Witchy Dreams

by Amanda M. Lee

  “As compared to what?” Apparently Paris didn’t like being around bubbly people when she first got up either.

  Brittany looked confused. “As compared to sleeping badly.”

  Sarcasm was going to be lost on this girl -- that much was obvious.

  “We slept fine.”

  The conversation jumped from theme to theme after that, with all four of us discussing what classes we had signed up for and our need to go book shopping at some point. We all had our first classes on Monday. Since it was Friday, we figured we had plenty of time to go and buy our books.

  “Let’s just go Sunday,” Paris said, dipping her chicken fingers into a big pile of ketchup.

  “That’s the day before classes,” Brittany frowned.

  “So?”

  “Well, don’t you want to start reading them right away?”

  Paris and I both froze with food in our mouths. I swallowed, trying to buy time before answering. I should have bought more time.

  “You were a nerd in high school weren’t you?”

  Brittany looked hurt. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Who would want to read textbooks before they have to?”

  “Someone that loves to learn,” Brittany was becoming a little shrill. “I don’t want to fail out.”

  “You’re not going to fail out,” Tara soothed, shooting me a dirty look for getting Brittany worked up. I sensed a divide forming in the room. Paris must have, too.

  “I don’t think that’s what Zoe was saying,” she said. “I think she was just pointing out that it might be a waste of time to read the textbooks before hand – especially if we’re only covering certain chapters in class.”

  Nice save. Although that’s not really what I was saying.

  Brittany seemed to relax at Paris’ explanation. “I never thought of that.”

  “I just don’t want to think about school when we have the weekend in front of us,” I said.

  “What are we going to do?” Uh-oh, Brittany was a “we” person.

  Paris seemed nonplussed by the development, too. “I don’t know,” she said carefully. “I’m going to a party at my boyfriend’s tonight.”

  “A party? With beer?”

  I smirked at Paris as I took another sip of my Diet Coke. I wondered how she was going to handle this.

  “Yes, there will be beer there.”

  “Are you going to drink it?”

  “Yes.” Paris turned to me. “You’re coming, right?”

  I got the feeling she didn’t want to be stuck alone with Brittany.

  “Sure,” I said with a laugh. “Will and I agreed we weren’t going to see each other this weekend so I could get to know you guys and he could party with his frat brothers.”

  “Which frat is he in?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I think it’s Alpha Chi, or something like that.”

  “That’s the best frat on campus,” Brittany said knowingly.

  “Really? What scale are they grading on?”

  Brittany looked confused again. I was starting to think she was socially retarded. God, I hope she wasn’t home schooled.

  “The guys in Alpha Chi are supposed to be very academically minded,” she said.

  “How do you know that?”

  “When I stopped to get a brochure on Delta Zeta they told me,” she said.

  Paris and I exchanged looks.

  “You’re going to rush a sorority?” Paris asked. She looked as worried as I felt.

  “Yes,” Brittany was excited. “Probably not until next semester, though. I want to get settled before I rush a sorority.”

  “Why would you want to rush a sorority?” Whoops, did I just ask that out loud?

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Why would you?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  Paris stepped in. “I think what Zoe means is, why do you feel the need to rush a sorority? Can’t you make friends on your own?” Yeah, that was so much better than how I would have phrased it.

  “Yes, but a sorority isn’t about friends … it’s about sisters.”

  Uh, gag me.

  Brittany must have seen the look of distaste cross my face.

  “I notice you don’t have the same problem with fraternities,” she sniffed.

  “I think fraternities are equally useless,” I offered. “It’s just that I think the guys go into fraternities so they have easy access to women for sex and older guys on hand to buy beer.”

  Paris snorted out her laughter. “I would agree with that.”

  “And why do you think girls go into sororities?”

  Now this was a dangerous question – and Brittany didn’t look like she was going to let it go. In a typical situation, I would try to deflect. Brittany didn’t seem like the type of girl who could be distracted, though. I decided to be honest.

  “I think girls – some girls,” I corrected myself hastily. “I think that maybe they join sororities to buy friends.”

  There it was.

  Brittany looked offended. Tara looked interested in her reaction. And Paris? She looked like she was fighting to keep from laughing out loud.

  “Why would I need to buy friends?”

  “I didn’t say you needed to buy friends,” I offered lamely. This conversation was getting uncomfortable. “I just think it’s weird that you would want to go into a sorority where you have to pay money and they make you do lame things and then they want you to agree to essentially think just like them.”

  I should have stopped there. I didn’t.

  “It’s like a cult,” I finished.

  Paris coughed to cover up her laughter. Brittany looked furious.

  “That’s not true,” she argued vehemently. “Sororities are about making lifelong contacts and friends. It’s about networking.”

  “Why do you need to pay to make contacts? Why can’t you just make contacts on your own? And why do you have to do it with a group whose whole purpose is to keep out other people? To only let in those who are desirable in their eyes?”

  I was on a roll now.

  “And who decides who is desirable? If they don’t like your haircut, are they going to keep you out? If they don’t think you dress appropriately does that reflect badly on you? If you prefer True Blood over The Vampire Diaries are they going to blackball you?”

