Emma
“Doyou generate electricity with water through the process of hydropower? Because dammmmm.”
“Oh, God.”
The memory of it’s… it’s cringeworthy. No. It’s more than that. It’s… it’s… humiliating.
Luckily, that guy doesn’t know me from Adam. I’m 100 percent positive he’s never seen me before and I really hope he never will again. There’s no way a guy who looks likethatand dresses in clothes that aren’t standard-issue college guy clothes is going to be seen on campus.
No way.
No. I’m safe. Safe from having to face him again. Now, all I need to do is stop the scene from running on repeat through my brain. Oh, and I’ll need to get my roommate andformerbest friend to stop laughing every time I walk into the kitchen.
She can besoannoying.
Flopping back onto my bed, I squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to force myself to go to sleep. It’s been almost two hours since I said those words––you know the ones above that pain me to repeat––and in that time, I’ve done everything in my power to make the memory of it go away.
Maybe if I start at the beginning, it’ll exhaust me, and I’ll fall asleep…
Here goes.
Carley Dearborn, my closest and dearest friend, has been trying to pull me out of my shell for, well, all my life. We grew up in the same town and met when we went to the same elementary school. We also went to middle and high school together. We were practically connected at the hip. Even after graduation, when I told her where I wanted to go to college thanks to their excellent engineering department, she shrugged and said, “That sounds good to me.” We lived in the dorms together our first year and then decided to move off campus the next.
To say we’re tight is an understatement. She’s the sister I never had. Okay, I’ve got a sister, but she and I don’t get along, but that’s a story for another day.
So, as I said, Carley has been trying to yank me from my hard turtle shell ever since we were kids, and for the most part, she’s been successful. I’ve tried things I never thought I would or could.
Like swimming.
I was terrified of the water, but one day at the local pool, she took me by the hand and walked me into the water. She stayed with me in the baby pool until I was ready for more. That’s the kind of friend she is. I should saywas. This thing tonight wasn’t so gentle.
No, tonight was the “last straw,” apparently. At least those were the words she used when she told me we were going out tonight. She didn’t even warn me like she usually does. Ordinarily, she’d give me a few days to process the idea of doing something out of my comfort zone. But she didn’t tonight. Instead, she stomped into my room after she got home from class, put her hands on her hips, and said, “Tonight, we’re going out and you’re going to do it. You’re going to approach a guy at the bar and you’re going to talk to him.”
The expression on her face sort of alarmed me. She looked scary. Angry. I had no idea where it was coming from since I hadn’t recalled doing anything to make her that way. So, instead of arguing, I merely nodded. I mean, it was Friday night. Midterm exams were over. Sure, I had homework, but I always had homework and I could do that on Saturday and Sunday.
“Good,” she said without a smile. “I’m going to choose your outfit and I’m doing your hair and makeup.” She glared at me adding, “No arguments. Go take a shower.”
Wow. Bossy. In her defense, I would’ve argued. It’s my MO. You know, modus operandi. It’s cop-show speak that means a particular way or method of doing something, especially one that is characteristic or well-established.
Man, I love cop shows.
Anyway, I digress… I did as she instructed, er… demanded, because I knew Carley wasn’t in the mood for argument and I learned a long time ago when she got that way, it was just easier to go along. So I shut my textbook on hydroelectric power, slid off my bed, and showered.
By the time we got to the bar, my stomach was doing flip-flops. I mean, she had me in adress. A dress! I never wear dresses, especially not short ones. Sure, I’ve worn this one beforebut with leggings, for crying out loud. It’s so short, if I bent over, you’d see my undies. In addition, she gave me big hair. I’m talking B-I-G hair. It’s curly and wavy and it’s got so much product in it, my fingers only get in about an inch before they get stuck.
And don’t get me started on my makeup. The word trollop came to mind when I looked in the mirror, but that’s an insult to trollops. Sorry, trollops. She gave me what she termed “smoky eyes” but what I’d refer to as vampire eyes—all dark and suspicious-looking. I looked ridiculous. On top of that, my lips were red,reallyred. Luckily, most of the red ended up on the side of my first drink.
On top of all that—the clothes, the hair, and the makeup—she chose the swankiest joint in town for my humiliation. People don’t even call it a bar. It’s a “club.” Believe me when I tell you, there’s a difference. A bar is a place you go and have a beer. A “club” is fancy. There’s a line out front to get in, and according to my former bestie, you have to look a certain way to even get inside. Cue my hideous ensemble.
The minute we stepped into the place I did a complete one-eighty to leave The Dirty Rabbit. I don’t know why they call it that because there’s not a speck of dirt in the place unlike most of the campus bars we’ve been to. No, this place was nice.Which means it’s not our scene. It’s not meant for college-aged people. A place like this is intended for professional people. People who don’t have jobs; they have careers.
Like I said, I was about to turn and march my big butt out of the place, but Carley grabbed my arm. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Looking back and up at her, I gave her my best glare. “We can’t afford this place. I bet drinks here are five bucks a piece.”
“Iinvitedyouhere, so I pay. You know the rule. Besides, we’re not going to be here that long.” She released my arm and gave me a familiar look. I knew what was coming. “You’re going to have a drink for courage and then you’re doing it.” She shrugged. “Besides, Dad sent me some money.”
The eye roll couldn’t be held back this time. “Of course, he did.” Mr. Dearborn, better known as Daddy Moneybags, had an affair with his secretary when Carley was five, and divorced Carley’s mom soon after. Since then, she’s seen him only a handful times, even though he lives in Chicago––a mere two hours from our hometown. When I say she’s only seen him a handful of times, I’m not joking. Example. She saw him at her grandmother’s funeral, at her high school graduation (he didn’t stick around for the party after), and several times by accident, like the time at the Costco one town over from where we grew up. He was with a woman. And not the one he had the affair with. A different one. One with several children in tow. To say that was awkward is an understatement.
