Therewastime, at least. As it is, there’s just… this.
A second chance.
More than I ever would have expected. More than I deserve.
“Allow me to rephrase,” my caseworker says; then she closes my file and folds her hands together on top of it. “When do you feel your regrets began to take root?”
Without thinking, I say, “Off the top of my head, probably my first college party, but—”
But nothing, because the moment the words are out of my mouth, the room starts to spin.
3
My senses are under assault.
People shout to be heard over the music, a vaguely familiar rap song that’s so loud, I can barely think. The air is thick with the heat of too many bodies packed in too small a space, and as I shift, my sweaty thighs stick to the leather couch underneath me. I’m engulfed in a cloud of smoke, and I cough uncontrollably at the distinctly pungent smell of weed. It’s been years since I’ve dealt with this stench so potently. Jesus Christ, have these kids never heard of vaping?
Wait a second.
Kids. I’m surrounded by kids.
I glance down at my right hand and raise it up to my face. The scar on the inside of my thumb from when I was reckless with a curling iron in my twenties is nowhere to be found. Instead of immaculately maintained, professionally long acrylic nails—always in a neutral shade, unless I’m feeling saucy enough for red that month—chipped glitter polish stares back at me. My nails have been bitten down to the quick, and the cuticles around my thumbnails are ripped raw from my picking at them. I’d forgotten about the state of my nails before I got in the habit of dropping a hundred dollars on them twice a month, but I would recognize these hands anywhere.
I touch my nails to one another, but the usual clicking sound they would make tapping together is gone. Not that I’d be able to hear it anyway,but I can justtell; the sensation of my bare nails against air somehow feels wrong to me.
I’m eighteen years old again… Iama kid.
I glare up at the ceiling. “No. I wasn’t serious.” Is my caseworker listening? “I was just brainstorming—this isn’t my choice. Idon’t choose this. There’s no way my muttering was legally binding!” I wait for the drab office to spin back into view. When it doesn’t, I cry out, “Comeon. This isn’t funny.”
“What isn’t funny?”
I whip my head to the side and see my best friend, Madison, two red Solo cups in her hands.
She’s a rather unfortunate victim of the time—it’s 2012: Her foundation is thick and matte, her cheeks contoured with a shade too orange to match her dark-brown skin because makeup-brand execs haven’t yet caught on to the fact that darker skin has undertones too (Don’t worry, I want to tell her,in a few years, Rihanna will save us), her brows are heavily filled in, and her hair is in microbraids pulled into a larger fishtail braid.
She looks like ababy.
“Madison. I haven’t seen you in—”
I catch myself. For her, it’s probably been five minutes.
I run my hands nervously down my thighs, then frown—this dress is made of cheaper material than anything I’ve purchased in years, and the sensation of running my hands across it isn’t exactly comforting. Also, my thighs are fucking tiny. Well, not tiny—I’ve never been what I would calltiny—but certainlytinier. It feels good, but it also feels wrong.
This is not the body I’m used to.
Madison doesn’t notice anything amiss; she just plops herself down on the couch between me and the stoner who is the source of the secondhand high I’ll probably soon be feeling.
“I know I took forever, but this place is packed.” She says that likeit’s a good thing, and I realize why when she giddily continues, “I can’t believe we’re at anactualfrat party.”
“Yeah… me neither,” I say, my voice hollow.
You have no idea.
She hands me one of the cups. The adult, logical part of me wants to ask if she allowed anyone else to touch this, but I don’t say anything, because if I know myself at eighteen—which I think I do—I warned her about all that before she went to get them.
We both take a gulp of mystery punch. Whew, that issweet.
“Ooh, yummy,” she says.
