AFTER MUCH DELIBERATION WITH MYSELF, I’d straightened my hair until it hung in golden sheets around my shoulders. It was a kick-ass look on me. Straightened hair said: I’m here to shine, and I will go that extra mile. So don’t you dare mess with me.
Actually, it probably only said: I am handy with the straightening iron. But whatevs. Either way, it gave me confidence, and confidence was in short supply this week.
Unstraightened hair, on the other hand, made a different statement. It said: I am an effortless beauty, and you’ll just have to take me as I am. But nothing felt effortless lately. And “effortless” was just a little too close to “careless” for my comfort. And tonight I could not appear careless. So I’d spent an hour on my hair, and now it was straight enough to be featured on somebody’s geometry exam.
I pushed the hair off my bare shoulders and assessed my outfit. “What do you think?” I asked my reflection in the mirror. “Is the neckline too much?”
My reflection didn’t answer. But my suitemate Katie did. “There’s no such thing as too much. You look hot in that dress.”
“Thanks, K2.”
“Any time,” she said, plopping down on my bed and making herself comfortable.
During the first week of school, a smokin’ hot lacrosse player had nicknamed us K1 and K2 because we were both named Katie. “But why does she get to be K1?” the other Katie had asked at the time, employing the flirtiest pout in the world.
“Sweetheart, K2 is an awesome nickname,” the LAX guy said. “Because K2 is a big mountain. And, well…” he broke off on a chuckle, his eyes right on her ample cleavage.
The other Katie had grinned, then hitched up her bra. “I guess I can wear that name with pride.”
“You wear it well,” the guy had said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. About fifteen minutes later, they were lip-locked against a tree in the back yard of the frat house. And I, in my A-cup bra, was totally envious.
And that LAX player wasn’t the only one who thought of us as a pair. Our roommate Scarlet called us Blonde Katie (that’s me) and Ponytail Katie. Others simply referred to us as The Katies. Together, we’d hit the party scene hard these past three months. I’d begun the year with a kind of I-am-freshwoman-hear-me-roar attitude. I loved college, and it loved me back.
I’d thought so, anyway.
But seven nights ago I’d hit a sour note, and his name was Dash McGibb. Even though I was a generally upbeat person, my bad experience with Dash had left me feeling uncertain about everything — my choices, the company I kept.
This dress.
I fiddled with the silky, draping neckline, wondering if I should change. I probably wouldn’t, though. I’d already tried on everything in my closet. Selecting a pink lipstick, I pursed my lips for the mirror.
“I can’t believe you’re going to this party with a basketball player,” K2 scoffed from my bed. “The team record so far this season is one for four.”
The lipstick prevented me from answering her immediately, which was a good thing. It gave me time to reconsider my snarky reply, which would have been to ask Katie how her basketball game was looking this year. (She and I ran three miles exactly once per week. Neither of us was athletic. We only jogged on Sundays as penance for our chocolate chip cookie addiction.)
“Is it?” I asked instead. “Then losing is something that Andy and I will have in common. Because my dating record this year is zero for two.”
She rolled back onto my bed, her skinny knees pointing the ceiling. “Just because both of your boyfriends turned out to be duds is no reason to sell yourself cheaply.”
“Jeez, Katie. I’m not a horse up for auction.” Her words ricocheted inside my brain. Especially one of them. Cheaply. My stomach gave a little lurch at that word. My mother used it a lot. Cheap was not how the Vickery women were supposed to behave. But I hadn’t heeded this guidance, and now I was paying the price.
K2 gave me a wounded look. “It’s just an expression.”
“I know. Sorry.” I tried to change the subject. “Have you seen my Stila eyeshadow?”
“Um, whoops.” She got up and ran off to her own room in our little suite.
The first week of school, I was positive that Katie and I, with our matching names and our matching Prada suitcases, were primed to take over the world. We’d both ruled our high schools. We were also in agreement on exactly which sort of guys we wanted to date — athletes, of course. We were here to party with whoever did it best, and whoever was the best looking.
In contrast, our third roommate, the tight-lipped Scarlet, had seemed a lot less fun. I’m not proud of it, but I’ll admit that I’d kind of written her off by the third week of the semester. But recently I’d learned that she’d had damned good reasons to be cautious and quiet. And tonight I found myself wishing that it was Scarlet who was home with me. The attack of insecurity I faced right now was bigger than a fashion crisis. I needed the support of a friend who knew about life, and not just what to wear for it.
