My Professor(12)

We’re going out.

And worse, we’re going out in themed attire.

It should come as no surprise that Sonya concocted the plan and set the agenda for the evening. She’s been groveling all week, baking me my favorite cookies, buying me flowers and setting them on the nightstand in my room, and apologizing every chance she can get about what happened on Tuesday. She even offered to meet with Professor Barclay again so she could come clean and explain that the picture was entirely her idea, but at this point, I don’t think it would help. I don’t want to be in his class. I can’t imagine going into that lecture hall and taking a seat in that wooden chair ever again. In fact, if I could set that damn chair on fire, I would.

My costume is waiting for me on the edge of my bed.

It’s a schoolgirl outfit that’s supposed to look like what Britney Spears wore in her iconic “Baby One More Time” video, but Sonya couldn’t find an exact replica. Instead, it’s a cropped white button-down top and a navy-blue pleated skirt, both of which are tiny and tacky. She wants me to put my hair in braided pigtails, but I have to draw the line somewhere. Besides, it’s not long enough for that.

Everyone else is going all out too. Sonya is Britney during her “Oops! I Did It Again” era in a red spandex catsuit. Annette is wearing a fire-engine red wig and black dominatrix outfit inspired by “Toxic”, and CJ (who’s taking his role very seriously) is channeling Britney from the “I’m a Slave 4 U” video. He came into our apartment wearing nothing but a green sports bra, black biker shorts, and a huge stuffed boa constrictor wrapped around his neck.

“It’s Britney, bitch” has been said upwards of two hundred times, and we haven’t even left the apartment yet.

Everyone is already in character, out in the living room belting out songs at the top of their lungs.

I’m in here, hoping they’ll forget about me.

Ever since my mother passed, my birthday has become just another day of the year that seems extra sad and depressing. Every year, I plan for it. I know it’s going to be that way and I try to psych myself up to make it better, and every year, I fail miserably. I don’t want to be this way. I wish I had Sonya’s love of life. She has more enthusiasm in her pinky toe than I have in my entire body, but in my defense, my life is sort of…sad. Before, at least my mother would call me on my birthday, but she’s gone now so there’s no one other than the three Britneys in the living room who even realizes what today is. If I didn’t have them, the day would go entirely unnoticed. My whole life would, really. It’s a strange feeling to be completely without family. I mean, I have family, technically. It’s just…complicated. The family I “have” are definitely not the type to call me up on my birthday. In fact, we don’t speak at all.

That doesn’t mean I’m not curious about them.

Right now, for example, I’m scrolling through social media looking at posts about my brother Alexander. Before this, I was stalking Emmett. It’s something I do from time to time. I find my older brothers’ lives incredibly fascinating. It’s always an endless array of parties and fundraisers and Formula I races, summers in Dubai and winters in Aspen and spring in Paris, and it’s hard to even wrap my head around.

I’m engrossed in an image of Alexander at a benefit when I’m suddenly overtaken by my friends. They must have synchronized their attack because Annette wrenches my computer out of my hands, Sonya grabs my costume, and CJ loops his arms underneath mine and hoists me up and off the bed.

“Enough! No more wallowing! No more being Depressed Britney. It’s time to go out! Make mistakes! Take shots! Act your age!”

“Speaking of shots,” Sonya says, holding a clear liquor out for me.

I make a face. “What is it?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

She brings it to my lips, and it burns like hell on the way down.

“We’ll get you dressed and then you’ll have another.”

“What am I, being hazed?”

“Yes, exactly,” CJ says, waving his neon-colored stick-on nails in front of his face to show them off. Then he snaps at Sonya. “Yank her shirt off.”

“Hey! Easy, jeez. I’ll do it!”

To show a good faith effort, I take my shirt off then cast it aside. Sonya and CJ whistle as if they’ve never seen me in my bra before.

“Jesus CHRIST, you’re hot. What I wouldn’t give to have been born in that body,” CJ says with a wistful shake of his head.

“Okay, enough. You’re hot too. Stop staring and hand me that shirt,” I say, covering my chest and yanking the white button-down out of Sonya’s hand.

It’s tight and I feel just as ridiculous wearing it as I thought I would.

Sonya ties it off above my navel and then I don the skirt, because what else can I do? Is this my exact dream birthday? No. Is it extremely nice of my friends to go out of their way to do this for me? Absolutely. I know they want the best for me. I know they don’t understand why it’s so hard for me on days like this, and it makes sense. There’s still so much about me they don’t know, and even the things I have shared don’t tell the full story.

In the beginning, no one could get the details straight.

I remember a conversation I had with CJ when I was first getting to know him freshman year.