An Off Year (18 page)

“That doesn't sound good,” I said.

“Also,” she said, “if you saw that the garbage hadn't been taken out for weeks, and there were bugs walking around the garbage, would you take it out? Or would you ignore it until somebody else did it?” Her voice was getting louder.

“I will have to think that one over,” I said.

“I think girls think that living together is going to be this nonstop slumber party. You know, hanging out and doing each other's nails and eating chocolate and watching sappy movies and holding each other's hair back when we throw up. But it's not like that at all. The pressure gets to you, so instead of dealing with it a normal way—the way a guy would, to say, ‘Dude, take out the trash'—girls get really passive-aggressive. I do it, too. I don't take the garbage out, either. You know why? Because I'm making a statement that I won't do it. Nobody is noticing it, of course, so it just makes me mad instead. And then, when somebody borrows my curling iron without asking, I blow up at them because I'm so pissed at them already.”

“Then,” said Josh, “there are the groceries.”

“Oh yeah. My roommate Christie is the only one with a car, so we have to go with her every time we go to the store,” said Angie. “Look, by the way, there it is.” We circled around the Capitol, which looked like every other capitol building in the country: it had a dome.

“Whoo,” I said.

“Anyway,” Angie continued, “it's a big hassle and everybody goes their separate ways once we get to the store and we always end up buying too much stuff to fit in the car. And then people eat one another's groceries and get into fights.”

“They each have to buy their own milk,” said Josh.

“Seriously?”

“Yes,” she said. “Because God forbid that somebody drink Lola's special soy milk. Or somebody touch Evelyn's two percent milk. And then for those of us who drink whole milk, somebody always leaves like a milligram at the bottom and doesn't replace it.”

“So you drink whole milk?” I said. “Gross.”

“No, I am totally off milk because of all that,” said Angie. “I pour water on my cereal and I drink beer with my cookies.”

 

 

After shopping and lunch, Angie went to the library to get some work done, and Josh and I collapsed on the couch and found a marathon of shows on TV that educated us on how great the seventies were. He promptly fell asleep. I watched a few episodes, learned a lot more about
Wonder Woman
than I had ever before. I dozed off sometime during 1976 and woke up to my brother pressing a cold can against the back of my neck.

“Beer!” he yelled. I wished I could just go back to sleep and let the party happen around me. I could be very good at pretending to sleep. I felt too warm, too cozy, too nice and safe for a party.

“You know, Josh, I'm not planning on getting all crazy,” I said, sitting up. “I'm not going to dance on the table or break something or make out with a bunch of guys or throw up or take my clothes off or something. So you can stop making the googly party-girl eyes at me because even though I'm the fun sister, I'm sorry, I'm just not that much fun.”

“Are you
mad
that I'm throwing you a party?” His voice didn't sound that angry, but the clang the beer can made when he put it down on the fake wood coffee table did.

“It's for me? Seriously? I never asked for a party, Josh.” I thought of the coming-out parties that I imagined occurred all the time in the South. I don't know why it was only the South, but that was how it was always in my head. Sixteen-year-old girls emerging from Tara in elbow-length gloves and beehive hairdos and saying, “So nice to meet you, Mistah Smith,” and then getting engaged. That was the abbreviated version. The long version involved dancing Virginia reels and drinking punch and much more dialogue.

Josh snorted and turned the TV to a basketball game. I had that horrible sibling moment where you force yourself to say something nice even though you don't want to.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I am excited. I guess I'm also nervous to meet all your friends. And I'm nervous that if I don't do something right I'm going to have a terrible time and embarrass you.”

“Cess,” he said. “I'm going to be honest with you. Dad told me it was really important to show you a good time this weekend.
Really
important. It's a party. It's not a test or anything. I might stress out just because it's my party, but don't let that affect you. Don't worry about it so much, okay? You've been overthinking everything lately, or something.”

“You're right,” I said. “You're nicer about this than Germaine is.”

“Why, she's been giving you shit?”

“Eh, kind of. I dunno. I can't tell if she's mad that I'm taking a year off. Or just that I'm around.”

“She's just hating because she would have wanted a year off.”

“Well, she should have taken one.”

“I don't think Dad would have let her,” said Josh. “Me, either, for that matter.”

“Really?”

“I think he was tougher on Germaine,” Josh said. “I mean, what do I know, but I get that impression. She might be, I dunno, bitter.”

“Huh,” I said.

“Yeah. Drink your beer,” he said. We heard some shouting outside. “Freshmen are always the first ones out,” said Josh. “I remember when I got here, the first weeks of freshman year, sort of drifting around at night desperately trying to get into whatever parties upperclassmen were throwing. I mean, it was only two years ago, but it feels like it was forever ago. It's kind of embarrassing. Nine hundred of us would go outside and meet up with nine hundred other freshmen and drift around like a swarm of gnats. We'd hear there was a party at one house, go over there and all act like we knew whoever was throwing the party, real suave-like, and run over to the keg and practically suck out whatever foam was left in there.

“We all looked like jerks, I'm sure, because the freshmen this year look like jerks. But I remember not really enjoying the experience: not enjoying the people I was with, or trying to sneak into parties, and certainly not begging for crappy beer. But I think I thought that if I didn't go out, then nobody would know who I was and I would have no friends, and that I would have lost my one shot. Is that totally lame? It is, isn't it?” he said, taking a drink from his can. “I guess my advice to you is, when you go to school, don't go out just because you feel like you won't be cool if you don't. Because you probably won't have a good time, and you'll just feel stupid, I think.” I hoped I wouldn't feel that way tonight.