I hadn’t told a soul yet about the crappy little thing that had happened to me last week. And now that I was primping to go to a party where I’d probably end up face-to-face with the jerks who’d embarrassed me, I could have used a pep talk.
K2 came back into my room with my eyeshadow. And when my phone rang, she grabbed it off my dresser to look at the screen. “It’s your mom.”
“Crap.”
“So don’t pick up.” She did another belly flop onto my bed.
“But I’ve been ducking her.” I took the phone from Katie and answered it. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hello, sweetie. Getting ready for your date?”
“I am.” And if you knew that, why would you call me now?
“I’ve been making plans for the holidays. We’re having the Iversons visit for the weekend before New Year’s. And then I thought we could pop into the city to see a play,” my mother said.
“Mmm hmm,” I said. “Sounds fine.” But my attention was still on the full-length mirror I’d installed on the back of our closet door. Specifically, I was trying to decide if the pearl earrings I’d put on made my dress look less slutty. Or had I only managed to convert the look into “slut with pearls”?
“Have fun tonight,” my mother said. “Are you wearing something pretty? The girls of Tri Psi knew how to throw a good party in my day.”
“Thank you, I will have fun,” I said, ignoring the question about my outfit. One had to wonder what my mother’s idea of a good college party had been. Surely alcohol didn’t enter the picture, at least not for the girls. And my mother would never sanction any activity that might rumple a girl’s twin set. Mom was a first-class Good Girl. And in spite of massive evidence to the contrary, she assumed that I was one too.
“Is this boy who’s taking you to the party a gentleman?”
“Of course he is,” I said. And it might even be true. Though gentlemanliness had never been high on my list of important qualifications for a date.
And last week I’d finally paid the price.
“Good,” Mom said.
“Yeah,” I said, distracted.
“Say yes, darling,” my mother corrected. “Yeah sounds cheap.”
“Yes, Mother,” I intoned. “I should go. He’ll be here in a minute.” At least I hoped he would. It would stink to be stood up tonight of all nights. But after all that had gone wrong this week, I probably wouldn’t even be surprised.
I hung up the phone and spun around. “Okay. Last call, here. Are you sure this dress doesn’t look slutty?” My fingers worried the fabric between my breasts.
Gently, Katie swatted my hand away. “First of all, we don’t use the word ‘slutty’ when referring to ourselves. And that dress looks sexy as all hell. In the best possible way. I hope your basketball player brought a hankie to wipe up his own drool.” She got up off the bed and turned me around by the shoulders, so that I was facing the mirror again. “The dress is navy blue, K1. It’s an anti-slut color. And the contrast with your hair is just awesome. Use your eyes, babe.”
“Thanks,” I whispered, trying to see things her way. The dress I’d chosen was cut in a halter style. Until tonight, I hadn’t ever stopped to wonder why we were dressing up for this weeknight party, where charity work was supposed to happen, too. But sorority girls, I’d discovered, were always looking for an excuse to get dolled up.
Yet when guys were around (which was always) we were supposed to be grateful if they’d worn khakis instead of sweats, and a button-down instead of a faded Harkness t-shirt. In fact, if they wore their baseball caps frontwards instead of backwards, that was dressy.
Double standard, much?
I dabbed the eyeshadow applicator into the silver shadow and skimmed it across one eyelid and then the other.
Once more I squinted critically at the girl in the mirror. The dress showed a lot of shoulder. But it wasn’t too short, which was important. I needed to be able to bend over tonight without giving anyone a show. And the halter top had just enough coverage that I wouldn’t expose my cleavage if I leaned forward.
“You look great. Now go,” Katie prompted, swatting me on the rear. She gave me a smile in the mirror and slipped out of my room.
I slipped my feet into my most authoritative shoes — black suede Prada pumps with a three-inch heel. Then I took one last look in the mirror. Katie had been right. This dress was perfect. It was sexy without showing off. And my hair looked fabulous, and the jewelry was subtle.
Fine. I looked fine. Not slutty. I stood there a little longer, willing myself to believe it.
Usually I didn’t think so hard about these things. I liked to look sexy. And, to be perfectly blunt, I liked sex. A lot. I’d never been afraid to admit that to myself. Not until last week, anyway.
