I watched from the balcony as she stood in line wearing black jeans and a black-and-white striped T-shirt with cat ears and a black mask over just her eyes. A cat burglar. It was the kind of costume that didn’t commit but was clever enough for me to appreciate. The girl next to her I recognized from a philosophy class I took last semester. She had long auburn hair and I remembered her taking everything incredibly seriously. They stood out against the scantily clad throngs of girls.
The two of them waited, their arms looped together. I took a sip of beer as I watched them make it to the front of the line. The cat burglar swayed on her feet a little, attempting to pull away from the line, but her friend held her firmly in place. She was uncomfortable. I could relate.
I hated parties, but more than that, I hated myself at parties. I hated that I couldn’t hear anything, and the only way to avoid feeling awkward was to get so wasted that you woke up with a sense of regret for things you couldn’t even remember.
Dalton, a freshman from Redwood, stood at the door. He was supposed to be checking IDs and marking anyone under the age of twenty-one with a frowny face stamp on their hand, but really he was there to let the hot girls in... and keep the less than hot girls out. It was gross, but what had I done in the last three years—two of those as treasurer—to change shit?
Behind me, in my room, a few people stumbled in—presumably to use my or Brody’s bed—and then stumbled right back out when they saw me on the balcony.
The cat burglar and her friend made it up to Dalton and he looked at their IDs closely with his flashlight. “I don’t know,” I heard him say. “Looks a little fake to me.”
“Tess, can we just go?” the cat burglar asked.
“They’re not fake, you dick hole,” Tess, the girl I recognized from last year, said.
He shook his head. “Sorry, ladies. Can’t get caught with fake IDs in the Sigma Chi house. That’s bad for business. You get it.”
Behind them, a group of first-year girls from Tri Pi laughed.
My grip on my beer can tightened, making a small crunching sound.
Then Brody came bounding around from the backyard in a Jack Sparrow costume that he’d borrowed from the drama department after he’d hooked up with someone who worked in costumes. “Vera!”
Dalton’s shoulders slumped a little as he realized he was about to be overruled by an upperclassman.
“Fuck off, Dalty baby,” Brody said as he hauled himself over the railing of the porch and opened the nearest beer cooler. “These two are with me.”
Brody stamped both girls’ hands with a red Sigma Chi logo, which meant they were allowed to be here and could legally drink.
He took the cat burglar’s hand and pulled her out to the front lawn with the other girl following behind, before calling up to me. “Eli, there the fuck you are! Meet Vera Stein. She’s so smart. Like, as smart as you. But way nicer and prettier too.”
Vera looked over her shoulder, trying to hide the sweet blush gathering on her cheeks.
I couldn’t explain why, but she made me feel like a bad person. Maybe because I should have gone down there and been the one to tell Dalton and the Tri Pi girls to fuck off. Or maybe because I couldn’t stop staring at her body, even if her plain clothes in a sea of costume lingerie sent the clear signal that she didn’t want to be gawked at.
“Say hi to Vera Stein, Eli!” Brody said with a slight slur. “Where are your manners?”
“Hi, Vera Stein,” I finally ground out.
“Hi,” she squeaked.
Chapter Seven
I still hadn’t unpacked my car at all, but I had my toiletries and was able to find the black shirt and black pants that I regularly wore to more casual red carpets and press junkets. Surprisingly I enjoyed clothing. I liked colors and patterns and shapes that made me feel like someone’s eccentric art teacher. But as Brody’s assistant, my job was to be so good at assisting that I was practically invisible. If you were an assistant and someone noticed you, it usually meant you’d fucked up in a big way. So black on black was a necessary wardrobe staple for industry events, and over time, I found that corner of my wardrobe felt a bit like armor. Which was something I definitely needed to get through this interview today.
I walked out of Ruby’s bedroom, teasing up my curls a bit with my fingers.
“You look like you work as a hostess at a TGI Fridays,” she said.
“I guarantee you’ve never even been to a TGI Fridays,” I told her as I poured some dry food into a bowl for Marlon.
“Yes, but I once saw one on television and I’ve seen all I need to see.”
“Marlon should be fine while I’m gone, but if he needs to go out, I left his leash on the kitchen table. You just attach it to his little harness—”
“I remember how to walk a dog,” she said dryly as she scooped Marlon up in her arms. He was unfazed, happy even. And I had to say, an aging Pomeranian who preferred to be carried everywhere rather than to walk himself really did fit Ruby’s aesthetic.
“Okay, right,” I said. “Wish me good luck!”