I quickly type a response, telling him to stop making me laugh since I’m in class.
Hollis: Are you coming to Azalea’s tonight? It’s Friday, after all. Need some downtime.
I’m already preparing to type no even though I’ve heard that bar is a fun place to go. Apparently, they have a bunch of rooms, some with pool tables, a karaoke room, one designated for live bands, and a large sports bar.
Hollis: If you give me some lame excuse one more time, I swear I’ll convince your roommate to let me in, and I’ll drag you out myself.
Hollis: Not kidding.
I worry my bottom lip and type.
Me: I just want you and Charlotte to have time together, that’s all.
There. That’s safe, right? Not rude or petulant sounding.
I hope.
Hollis starts typing, those three little dots dancing, and I flick my eyes up to my professor to make sure he hasn’t switched gears. Sure enough, he’s now reminiscing about how he met the Clintons. When I focus back on my phone, I nearly jerk in my seat. Shock reverberates through me.
Hollis: We broke up.
Hollis: I thought you knew.
Whoa. Sweet mother of all that’s holy, I had no idea.
I start typing but then erase. Crap. I don’t know what to say. Is he heartbroken? Angry?
Hollis: It’s cool, Shortcake. Mutual agreement.
I snicker under my breath.
Me: Get out of my head. Mind reading is freaky.
He sends a GIF of someone laughing maniacally.
Hollis: Now, are you coming out with me or not?
I sigh inwardly. I guess it might be okay. One thing’s certain; it’ll be nice to hang out with him again.
Me: Okay.
Hollis: I’ll come scoop you up at seven.
It’s October, and our football team doesn’t have a game this weekend, so things aren’t quite as hectic around campus with hardcore tailgaters. The more subdued atmosphere of our dorm is indicative of that.
Inside my room, though, I’m a hot mess. All because I cannot, for the life of me figure out what I should wear tonight.
“You have a hot date tonight or something?” Stephanie, my roommate, asks in her usual bored tone. I don’t take it personally, though. She has the same tone when she aces an exam after stress-eating peanut M&M’s from the Sam’s Club monster-sized bag.
My parents argued with me over this roommate arrangement. They’d insisted they could pay extra and get me a private suite, but I wanted the entire college experience—complete stranger of a roommate and everything.
Stephanie is my complete opposite. From Michigan, she’s totally comfortable in her own skin, doesn’t seem to care what others think of her, and she marches to her own drum. From her penchant for dying her hair colors only found in a rainbow and painting each of her nails a different color, she’s bold and so beautiful in the way she carries herself. I admire her, and well, I also envy her.
She’s also far more experienced when it comes to frequenting bars around campus. I admit, I told my parents I wanted the full college experience, but the truth is, I haven’t been brave enough to chase it.
“Not a date. Just goin’ out with a friend.” I continue surveying the contents of my small dorm closet. “Tryin’ to decide what’s appropriate to wear to Azalea’s tonight.” Then I quickly add, “I’ve never been there before.”
Silence greets my answer so I assume she’s done with our conversation. It isn’t until she suddenly appears at my side, startling me, that I realize she’s still listening.
“Okay, first of all, you have friends?” Her eyebrows nearly hit her forehead in shock. “Because I’ve never once seen you go out with anyone.”
I press my lips thin and squint at her. “Must you be so rude?” As soon as the words spill out, I cringe because I sound exactly like my mother.
She just takes it in stride. “All right…now, take the stick out of your ass and say that like a normal nineteen-year-old would.”
A laugh escapes me because she’s just so…different from anything or anyone I’ve ever met. “You don’t have to be rude about it.”
She weighs my response before grimacing. “Meh, I’ll let that sad attempt slide. Better, but it needs work. Now”—she levels me a serious look—“let’s talk about the fact that you’ve never been to Azalea’s before. How is this even possible?”
My tone is dry when I say, “I’m guessin’ you’ve been there before.”
The disbelief plastered on her face tells me the answer before she even answers. “I thought everyone had. It’s kind of a rite-of-passage thing.” She shrugs. “Everyone knows they serve alcohol as long as you’re at least nineteen and have a college ID.” With a dry laugh, she adds, “Guess they figure they’ve got to have some standards and all.”
I’m terrible at this whole college thing. Everyone says these are the best years of our lives, but I still feel like I’m a random leaf that’s landed atop a river flowing aimlessly downstream.
Guess it’s better than being plopped somewhere in the murky waters of Mobile Bay.
“Okay,” Stephanie starts. “You obviously need assistance so”—she reaches a hand into the extremely cramped array of hanging clothes to retrieve a hanger with my favorite pair of designer jeans draped over the rung—“wear these and”—she plucks another hanger with a cute silky blue top with a silver pattern and hardly any back to speak of that I’d purchased on a whim the day before I moved into the dorm—“this.”
Like a statue, I stand here holding the two hangers. “But the top has hardly any back to it.”
At her raised eyebrows silently saying, And your point is? I add, “It’s chilly tonight.” And it goes without saying that I don’t want to take a jacket to a bar and keep track of it the entire night.
As though I’m a child who needs guidance, Stephanie explains patiently, “When you go to a bar, hordes of people are there, so it’s warm—hot, even—and you won’t need a jacket. Plus”—one edge of her mouth tips up in a hint of a smirk—“when guys see skin, it activates their inner caveman buried under the whole frat boy façade.” She slows down her speech. “This is a good thing.”
I stare down at the hangers in my hand. “I don’t know about this.”
She lets out an exasperated sound. “We’re getting you laid tonight, girl. Just put it on.”
I sputter. “But I’m not tryin’ to get…” I trail off because…well, that word sounds so crass.
My roommate’s lips quiver as she obviously tries to fight a smile. “Go ahead,” she drags out the words. Slowing her speech more, she says, “Laaaaid. Say it with me. Laaaaid.”
“Laid,” I manage to force out.
She lets out a huff so powerful it tousles her bangs. “That was weaksauce. Now, put on the clothes, wear those cute silver flip-flops, and put on that darker lipstick you have but never wear.”
I stare at her. “How do you know I have—”
She gives me a droll look. “Seriously? We’re roommates. You’re telling me you’ve never snooped through my stuff while I was gone?”