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directly into my eyes, forcing me to throw a hand over my face. “Paige! Seriously?”
    â€œThis flashlight app comes in handy,” Paige replies.
    I respond by bunching up a sweatshirt I find next to me and chucking it at Paige. Too bad I miss by a mile.
    On the cot in the corner, Veronica says, “Christmas is crunchy,” then lies back down and promptly resumes snoring. Loudly.
    I sure hope I don’t talk in my sleep. Or snore. I’ve never been able to ask anyone before because I’m always sleeping alone in my room and there hasn’t been anyone to ask. But it suddenly hits me that I’m here. It’s the next day, and I’m here! My brain is still early morning fuzzy, so I don’t really remember making the conscious decision to stay last night, but clearly I must have. I hug my covers around me and celebrate with a happy little shoulder jiggle. I did it! My first true sleepover.
    Paige plops back down and snuggles into her sleeping bag again, but from the way she’s huffing and puffing and sighing all annoyedlike, I’m guessing she isn’t going to be able to get back to sleep. And knowing Paige, her philosophy will be: If she’s up, then the whole world should be too.
    Might as well beat her to it.
    I unzip my bag and use my legs to push the cover the rest of the way off. Then I stand. My eyes are still adjusting and the sun isn’t bright enough through the windows yet, so allI can make out are dark shapes. I know the basement pretty well, but we pushed a lot of furniture around last night. Plus there are people sleeping in places we usually walk. Nothing seems familiar, and I don’t trust myself not to trip on something or some one , so I drop to my knees and crawl toward the wall, feeling pretty ridiculous.
    Halfway there something brushes against my face, and I very nearly scream. My hand swipes at my cheek, and I catch something wispy in my fingers. Please don’t be a spider web, please don’t be a spider web. If you have to be a spider web, please, please don’t be a spider web with an actual spider attached to you.
    Whatever’s in my hand is thin, like spaghetti, slightly sticky, and almost a little spongy-feeling. I bring it close to my face and squint.
    Silly String? My brain catalogues the texture between my fingers and confirms the match. Weird. I don’t remember any Silly String battles last night. My crawl gets ten times more awkward as I attempt to make forward progress on my hands and knees while also keeping one arm up to sweep the air in front of me for any other unwelcome surprises. When I finally reach the wall, I slide along its length until I’m on my feet at the edge of the room. I stretch my hand along the wall and feel the edge of the flat-screen. That means if I go in the opposite direction I should hit the bank of light switches right about . . . here.
    I fumble with the switch in the dark and then flip it on, saying a silent sorry to Veronica, who is still snoring.
    My jaw drops to the floor right alongside my stomach.
    Um, this is all seriously . . . like, whoa. To put it mildly. For starters, there is Silly String ev-ery-where. Wound around the base of the potted plant, looped along the Irish pub signs, threaded through the holes in the net of the Ping-Pong table, and crisscrossing Veronica’s body on her cot.
    The second the light goes on, and Paige settles the sweatshirt I’d lobbed at her over her face.“Whyisthelighton?” she groans.
    â€œUm, Paige. I think you need to see this.”
    â€œUmph,” comes through the sweatshirt.
    â€œSeriously, Paige. I really think you need to see this.” I tiptoe my way through hundreds of Doritos crumbs and popcorn kernels covering the carpet in the corner by the stairs and bend to examine a wrapper covered in sticky melted ice-cream sandwich remnants. I place it gently in the center of the coffee table, next to a