  Yep, I should have stopped while I was ahead.

  Brittany launched into a lengthy diatribe describing the merits of sororities and how I was a bigot. Quite frankly, I tuned her out. Paris was shaking with silent laughter beside me.

  For my part, I concentrated on my lunch while trying to feign interest on whatever Brittany was whining about now. Finally, I realized there was a lull in the conversation. I realized everyone at the table was looking at me. “What?”

  Paris bit her lower lip to keep from smiling. “Brittany just wanted to know what you were wearing to the party tonight.”

  “That’s not what I asked her,” Brittany argued.

  “Yes, it is,” Paris replied.

  “No, it’s not,” she said.

  “Yes, it is,” Tara stressed.

  Brittany decided to try one more time. “No, it’s not.”

  “Yes, it is!” Both Tara and Paris were done with the conversation.

  I smiled sweetly at Brittany in an attempt to placate her. “It’s still warm out, so I figured I’d just wear a pair of cutoffs and a top.”

  Brittany seemed to be waging an internal debate. Finally, she just gave in and nodded. “Sounds good.”

  Something told me the sorority debate wasn’t over yet.

  Three

  After lunch, we decided to go shopping for some furniture for the common room. No one wanted to sit on the floor anymore – especially one that didn’t have a rug.

  There weren’t a lot of places to choose from – especially on a college budget – so we all settled for Meijer.

  I was a little apprehensive about how things were going to
go – especially given how uptight Brittany was in general – but everything went smoothly.

  We got a simple rug for the middle of the room, a small refrigerator, a wicker chair and a futon couch. It wasn’t great furniture – but it was comfortable. I knew my dad wouldn’t care about how much money I spent either – he was good that way.

  After transporting all the furniture back to the dorm and assembling things, everyone started making plans for the party later that night.

  Since she was so nervous, Brittany showered first. While she was in the bathroom, Tara informed us that Brittany had already showered, but she wanted to look ‘especially good’ in case there were hot guys in attendance.

  Paris and I found the situation funny, but Tara warned us about pushing Brittany too far.

  “I think she’s one of those girls who’s so uptight that she could snap in the middle of the night and kills us all,” Tara admitted.

  “She wouldn’t kill us,” I disagreed. “She might cut all our hair off or something … or try to use the Epilady on us … but she wouldn’t kill us.”

  Paris sat on the floor with us and dealt out a hand of three-handed euchre – not as much fun as regular euchre – but distracting enough to hold our attention. “What that girl needs is to get laid.”

  I didn’t disagree with the sentiment. The night before, Brittany had said she’d slept with one guy one time but didn’t like it. Now she wanted to wait until she was in love.

  “That was a lie,” Tara agreed.

  “Nobody doesn’t like it,” I said.

  Paris smirked at me.

  “What?”

  “I’m just picturing you with a whip,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “You’re too bossy not to be the one in control.”

  This was true.

  “Sex can still be good even without an orgasm,” Tara offered.

  I felt sorry for her. “That’s a load of crap.”

  “It really is,” Paris said.

  After finishing the game, Tara, Paris, and I all went into the bedroom to get ready.

  Since we weren’t as over-protected as Brittany, none of us were as worried about getting ready. I kept on the cutoffs I’d been wearing all day and switched out the tank top with a simple black V-neck. I then tied a flannel shirt around my waist in case I got cold later. I finished the outfit off with my Nike flip-flops. Cute, but comfortable. We had about a half a mile walk to get to the party.

  Paris put on a pair of denim capris and an Old Navy T-Shirt. I could tell she didn’t care about getting dressed up either. She finished off her outfit with a pair of cute boat shoes that I made a mental note to borrow at a later date. We’d already compared shoe size, and were tickled to find out we both wore a size nine. That was going to expand the Converse selection by quite a bit for both of us.

  Tara dressed in simple jean shorts and a Detroit Tigers’ T-shirt. She put on Chuck Taylor shoes without socks – something I generally frown upon – but still managed to look cute.

  We were all ready and waiting for Brittany – who seemed to be in a blind panic.

  “I don’t know what to wear,” she admitted.

  We tried to tell her to wear anything she was comfortable in. When she came out in dress pants and a blazer, Paris disgustedly followed her back into the bedroom.

  “Haven’t you ever been to a party?”

  Fifteen minutes later, they came back out into the common room. Paris had forced Brittany into a pair of cargo pants and a T-shirt – and Brittany was complaining bitterly.

  “I don’t feel comfortable in this,” she argued.

  “Well, if you wear the other outfit, people are going to think you’re a narc,” I offered.

  “What do you mean a narc?”

  “Like you’re there to dime them out to the cops because they’re smoking pot,” I explained.

  “Is there going to be pot there?” Brittany looked panicked again.

  Paris was just annoyed at this point.

  “Yes, there’s going to be pot there and you’re going to be fine. Other people smoking pot isn’t going to kill you.”

  “I know that,” Brittany scoffed. “It’s a gateway drug, though, and if I get a contact high, I could be date raped.”

  “We won’t let you be date raped,” Tara soothed, looking to me for backup. I didn’t want her to get raped, but I thought a little sex might dislodge that big old stick …. Tara kicked me pointedly.

