incredibly accurate costumes from the League of Their Own television show and a couple dressed like Daphne and Velma. He glances at the platform stage right in the center of the club where a local drag queen is lip-syncing to the song while dressed in an outfit made of sacrificed Kermit the Frog plushies.

“All right, time to change things up a bit,” the DJ says, one song seamlessly blending into the next. “Everyone, I want you to please welcome to the stage your favorite drag triplets, Mary, Kate, and Ashley!”

Another Lady Gaga hit rocks the club just as Eli gets his drink order. He carefully does his best to balance the three cocktails in hand as he turns around. The rest of the club gets into the performance, throwing dollar bills at the trio, all of them dressed in bloody knitted sweaters and blonde bobs à la Drew Barrymore from her opening kill in Scream.

One twink rushes past Eli, angel wings knocking right into him, causing Eli to stumble into another person, and—more importantly—spill two of the drinks all over himself.

Only Patricia’s is spared.

“Ah, dude . . .” he groans.

But the guy doesn’t even notice. He just takes the hand of the man next to him and pulls him to the dance floor.