The Best Laid Plans(28)

“You’re saying this hot college guy, who probably has his pick of every girl on campus, suddenly starts texting you, and wants to take you out for a nice steak dinner? Do you want him to give you a promise ring? Maybe you guys can hold hands and then after you can write about it in your diary.” She’s still holding the unopened bottle of black nail polish in her hands and she shakes it as she speaks, the click click click emphasizing every word. “Sorry, Collins, it has nothing to do with you. You’re totally datable. It’s just—a guy like James Dean doesn’t want to date anyone.”

I sigh and look down at my phone. “Well, I need to answer him. It’s been too long.”

Ava clicks her tongue. “The longer you make him wait, the more he’ll sweat.”

“Give me the phone.” Danielle sets the nail polish aside, her hands still dry. Then she holds her palm out to me.

“Wait, what are you going to say?” I drop the phone into her hand, hesitant.

“You just have to come across as more experienced,” she says, typing something onto the screen and then turning it to me.

    I’m on a date, but it’s kinda boring





She presses SEND and we all inhale at the same time, staring at the phone. Danielle puts it down on the rug in the middle of us and we don’t speak, willing it to vibrate. After three tense minutes, it does, and we all lunge for it. Danielle reaches it first.

“Let me have it!” I say.

“What does it say?” Ava says, her hands wet with nail polish. “Someone show me!”

    We’re having a party tonight. You should come by when you’re done. I promise not to be boring





We let out a collective shriek. I feel a nervous excitement bubbling up inside of me. There’s no mistaking the tone of this text. Some part of him is interested in me. Maybe he felt the same energy I did the other day in the break room. Maybe his knee on mine was on purpose after all.

“You have to go to the party,” Danielle says.

“I can’t go to a college party,” I say immediately. “I don’t even like high school parties.” I feel like a pent-up ball of energy—like I need to jump or scream or run around the room.

“Your parents already think you’re sleeping over at my house, so you have no excuse.” Danielle types a response.

    Maybe. I don’t know how late I’ll be. What’s the address?





He answers almost immediately.

    415 Maplewood Ave. Don’t bring your date. I want you all to myself





“And that’s how it’s done.” Danielle drops the phone onto the rug. “Let’s get ready.” She stands up and begins rummaging through her closet. “I know I have something perfect in here for all of us.”

“Wait, all of us?” I ask, a sinking feeling creeping into my stomach.

Danielle turns back to me and rolls her eyes. “You don’t think I’m going to let you go to this party by yourself, do you? You’ll get eaten alive.”

“College party!” Ava squeals, running over to the closet, her boobs bouncing with every jump. I feel my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with the Chinese food.





ELEVEN





DANIELLE LIVES RIGHT by the west end of campus, only a few blocks away from the EVmU pool and track. When we look up Dean’s address and find out it’s walking distance, it feels like it’s meant to be. And yet the walk is not easy or pleasant because Danielle has dressed us all in heels—sparkling, sequined, five-inch monsters.

Ava has put on two bras—a sports bra over her everyday push-up bra, so her boobs are hoisted to her chin, her tiny frame overpowered by cleavage. I refused to wear a short skirt like the others, and Danielle eventually relented and let me wear my jeans on the condition that I borrow one of her bras and lacy black crop tops. My stomach is more exposed than it’s ever been, and the air feels chilly against my skin. Still, the cold stomach is nothing compared to the feet. My feet are a half size smaller than Danielle’s, so they’re slipping and sliding in the torture shoes and rubbing in all the worst ways.

“This is what everyone wears,” Danielle hisses when I complain. “I’ve been going to frat parties since birth. Deal with it.”

“Yeah, everybody calm down,” Ava says, even though her complaints about being cold have been our steady soundtrack for the last twenty minutes.

Hannah did my makeup tonight for the party, keeping it simple like I requested—just eyeliner, mascara, and a touch of lip gloss, which feels sticky and tastes like cotton candy. My hair is in soft waves, curling down my back. I have to admit I feel . . . pretty. Pretty, but not myself.

We turn down Maplewood Ave. and pass some grad student housing, a convenience store, and a few fraternity houses, their yards scattered with the debris of old parties—red cups, destroyed cardboard beer cases, a Slip ’N Slide that looks frozen solid. There are a few guys outside in the yard, and I automatically fold my arms over my stomach, trying to hide myself. Someone whistles as we walk by, and Danielle flips her hair over her shoulder, looking back at the frat guys with a smile.

We stop at the end of the street and I check the address.