“All right, then grab it and let’s go,” she says. “We’re running late.”

“Before we go anywhere, I want to know why I’ve been stuffing a shirt in a freezer bag and then wearing it while I’m sleeping.”

“Just be cool, baby.”

I shudder. “You know it weirds me out when you call me that.”

“Whatever,” she says. “Just grab it and let’s go. I’ll tell you on the way.”

We’re in the car and she’s about two sentences into the explanation, and I’m ready to go home and call the night a bust.

Apparently, we’re going to something called a Pheromone Party. The object of the shirt is to capture one’s scent for the inspection of others. If someone likes the way your shirt smells, apparently, they have their picture taken with the shirt which bears a number only you know. If you find the person attractive, you approach them and let them know the shirt they had a picture taken with was yours.

It’s farfetched enough that I’m clinging to some hope that she’s making the whole thing up, but this is exactly the sort of thing Annabeth would be into, so I’m not putting money on it.

“Where’s yours?” I ask.

“On the floor of the backseat,” she says. “Why?”

“No reason.”

The reason is that I’m getting the sneaking suspicion that this is all a ruse and I’m about to walk into some extremely humiliating situation. That is also the exact sort of thing Annabeth would do.

Sure enough, though, we pull up to a building in Trenton and there, on a fluorescent sign by the front door, are the words: “Pheromone Party Tonight!”

I sigh.

This is going to be uncomfortable.

The reason, I guess that I’m not telling Annabeth to take me home right now is that I really need to get my mind off of Dane. This isn’t how I wanted to do it, but I’m pretty sure this whole scenario is going to crowd out any other thoughts in my head. For that, I guess, I should be grateful.

I start feeling a little less grateful as we walk into the door and I see dozens of people smelling shirts out of plastic bags.

“This is too weird,” I tell Annabeth.

“It’s not that weird at all,” she says. “Before cologne, perfumes and, you know, running water, someone’s scent was a huge part of the mating dance.”

“You know, it sounds even worse when you describe it like that.”

“Don’t worry,” she says, trying to reassure me, “these are normal people just like you and I. You’ve done speed dating. I don’t see how it’s that much different.”

“Oh, it’s different.”

Still, I play along.

My number is 560.

“There aren’t that many people here,” I whisper to Annabeth as the woman with the clipboard writes down my name and number.

“They just do that to keep it more random, I guess,” she says. “Ooh, check this out.”

She pulls out her phone and pulls up the internet.

“What are you doing?”

“I’ve got a gematria calculator,” she says. “We’re going to find out what your number means.”

I roll my eyes.

“560,” she says. “It means a few different things, but the one I like most is butterfly.”

“Butterfly?” I ask. “How does the number 560 mean butterfly?”

“In Hebrew, every letter is also a number. I guess the Hebrew word for butterfly adds up to 560.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I tell her. “How long do we have to stay?”

“Oh, we just got here,” she says. “Let’s get a drink and keep an eye on that wall.”

As we walk over, I watch the wall. Picture after picture of men and women, holding up bagged shirts with numbers flash across it, and I don’t know if there’s enough alcohol in this place to make that not seem a little creepy to me.

I guess we’re going to find out.

“So,” Annabeth says, “it’s not as bad as you thought it would be, is it?”

I’m not listening.

“Lei-Lei?”

I’m watching an older gentleman burying his face in the bag marked 560, and there’s a weird dichotomy going through my head at the moment.

One part of me feels kind of violated having a stranger sniff my very-worn, very unwashed shirt. The other part of me hopes he goes over and takes his picture with it. I know it sounds weird, but I really don’t want to have to go through that kind of rejection.

I smell good, damn it.

The man puts my shirt back on the table where he got it, and I’m about ready to walk over there and ask him just what’s so unattractive about the way I smell when Annabeth puts a hand on my shoulder.

“You all right?”

“Yeah,” I say. “He didn’t get his picture taken.”

She giggles.

“I told you you’d have a fun time,” she says. “Freak.”

“Why wouldn’t he want to get his picture taken with my shirt?” I ask. “I’ve got a good smell.”

“Don’t take it personally,” she says. “Different people look for different things. Sometimes, it’s just an instinct thing. What are you drinking?”

“Tequila,” I tell her.

“Yeah,” she says to the bartender, “can I get a tequila sunrise—”

“No sunrise,” I tell her, “just the tequila.”

If I’m going to make it through this night and all the weird rejection issues it’s bringing up, I’m going to want to get pretty buzzed.

“What number were you?” I ask after she finishes ordering our drinks.

“68,” she says. “Don’t even ask me what that one means.”

“That guy’s holding up your bag,” I tell her and point at the wall.

She cringes.

“What’s wrong with him?” I ask.

“He’s got the stalker eyes,” she says. “Notice how his eyelids are a little too open and he’s just got that blank expression on his face? Yeah, I’m not going through that shit again.”

“Again?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says. “Not really something I want to talk about right now, though. Hey, look at that,” she says, nudging me. “560! Go up and introduce yourself.”

I look at the wall, and there’s a tall guy with long blond hair holding my bag and giving the camera a thumbs-up.

“He’s way too excited about my dirty laundry,” I tell her.

She shrugs.

Our drinks arrive and, before the bartender can walk away, I order another one.

“You ready to go sniff out some hotties?”

“I’m nowhere near drunk enough to even handle that idea,” I tell her.

“Come on,” she says, “it’ll be fun. Let’s find someone who smokes weed and see if there’s a party to go to.”

“I didn’t know you’re a pothead,” I tell her.

“I’m not,” she says. “Stoners just seem to like the best music. Come on.”

I laugh and drink my second shot.

“Hold on,” I tell her. “I’ve got one more coming, then we can go.”

She waits—I can’t say patiently—while the bartender hands me my shot and I drink it down. When she’s not looking, I ask for one more and drink that down before I’m ready to go partake in something that I can’t claim to understand.

“How much B.O. should I be expecting here?” I ask. “On a scale from one to vomiting, what are we looking at here?”

“Well,” she says, “I’ve only been to one of these before, but most guys seem to take pretty good care of themselves hygiene-wise. You will get the occasional stink bag, but they’re not as common as you’d think. But hey, some chicks go for that.”

“Some women go for guys that smell bad?” I ask.

“It’s an evolutionary thing,” she says. “I don’t know. You’re supposed to be able to tell whether a prospective mate is healthy by the way they smell.”

“Well, thanks for bringing me to the Discovery Channel,” I titter.

“Just be cool, will you?”

We get to the table and Annabeth tosses me a bag with a blue number card on it.

“What am I supposed to do here?” I ask.

“It’s not brain surgery,” she says. “Open the bag and take a whiff. If you like what you smell, go up there and get your picture taken with it. If not, move on to something else.”

“This is too weird,” I tell her.

“It’s really not that bad,” she says. “Did you know that in Japan, they have vending machines that dispense used women’s underwear?”