She crosses her arms over her chest and pouts. Her baggy, white shirt hangs loosely over her shoulders. “You can’t go to college and not party, Vesp!” she whines.
“We have no idea if any are even happening,” I wave off, reaching for my waffle-knit blanket. There’re definitely parties all over campus,but if I play coy, there’s a small chance she’ll let it go…at least until tomorrow. I have been practicing nonstop for the Grimshaw Academy performance; The Requiem Music Symphony. I am the star pick of the show, which ordinarily makes me uneasy, but music and vocals send me into an ethereal universe where I can concentrate solely on that. I don’t need my attention divided by senseless activities such as parties. Especially not with sleazy college guys who only want one thing.
Clara emerges from her blankets, shoving them off, and rummages in her nightstand drawer before she reaches across the beds to hand me a crumpled piece of paper. “Don’t even,” she teases, catching on.
I blow out a heavy breath. This is the most suss party invite. It’s not even formal. She notices my hesitation and clicks her tongue. “Come on, live a little! We’ve been here for weeks and haven’t been to a single one,” she pleads, giving me the puppy dog eyes.
She’s right. I’ve been so engrossed in my studies, I haven’t been social at all. I stare at my sheet music next to me.It’ll be here tomorrow, right?
“Alright,” I acquiesce. “But let me shower and get ready.” I hold up a finger, stopping her before she springs off the bed.
Clara lets out a squeal of excitement and kicks her feet. I made a promise to myself to let loose and have fun while here. Having my nose shoved in a book at all times has been enough for me, but Clara is right, I should live a little. My grades are perfect, and I’ve never carried less than a 3.9 GPA. At the very least I’d like to keep my eye on Clara. She tends to partytoo hard. I’m the perfect designated sober friend.
I slip her a curled smirk. “But if you find a guy, y’all are not coming back here to bump nasties.” I obscenely hump the air and thrust before slapping my hand over my mouth in a fit of giggles.
She rolls her eyes at me with a smirk playing on the corner of her lips, then crawls to the end of her bed to reach the pile of clean clothes she’s neglected to put away.
While she finds the perfect fit, I reach for my towel, clothes, and shower caddy from my cluttered end table. Making my way to the shared bathroom, I slip down the busy hallway and round the corner into the musty, communal showers. Lifetimes of grime cling along the walls; some of the facilities need to be updated, especially the bathrooms. The atavistic tile walls have mildew between the cracks, and the old metal faucets only supply a cold stream after dinner.
After my shower, I scamper back through the dim hallways. Sconces light the way to the dorm room. I hurry to get ready and piece together a last-minute costume.
“Wear this short leather skirt and bra top. It isn’t much, but you can pass for a sexy waitress. “Clara pipes up the moment I click the doorclosed behind me, clearly attuned to my dilemma. My usual leggings and oversize shirts definitely won’t cut it. She tosses the outfit on my bed without waiting for a response, knowing I didn’t bring anythingskimpy with me. I skim over her fit and see she’s sporting a bubblegum-pink bodysuit romper with a pair of matching pink high tops.
“What are you going as?” I tease, slipping into the small scraps of fabric she provided.
“What! I’m a pink Harley Quinn,” she says in disbelief that I’d even question it.
I shake my head and scoff, tightening my loose-fitting belt, fastening it to my waist so I have some accessories. To offset the ensemble, I throw on a few bulky rings and bracelets along with assortments of necklaces of all lengths. I choose to keep my makeup simple. I add soft touches of black liner and shiny lip gloss. Smacking my lips together, I look at Clara in my portable mirror resting on our shared vanity. “ I look like a hooker,” I deadpan.
She rolls her eyes, meeting my gaze in the mirror. “Okay, Mother,” she mocks, rolling her eyes. “Vesp, you need to embrace the college experience! You look hot. Stop hiding those tits and ass.” She squeezes my breast and grins mischievously.