  “We won’t let you get date raped,” I reluctantly agreed.

  The walk to Paris’ boyfriend’s apartment – which was several blocks off campus – seemed a lot longer than it should have. Brittany was getting more and more amped up as we made the trek.

  “Do you think there will be guys there?”

  “It’s being thrown by my boyfriend and his roommates – so yes, there will be guys there.”

  “Are they hot?”

  “I’ve never met them,” Paris admitted.

  “What if they’re not hot?”

  “Then definitely don’t sleep with them,” I suggested.

  “You’re not helping,” Paris growled.

  I didn’t tell her that I wasn’t trying to help.

  When we got to the apartment complex, I followed Paris up the stairs. She didn’t bother knocking, pushing open the door and frowning slightly as she heard what music was playing. “I hate Nickelback,” she grumbled.

  “Who doesn’t?”

  Paris made her way across the crowded apartment to greet a blonde guy who was holding court around the keg. He wasn’t quite what I was expecting. Where Paris was exotic looking and beautiful, this guy – I think she said his name was Mike – was an example of all things ordinary. He had curly blonde hair, big glasses and was about twenty pounds overweight.

  “He must be good in bed,” I said to Tara.

  Tara smiled at me. “You’re awful judgmental.”

  “I’m shallow,” I corrected her. “Paris is too pretty for him. It won’t last.”

  Tara stifled a giggle. “You have no filter.”

  “Nope.”

  “I kind of find it refreshing,” she said.

  “It will get old pretty quick,” I admitted.

  “Probably.”

  After being introduced to Mike and his roommates – all who looked like they were in their mid-20s and tried get a sneak peek down my V-neck – I pumped a glass of beer and wandered out onto the balcony to get away from the cloud of pot smoke that was making it hard to breathe in the other room.

  I’m not a pot hater – in fact I like to partake a little too often, if I’m being honest – but I never smoke with people I don’t know. I’m nothing if not safety oriented.

  There was only one other person out on the balcony – and he was dressed all in black.

  I sat down in one of the plastic chairs that was positioned slightly behind him and eyed him carefully. I’m not a big fan of the Goth scene – and this guy screamed Goth. He was wearing black cargo pants, a black T-shirt and black Doc Marten boots. Luckily, it didn’t look like he was wearing makeup.

  Most Goth fans weren’t as ripped as him, though, or as tan. I couldn’t help but notice his darker coloring. The tan looked nice with his tropically blessed skin.

  He must have felt me looking at him because he slowly turned to face me. It was then that I noticed that his face was as good as his body. High cheek bones, dark brown eyes, and a hint of a crease in his cheeks that I was almost positive housed dimples. All this was framed with shoulder length black hair that screamed “cool” instead of “1980s reject.”

  He was hot.

  Still, I’d seen hot guys before. I wasn’t going to fall over myself for some guy on a balcony. I mean, I was in a committed relationship with … Christ, what was that guy’s name again?

  Mr. Sexy in the corner offered me a warm smile – yep, I was right, he had dimples -- as he looked me up and down. I tried to act cool. He may be hot, but I definitely wasn’t interested.
Since that usually backfires on me, this time was no different, and instead of nonchalantly sipping on my beer I coughed as it went down the wrong hole.

  Mr. Sexy smiled as he saw me sputter.

  “Are you alright?”

  Okay, like any other self-respecting woman, I’m turned on by a nice accent. South African accents are the best, but this guy’s Latin accent was a nice second.

  “I’m fine,” I said once I regained my bearings. I was mortally embarrassed, but I was fine.

  “I’m Rafael,” he held his hand out in greeting.

  I’m not someone who usually shakes people’s hands, but something compelled me to this time. I think it was the small voice in my mind that was wondering what he would look like naked. The minute I touched his hand it was like nothing in the world existed besides him.

  He stepped in even closer – invading my personal space.

  Okay, it wasn’t so cute anymore.

  He peered deep into my eyes, clasping my hand with both of his and stared hard into my face.

  “And you are?”

  “Oh,” my cheeks burned red in embarrassment. Thank God it was nighttime. I was flustered, but I hadn’t lost sense of myself. “Zoe.”

  “Zoe what?”

  “Zoe Lake.”

  Rafael seemed to take the information in, but he didn’t respond. I was slowly starting to regain my wits, though. I pulled my hand out of his and took a step back, narrowing my eyes dangerously at him.

  “What’s your deal?”

  “What?” Rafael looked surprised.

  “What’s your deal?” I repeated.

  “I don’t know what you mean?” Rafael unleashed the dimples again.

  Finally, I got it. It was like my mind was climbing out of a hole. “You’re used to women swooning, I get that, but it’s not okay to invade my personal space like that.”

  Rafael looked momentarily flummoxed. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s like Dirty Dancing,” I gestured. “This is my dance space. That is your dance space.”

  Rafael openly frowned now.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Listen, you’re cute, I’ll give you that,” I acknowledged. “You’re no Chris Hemsworth, though, so you might not want to crowd people.”

  “Who is Chris Hemsworth?” The accent was still intoxicating.