7
Lana
I waited for Holland in the campus parking lot on Monday morning, leaning against my car and scrolling through my phone to pass the time. Going to classes was always exciting to me, because I’d rather spend time here than back home, where, this morning, yet another porn was being filmed.
I managed to get out of the house without being seen by Callan, but I did run into a girl who looked freakishly similar to me. Same red hair, blue eyes, curvy body. The only difference between us was that I was fully clothed, and she was wearing nothing but a satin robe. She was around my age, too, and for a moment I had this funny thought that maybe I was her, just in an alternate universe. But then I imagined having sex with Callan, and my body shook all over.
When Holland pulled into a space a few rows over, I could tell from her face that she had a story ready to unload. She always did. Not because she chased attention wherever she went, but because she kept ending up in strange situations. To be fair, she attracted unusual men, always attended parties that went sideways, and had ridiculous misunderstandings that escalated for no apparent reason. She noticed things other people missed and then somehow got pulled into them. Luckily, the worst thathad come out of the situation was that she had to spend a night at the police station, and even that was a misunderstanding.
All of that gave her a stack of stories you could go through for weeks. If anyone in our film class could turn their life into a sitcom, it would be Holland, and no writing would be required. Her days automatically supplied the punchlines.
“Lana, Jesus Christ, what the fuck is wrong with men?” she blurted out the moment she stepped out of her car.
I chuckled, shrugging a little, knowing this was going to be good. “Probably a lot,” I said, already bracing myself.
“Yeah, a whole damn lot,” she said, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulders after she swung her backpack on. “I went out with this guy—”
“Which one?” I asked, falling into step beside her as we started walking toward the main building.
“The one I met at Leah’s party two weeks ago,” she replied, waving her hand vaguely like it explained everything. “Anyway, we were at this bar, right? Just drinking cocktails, nothing crazy, and then one of his friends came over and started talking to him. And they just wouldn’t stop talking.”
I nodded, encouraging her to continue, while I listened attentively, as I always did. “Go on.”
“I’m sitting there, just trying to make conversation, and the guy is completely ignoring me. I’m like, hello? I’m literally right here. We’re on a date, but he just keeps talking to his friend. And then, get this—he has the audacity to ask if it’s okay to do the date another night. Can you believe that?”
I let out a quiet laugh, shaking my head. “Wow. That’s…impressive, in a terrible way.”
Holland groaned, throwing her hands in the air. “I know, right? I swear, sometimes I wonder if men even know how to treat and talk to women. Or maybe they just don’t care. I don’t know. But it was the most infuriating thing.”
I glanced at her, smiling despite the disbelief, and said, “Sounds like you survived it though, and I bet you were still able to turn the night around and have some fun.”
“I sure did.” She nodded once, and her frown turned into a smirk. “I left him at the bar with his friend and went to the bar across the street, where I drank and danced.”
“That’s my girl.”
“You missed out on a fun night. Actually, you always miss out on fun nights. You should come out with me sometime.”
I had thought about going out to bars more often. I had been a few times, but I never really had that much fun. I liked to dance, sure, but on a Friday night, I’d rather be home reading a book.
Cliché, I know. But I just didn’t like being around drunks.
“It’s your birthday soon. We can go out then,” I told her, smiling.
“Good. Because I don’t feel like spending my nineteenth with anyone else. Oh, by the way…do you need a new fake ID?”
“Nope.”
Holland sighed. “I lost mine. Not that I ever had to show it, but you never know.”
I never had to show mine, either. But I figured it was always best to have one just in case. Though in bars around our area of town, girls were allowed to do just about anything—as long as they looked somewhat good. Therefore, entering bars wasn’t even a challenge.
We arrived at the building a few minutes before class started, and we passed by students who were scattered around the hallway, either sipping their coffees or debating about the movie they had watched and loved or hated over the weekend.
Holland pushed the door open, and we slipped into the lecture room just as Professor Hayes was adjusting the projector. He was frowning at his laptop like it had personallybetrayed him, muttering under his breath while stabbing his keyboard with his fingertips. He always looked tired, and I just knew that he spent all his time outside of college working hard on his personal film projects, which nobody ever got to see. For whatever reason.
Hayes was a unique individual with one of the greatest minds I’ve ever met, and that made him an exceptional professor.
We took our usual seats near the middle. Holland slumped down beside me, pulling out a pen she would never actually use, and putting her little glasses on that she only ever wore during lectures. “He looks like he hasn’t slept since 2005,” she whispered. She’s said that joke around ten times in the past three weeks, and it was still funny.