“Clara!” I exclaim, swatting at her. She rummages for something in her clutch. She pulls out a little pill and gently sets it under her tongue. I never question her habits. Despite being so different, we fit together so well. She doesn’t bother to ask, she knows my answer.
“Let’s go have fun!” she winks. She springs forward, snatches my arm, and guides me out the door.
***
My Doc Martens thud on the concrete of the shady, crumbling campus neighborhood.
I’m clutching Clara like she’s my lifeline. She’s used to these unkempt, older neighborhoods while I, on the other hand, grew up in the nicer parts of town where homes are pristine. She was the rebellious one. I think my parents tried to shield me from the real world instead of letting me experience it for myself. We continue through the run-down neighborhood. House after house is dilapidated and falling apart. What was once a bustling vestige of homes are no ancient relics. It’s such a shame, too, these homes just need a little love to revive them. Broken fences and barking dogs are on each corner without a soul in sight but us. It’s so cold my breath expels from my lips leaving a faint white cloud. Finally, after walking a few blocks—thank God I didn’t wear heels—I hear the thumping reverberation of heavy bass from a house at the end of the street.
Out front, a single streetlight flickers, and the sidewalk crumbles beneath our feet with each step. The house itself is on the smaller side, easily an 1800s home with a detached garage around the back that’s clearly an addition. A small iron railing with four steps up to the door looks ominous. Stone pillars line the front. I’m sure at one point this house was thriving. The masonwork that was once exquisite is now a crumbling, shadowy heap. It is definitely lacking in the TLC department, but it’s a college hangout, it’s to be expected, right?
“Welp, this is it,” Clara chirps, guiding me up the steps with our arms linked.
Empty beer cans and old cigarette butts are discarded haphazardly all over the lawn and neglected flower beds. She pushes at the engraved wooden front door but it sticks. As she rams her shoulder into it to jar it open, a tall, scruffy drunk guy with dark-rimmed glasses opens it from the inside.
The minute it cracks open, the smell of cheap liquor and cigarettes slams into me. Music is blaring in the background but takes me a minute to decipher who is playing over the loud chatter—“Red Velvet” by Jutes.
“Door gets stuck. I gotchu.” The drunk guy’s eyes skim over our outfits. He licks his lips like a wolf eyeing a lamb despite the fact he has a petite brunette plastered to his side. He moves to the side, letting us in. He shoves his dark-rimmed glasses further up his nose. He releases the brunette, and she flings her hair over her shoulder and saunters off. I think she’s one of the Elites.
When I finally drag my feet forward, the sounds of Chase Atlantic’s “Into It” blares through the speakers. The bass thumps and vibrates through my feet. The room opens into a decent-size entry hall with a wooden staircase on the right with worn, sticky hardwood flooring that looks original to the home. A large, gothic chandelier hangs above us. The opposite side opens to a living room with stained carpet, peeling paint and torn-up wallpaper. Past that, it rounds into a dated kitchen with crooked cabinets; some are hanging from their hinges entirely, like a caged animal ripped them off.
The smell of sweat and cigarettes permeate the air, making me want to wretch. Men and women sway to the music in the crowded living room while clutching their drinks. Instead of the costume party I envisioned, the girls are dressed as sleazy as I look. Guess Clara was right. The guys are either shirtless or costumeless. Some are openly touching and fucking whoever’s in their arms. Instantly, my insides tense. How people can ever enjoy this, I’ll never understand.
Glassed-over eyes land in our direction, and another guy approaches us just as rimmed-glasses guy slinks away. This guy is in a hellhound mask. His short brown hair has a side fade. The top hangs wildly over his face in a cascade of soft curls. He threads his fingers through hisdark hair. His arms are loaded with tattoos. Nothing matches. It’s chaotic and unorganized.
“Well, who are you, beautiful?” He winks through his mask and throws his arm around Clara. The smell of vodka wafts my direction, and I crinkle my nose. His green eyes scream danger, but Clara is entranced. She scans him over. This is her type. A baggy oversize shirt with dark wash jeans; a total bad boy. The guy looks like he’s done time. Maybe he has.