For the most part, coming to Harkness — and getting out from under my conservative parents’ roof — had been liberating in all the best ways. In high school, sex had to be sneaky. It’s hard to get your freak on when you’re listening for footsteps outside your bedroom door. Or — God forbid — in the backseat of your boyfriend’s little BMW convertible.
At Harkness, sexy times weren’t so fraught. And although I’d had to train my roommate Scarlet to watch out for the bandanna on the doorknob of our room, the logistics were a lot easier.
For the first two months of the semester, I’d had a blast. In September, I’d dated a freshman tight end. He had an eight-pack like you read about and gorgeous, muscular thighs. But he wasn’t much of a conversationalist, so I’d had to let him go. Then there was Dash, who I should probably start calling The Fullback Who Shall Not be Named. He was another freshman with lickable abs. But I broke up with him in November, because he wasn’t very nice to me when we had our clothes on.
I’d meant to take a break from football players after that. After all, it was hockey season now. And in the spring there would be lean, muscular lacrosse players to cheer for and party with.
But then a week ago I’d run into Dash again. And I’d done something so incredibly stupid that the humiliation was going to follow me to my grave. A few stupid hours had turned me into someone who second-guessed her wardrobe, her makeup, her life choices…
My phone buzzed with a text. Evening! I’m downstairs in your courtyard. Andy B.
Be right down, I replied. It was sort of cute that he’d added his last initial, as if I might have forgotten who I’d invited to this little party. Andy Baschnagel was a basketball player. I didn’t, as a rule, do basketball players. The sport just wasn’t sexy to me. Those long baggy shorts and even longer arms? Eh. Maybe if I went to Duke or Michigan, I’d understand the appeal.
Anyway, I hadn’t invited Andy B. to this party because he was a basketball player. I’d done it because he wasn’t an asshole (I hoped). And because I’d pledged Tri Psi and could not show up at one of their events without a date. And for extra points, he had to be A) an athlete and B) an upperclassman. With Andy, I could check both of those boxes.
No matter that I was suddenly having trouble remembering why I cared about checking those boxes. It was too late to wonder about that now. I had a party to survive, and a guy waiting downstairs. It wasn’t his fault that I would rather hide under the bed than face the people at this party. And I’d absorbed at least some of the ladylike manners my very proper mother had taught me.
It was time to march down there and make the best of it.
When I reached the courtyard, Andy was standing there texting someone, a smile on his face.
He looked friendly enough. And he was pretty cute for a skinny guy. But still, all that attention to his phone was not an auspicious sign. I was sick of guys who spent the whole evening texting their buddies, calculating everyone’s odds of getting some action later.
“Hi,” I said carefully. He still hadn’t noticed me.
His head jerked up, his face guilty. “Sorry. Hi.” He offered me his hand to shake. “I’m Andy.”
For a second, I didn’t step forward. I mean… what guy under forty shakes hands like that? Recovering myself, I took his hand, which was warm even on this cold night. “Hi. I’m Katie.”
“I know,” he smiled. Then he shoved his phone into his pocket even though it chimed with an incoming text.
“Don’t you have to get that?” I asked. It was a little bitchy of me, honestly. But I needed to know what I was going to be dealing with.
“Nah,” he said. “She can stuff it.”
“Who can?” I couldn’t help but ask, even as his phone rang in his pocket.
He grinned. “My sister. Sorry. Let me get rid of her.” He jerked the phone out and swiped to answer. “Delia. Go dissect a cadaver or something. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” There was a pause. “I love you too, even though you’re bossy like Hitler. G’night.”
I laughed in spite of myself. “I think you got the last word.”
“It’s only a temporary victory. She always wins eventually. But that’s okay, because she’s already doing me a big favor.”
“What kind of favor?” Together we walked out of the Fresh Court gate, heading down College Street, toward Fraternity Row. I kept our pace slow, and it wasn’t even because of my three-inch heels. I was dreading this party.
“Well, Delia is going to med school. Every Jewish family needs a doctor, see. And now the pressure is off me.”
I laughed again. That was, like, twice in two minutes. “Really? Are your parents doctors?”
“Nope. Dad is an accountant, Mom is a librarian. But that doesn’t matter. It’s a cultural thing. The deli by our house even has a platter on their catering menu called the ‘My Son is a Doctor’ plate.”
“But they won’t be ordering it for you?”
