Innocence

Chapter 7

  It’s amazing how a date – any date, the mere prospect of simply encountering men -- can send women into a closet-mining, make-up experimenting and fear-inducing tizzy of getting ready.

  As soon as the somewhat creepy Corey Stills slunk from our dorm room, the five of us simultaneously exploded into a “what will I wear” panic, our first such wardrobe dilemma registered at the college level. It was a crisis made all the worse because none of us had completed the unpacking and organizing process.

  At once came a chorus of the “I’ve got nothing to wear” overstatements that irrationally precede the inevitable trial-and-error process of selecting an outfit for the evening. But everyone must panic first, then pick an outfit later. Everyone, it seemed but the slacking, slouching, fashion-flouting Lauren Marks, she of the practiced skateboard counterculture.

  “Time out, girls,” she cried, attempting to put a stop to our wardrobe whining. “Ya’ all sound like bitches.”

  We turned open-mouthed but suddenly silenced to the author of this blunt, reality check of a rebuke. And once Lauren Marks had the floor, she meant to use it.

  “Way I see it, is, if we go in there dressed to the nines, it makes us all look clueless and desperate,” she offered, her wise words slowly sinking in.

  “This is a dorm-room kegger, okay? It isn’t dinner at the Four Seasons,” Lauren said, continuing to lay it out. “Jeans and a tight-fitting top will do. I’m not saying dispense with all window dressing, here. But consider the venue. Dig?”

  Lauren had a point. Sonya was the first to acknowledge this.

  “You know, when I visited campus on my high school tour, all the girls dressed in sweats to go to class,” she began. “I mean, they looked like they just rolled out of bed, some of them. Some even wore shorts right into the winter. Abercrombie and Fitch it’s not.”

  “The slouchier the better,” Lauren agreed. “But it’s gotta be real. It can’t looked practiced.”

  Lauren directed this admonition at the prim, proper and stylistically out-of-touch Chelsea Daniels, her roommate.

  “I’ll bet you don’t even own a pair a jeans with holes in, do you?” Lauren asked her.

  Chelsea averted her eyes. “No sweats, either, I’m afraid.”

  “Don’t worry,” Lauren said. “I got you covered.”

  Just like that, the furious, frantic wardrobe preparations had ratcheted back from our DEFCON One brink. But I wasn’t so sure I favored this fashion retreat. After all, I was the original invitee. Josh Elliot had singled me out. He had requested my presence at his party. Didn’t I have a duty to dress up? To play out my hand begun with our bizarre bathroom intrigue as best as I could?

  I thought I did. And if the other members of The Five were going to dress down, I wasn’t going to stop them. Indeed, their pre-planned homage to slouchy college student style would make me stand out all the more. Wouldn’t it?

  Well, that was my thinking at the time. After all, you can be part of a tight-knit group of college women, more than willing to do anything you can to help your sworn sisters when the chips are down. But that doesn’t mean you cease being competitive with them. Not by a long shot.

  “So what do you think?” Amanda Livingston was saying to me, her British accent ringing in the room as the others stared in my direction.

  “Huh?” I mumbled. “Oh. Yeah,” I recovered, nodding my head. “The last thing we want is to trot in there like a bunch of overanxious high school students fresh from a shopping trip to the mall. Right on.”

  In the end, I went with painted-on dark jeans, open-toe heels and a shoulder-less, extra-tight shirt with shiny beadwork. Sonya gave me a double take in her ripped jeans, retro T-shirt and flip-flops.

  “Where’s the prom?” she asked, returning from the bathroom.

  I overdid it with my hair and makeup, as well. But when you commit, why not go all-in, I always say.

  “It’s not that dressy,” I deadpanned, then lost confidence. “Is it?”

  “Too late, now, Sister,” Sonya said, smiling. “Let’s do this. Let’s see what college is all about.”

  Like a gunshot to begin a race, we exited our dorm room precisely 25 minutes after the designated arrival time of our invitation. And as Sonya and I stepped out into the dorm hallway, so too did our counterparts. Amanda Livingston, her tight, white T-shirt giving her prodigious breasts full relief, appeared at our right. And then on cue, the door to our left swung open. Out came Lauren Marks, looking ever the skate boarder, and Chelsea Daniels, clad in jeans and black top but still appearing to come from a time warp about five years in the past.

  We appraised each other, allowed our dorm doors to fall shut, keyed the locks, then turned toward the source of the muffled, thumping music down at the end of the hallway. Those sounds heralded our first official college kegger. It was a rite of passage, to be sure.

  “Shall we?” Sonya said, taking the lead, as was her nature.

  Amanda and Lauren nodded. Chelsea gave me the once-over, then protested, “I thought we weren’t dressing up?”

  Sonya glanced over her shoulder.

  “Can’t blame our Monica,” she said. “After all, she’s the reason we got the invitation. If she wants to try to impress her bathroom beau, so be it.”

  Sonya shot me a glance, and I didn’t know what to make of her fierce and determined expression at the time.

  I would find out soon enough, though.

  Sonya had issued a challenge. She would spot me my dark, designer jeans and sparkly top, and she would work that party for all it was worth. Her unmistakable target?

  You guessed it. Josh Elliot.

  What did I say about even the tightest female friends being competitive?

  I was about to find out just how true that was.