I have my own car. While it may not be the best thing for the environment, I’d prefer to be alone while I’m trying to psych myself up for this big-deal meal.
Fine, but please don’t be late, Barb says.
Mr. Perfect would never, Cleo mutters. If we’re going to be spending more time together, maybe I’ll figure out what her beef with me is. But I can’t be bothered to care right now.
3
MY FIRST MANSION
CLEO
FUCKITY FUCK.
I pull down the hem of Becks’s navy dress, because way too much leg is showing. I like my thighs, but not this much. Becks is an inch shorter than my 5’10” height, and apparently that inch is all in my legs.
Come out from behind that closet door, Becks demands. My four roommates are squeezed into my bedroom to watch me get ready for this big donor dinner. They’re here for the chuckles, but I need all the fashion advice I can get.
I emerge. There’s a moment of silence, then screams and laughter.
Holy smoke! Is the world ending? I don’t think I’ve ever seen Nellie in a dress before, squeals Woolly. Françoise Oullette is our resident fashionista because she’s from Montréal, where they’re born in designer diapers.
My other roommates are still laughing too hard to even speak. Woolly circles me and appraises. You can’t go with bare legs. Do you have tights or stockings?
Nope. Is my thong showing?
I peer at myself in the mirror. I look ridiculous. Becks said the navy would look good with my blonde hair, but that’s all that’s right. My fashion style is practical and low-maintenance. I wear men’s workwear, like carpenter pants and Dickies shirts. And I keep my hair braided, either in a high pony or pigtails. Zero fuss.
I groan. I haven’t worn a dress since I could talk and tell my mother not to buy any more fucking dresses.
Woolly shakes her head. If tonight is so important, you shouldn’t wear something uncomfortable.
Becks nods. Yeah, why are you nervous? You’re the one who’s totally chill before our biggest games.
I’ve never done anything like this before, I whine. And it’s a big deal for all of us. According to Barb’s file, Marjorie Schultz is loaded, and she’s considering a big donation to Monarch’s hockey program. If we get this donation, it will be split equally between men’s and women’s hockey.
Naturally, the men’s program already has plenty of donors. But the women’s program is the red-headed stepchild of the athletic department, so this donation would be huge. Visions of new training equipment swirl before my eyes.
Still, why worry? It’s not like you’re going alone, says Jinx. Coral Adams got her nickname after an unfortunate incident with the S-word, which lost our goalie the shut-out.
Yeah, the Alumni Office woman will be helpful, but literally anyone else on the men’s team would be preferable to stupid Roy Matsumoto. I unzip the dress and step out of it, then search for my trusty black dress pants.
Becks picks her dress up from the floor and puts it on a hanger. What issue could you have with Mats? Now that he’s single, everyone is after him. He’s smart, nice, and athletic. He’s probably their best forward, after Big Z.
He’s also sizzling hot and extremely buff. And I love his messy hair! He’s got just-fucked hair, the kind of hair you could twist your fingers into while he goes down on you, Jinx sighs, as I try to purge that disgusting image from my brain.
Knudy shakes her head. Nora Knutson is a senior and our starting goalie. Screw your heteronormative fantasies. I like him because he respects women’s hockey. We’re on the Athletic Council together and he never pulls that ‘men’s-hockey-is-more-important’ crap.
I tense at the mention of the Athletic Council. It’s a select group of athletes at Monarch that the administration consults on matters of policy and problems.
So, Nellie, what’s your beef with him? Becks presses.
But my issue isn’t my secret to reveal. Luckily, my phone buzzes at this very moment, and I check it.
Shit. It’s Barb Peachy. I’m not late, am I? I put the phone on speaker and hop on one foot as I pull my socks on. Hey, Barb. I’m almost ready.
Oh, Cleo. I’m so sorry. My son got injured at hockey and I’m just on the way to the emergency clinic with him. I’m not going to be able to drive you—in fact, I’m not even sure if I’ll make the dinner at all. But you can get a ride with Roy, right? And please, remember how important tonight is. She sounds so frazzled that all I can do is reassure her that everything will be fine before letting her go.
I flash an angelic smile at Becks. Any chance you feel like driving me to Millionaire’s Mansion?