I went to the refrigerator for a refill and headed to the bathroom with beer in hand to shower again before the party. What was my problem? This was going to be fun. I was witty and weird and fun and so was my brother, and everyone was going to be delighted to meet me. I allowed myself to sing a little in the shower.

Afterward, I went into Josh's room to put on some fresh jeans while he headed into the shower. I came back into the main room and wondered if it would be greedy to get a third beer. Even if I wasn't actually having a good time, I was doing a good job of convincing myself that it was a possibility, and I didn't want it to go away.

Somebody then came out of the bathroom who sort of bore a resemblance to my brother, only a lot gayer. He wore dark jeans that looked expensive and a navy striped button-down shirt that was open a little bit at the top but with no undershirt. And he had shaved and put something in his hair. He was wearing cologne. Not a lot, but I could definitely smell it.

I fell off the couch laughing.

“What's so funny?” asked Josh.

“You're very pretty, that's all,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “And you smell like a manly forest in autumn. Very nice.”

“Don't hate,” he said.

There was a knock at the door.

Angie had on tight, dark jeans; sexy heels; and a low-cut, deep purple top. She was wearing eye shadow and lipstick and looked like a completely different person. She looked good. But I think I probably would have taken a few hours to trust her if she was dressed like this when I first met her. It was a little intimidating. I realized I looked like crap.

“Have you guys been pregaming?” asked Angie.

“Cecily refuses to call it that,” Josh said. “But yes. Do you want a beer?”

“Sure. What have you been up to?” she asked, sitting down. She sparkled and shined and smelled good. I wanted to throw up.

“Nothing. I'm wearing the wrong outfit,” I told her. I was pretty much wearing what I'd been wearing all day long: a variation of what I usually wore to work, a black sweater and jeans. It hadn't occurred to me to seriously change outfits. Probably because Josh's apartment didn't look like it was about to have a party in it, other than the booze and the few bowls of snacks he was starting to put out. Also, I didn't know that you dressed up for a party at somebody's house. I should have asked Kate where she had bought her black pants and tank top.

“Aw, you're fine,” said Angie.

“No,” I said. “Help me.”

“Okay, okay,” she said. “What have you got?”

“Not much,” I said. “Help me. I don't need to look sexy. I need to not look stupid.”

“You don't look stupid,” she said.

“Come on,” I said. “Please.”

“All right, all right,” Angie said, taking me by the hand and leading me back to Josh's room. She grabbed an extra beer from the fridge.

“The boots are fine,” she said, taking one of them out of my duffel bag. “Actually, they're kind of hot. And the jeans will do.”

She dug around in the bag. “Boy, you're organized. How about this?” She pulled out a basic black tank top.

“I usually just wear that under sweaters or whatever. It's not very special or anything.”

“It's fine,” she said. “Seriously, you don't need to worry about this so much.”

“I just don't want to look like . . . I don't know. I want to blend in, I guess. You have to know that as we speak, you're seeing the side of me that makes me very weird, the reason why I'm not in college. So I apologize. I hope you don't hate me now. I don't always act like this.” My face burned.

She laughed. “You're fine. Believe me, I'd rather be helping you out with this stuff than hearing my roommate complain about her yeast infection.”

“For real? Ech.”

“For real,” she said.

“Just don't make me look like a freak,” I said as we headed to the bathroom. I don't know why I was trusting Angie with all this. What did I know about her anyway? She was dating my brother. What did that make her an expert in? Well, she did have a boyfriend, was going to parties, and was in college, so things were obviously working out better for her than they were for me.

“Oh, first you want me to help you, now you think I'm going to make you look like a freak?”

“No,” I said. “Look at my hair. Just look at my hair. It's pathetic.”

“Drink this,” she said, handing me the beer. “Pull out your ponytail holder.”

“My hair's wet,” I said. “And I don't have a hair dryer or a straightener gel or pomade or whatever the hell I'm supposed to have.”

“I didn't know you had such cute curly hair!” she said, fluffing it around my face.

I made a face in the mirror. “It's stupid,” I said. “That's why I usually pull it back.” My hair made me look like eighties Cher.

“You never wear it down?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “I never got used to it. I had straight hair until I was about eleven or twelve and then
boing!
It just got like that. I don't know why. I never figured out what was up with it, and I don't care to. Sometimes I straighten it, but only when I have four or five hours to kill.”

“I would die for this,” she said.

“You can have it.”

“Hold on.” She opened up the cabinet and got out a little jar.

“What's that?”

“It's your brother's. It's what he uses to keep his own lovely locks looking so curly and cute.” Angie took a few fingerfuls of goop and ran it through my hair. It smelled like grapefruit.

“All right. So just don't comb your hair. Or touch it. It's going to look adorable.”

“Okay,” I said. “What about my face?”

“Well, we can't do anything about that, I'm afraid,” said Angie. “We'll just cover it up with a bag and hope everything goes all right.”

“You're hilarious. Okay, so I stole some makeup from Germaine. I have no idea what I took, though.”

“Let's see what we've got here,” she said, poking in the makeup bag, which was decorated very stupidly with little high-heeled shoes and sunglasses and lipsticks. Like a makeup bag was so inherently butch that somebody really needed to dress it up to look feminine.

“This will be good,” she said. “Close your eyes.”

I did and felt her patting something on my eyelids, gently but purposefully.

“You're good at that,” I said. “I think.”

“Mmm,” she said, concentrating. “Okay, I'm going to put some eyeliner on, so I'm going to stretch your eyelid. Don't freak.”

“Just don't stab me in the eye.” She placed a fingertip on the corner of my eye and pulled it to the side slightly, and I felt the pencil on my eyelid.

“I gotta say, if Germaine was my sister, I'd be stealing makeup from her also,” said Angie. “She's got good stuff. Okay, mascara. Open and look up.”