“No. I might go to law school, though. That’s second best.”
“Interesting. My mom doesn’t care what I do, just as long as I look pretty doing it.” I shouldn’t have said that. It was really too much sharing for the first ten minutes of a blind date.
“Well…” he cleared his throat. “At least one of us is a shoo-in for meeting the parental expectations.”
My face burned a little then, because I’d made it sound like I was fishing for compliments. “That’s nice of you,” I said quietly. “Do you have just the one sister?”
“Nope” he said cheerfully, giving me another smile. When Andy smiled, his angular face softened up, taking him from ordinary to pretty damned attractive in one leap. It was kind of spellbinding, really. “I have another sister, too. Spent my whole life getting henpecked and waiting for the bathroom. I thought I came to Harkness to get away from them. But then I couldn’t figure out why my freshman bathroom was so gross and smelly all the time.”
“See, girls aren’t so bad,” I said.
“True dat.”
We were within a hundred yards of the Tri Psi house now, and I had slowed our pace practically to a crawl.
“Do your feet hurt?” Andy asked, looking down.
That made me smile, because it was so obvious that Andy did have sisters. “My feet are fine. I’m just having second thoughts about tonight, that’s all.” I stopped walking altogether.
Andy stopped too, folding his arms. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I sighed. (Even though “yeah” sounded cheap. Sorry, Mom.)
He stood very still, studying me. “Look,” he said, tugging on an ear. “Is it me? I mean, if you changed your mind…”
“What?” Oh, hell. I reached out to put a hand on his arm, giving it a squeeze. “Jeez, no. You are not the problem. This is all on me.”
But he was still frowning, and his brown eyes were filled with concern. “Then what’s the matter?”
“Well…” my eyes drifted toward the big white house on the corner. I’d always had fun there. But tonight I didn’t want to set foot in the place. “I’m pledging the sorority. And we just spent a whole lot of hours setting up a holiday toy drive. The party for the kids is tomorrow. And tonight we’re supposed to wrap the gifts, which should be fun, right?”
“Sure?”
“But the Beta Rho guys are setting up our tree on the sun porch. And I really don’t feel like seeing them tonight, that’s all.”
“Is one of them your ex, or something?”
I let out a big old sigh. “Yes. But also his friends… There are several guys that I don’t want to see.”
Andy looked toward the house, and then down at me. “Do you mind if I ask why? I mean… are they scaring you?”
I shook my head. “It’s not like that. It’s just…” The moment stretched out, because there was no way I could actually tell him why. It was deeply embarrassing to me, and if he knew what I’d done, he’d stop looking at me the way he was looking at me now. His eyes were soft, and he’d given me his complete attention. He looked at me as if I were important. And I didn’t want to see how that expression would change if he heard the stupid thing that I’d done.
But he was waiting for an answer. And I owed him one, because I was the idiot who had us standing out here in the cold.
“Okay,” I tried. “My mother has a saying that you shouldn’t do anything you don’t want reported on the front page of the New York Times. And I’ve never been very good at following that rule, although I wish I were. Because my ex and his pals weren’t very nice about… a recent embarrassing episode.”
Again, Andy’s brown eyes darted over to the sorority house and then back. But his frown lost some of its depth. With what I’d just told him, he would probably assume that I’d gotten drunk and puked all over the place, or something. “Well, okay. Going in or not is your call. We could always just go for ice cream at Scoops instead. I saw on Facebook that they made a new batch of salted caramel today. That’s my favorite flavor.”
I reached across to give his arm another squeeze. “I like your style, Andy. And it’s tempting. But then they win, right?”
Andy shrugged. “You could look at it that way. Or you could just say that life is too short to spend even ten minutes with assholes.”
Aw. This guy! I liked him already. “You are a very smart man. But I spent a lot of time on this charity thing, and if I don’t see it to completion, I’m going to feel bad about that, too. So tonight I’m going to put on my big girl panties and give it a shot.”
“Fine.” His face lit up then with another winning smile. “But if you change your mind, what’s the word? Give me a code so I’ll know when to help you bail out.”
“How about ‘scoop’? As in ice cream.”
“Deal. If you say ‘what’s the scoop?’ we’re outie.” Then he held out his arm in that formal way, as if escorting a lady to dinner inside the pages of a Jane Austen novel. That was even weirder than shaking my hand. But so what? I took his arm, and in we went.
