by Dahlia Adler
“Out.”
• • •
The Career Services Center is bustling when I show up at four, and I silently bless Cait for convincing me to make an actual appointment. I take a seat and pull out my sketchpad, idly doodling disembodied lips and eyes until an impatient voice calls my name, brutally butchering both Francesca and Bellisario.
“Office on the left,” the receptionist snaps when I stand up. I let myself through the door with “Alicia Wallace” on the nameplate and take a seat across from a pleasant-looking woman with a head of springy curls held back by a scarf and a colorful dress in a clashing print. I like her immediately.
“You must be Francesca,” she says warmly, extending a hand.
“Frankie.” We shake, and then she opens up the folder in front of her.
“So, you’re looking for a job in…” She frowns slightly at my records. “Something artistic, I’m guessing.”
“That’d be nice, sure.”
Her frown settles into a sympathetic smile. “I’m afraid the couple of internships we had—and I do literally mean couple—both went to seniors. And you’re looking for something that pays, yes?”
“Definitely, yes. Please.”
She turns to her computer. “We do have a number of work study positions on campus, but many of them require you to be enrolled in a relevant major, such as one of the sciences. Since there are no paid positions with the art department, and your work experience is rather limited, I think your best bet would be a receptionist or office assistant position. How does that sound?”
Like the 13th circle of hell. “Works for me.”
“Great!” Her shoulders relax, just a bit, and I realize she was expecting much more resistance. Granted, I guess my blue-streaked hair, multi-pierced ears, and tattoos don’t scream Office Drone, but money is money and I’m not exactly swimming in it right now. “Let’s see what departments are looking. How many hours a week were you thinking?”
“Twelve to fifteen would be ideal. I need money, but I also need to be able to spend time in the studio.”
“Well, that takes a couple of these out,” she murmurs, her long, pearlescent nails clacking on the keyboard. “The Classics Department needs a filing assistant, though that’s only ten.” It’s also classics. Classic movies? Okay. Classic Greek literature? Not so much my thing. She glances at me, and I’m guessing my internal monologue is plain on my face. “That one doesn’t seem to be piquing your interest. How about the Physics Department? They’re looking for a receptionist from noon to three, Monday through Friday.”
“Can’t,” I say apologetically. “That conflicts with my Tuesday-Thursday gender studies lecture and my Wednesday seminar on Modernist depictions of the female form.”
She goes back to my folder and flips through the papers until she comes up with a copy of my schedule. “Ah, yes, I see. Okay. Well, the only department I see looking for a receptionist for morning hours is Psychology—eight to noon, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Does that work?”
The idea of getting up that early three days a week, including Friday, physically pains me. But the schedule works with mine, and when Ms. Wallace tells me the pay, that does too. Plus, the Psychology department is one of the closest few to my apartment; Classics is all the way across campus.
“Guess I’m applying for that one,” I say, stifling a yawn at the thought. Or maybe I just need more coffee.
“Great!” She gives me the information and sends me on my way, back to my apartment to fill out an application.
But first—so much more coffee.
The hiring process is thankfully a quick one, and when we open the doors to our little shindig on Friday night, we’re officially celebrating my new job, too. “Congrats, Frank,” Cait says as she strolls in with Mase behind her and leaves a huge smooch on my cheek. “You’re gonna kick ass at…whatever an office assistant for a random college department does.”
“Why thank you, darling,” I say, accepting a peck from Mase too, though he has to bend down much farther; I barely reach his broad shoulders. “I think I’m gonna rock it as well. If anyone can…do random stuff with files, I can.”
Mase nods firmly. “Good attitude.” He offers his fist for a pound and I grin as our knuckles bounce off each other.
“So where’s the other blonde?” I ask, peeking behind Cait. “I thought you were excited to bring Samara along.”
“I tried,” Cait says with a sigh, “but she said she had too much work to do, and maybe she’d stop by later. I wouldn’t hold my breath, though.”
“The semester just started!”
“I’m pretty sure she was just really sucked into the book she was reading. I’m telling you, Frankie, do not bother. For eight billion reasons, Samara is not the girl for you.”
“Well then she shouldn’t look like that,” I say grumpily, but I accept the point. I lead them further inside, where Lizzie is mixing drinks while Connor gently points out it doesn’t really count as a mix when she’s filling them with ninety percent vodka.
“Parties are more fun when people get drunker faster,” she explains. “God, didn’t you learn anything in grad school?”
“Would you believe they wasted all that time teaching us history?”
“Ugh, that sounds so boring.”
“You guys are really inspiring, you know that?” I grab a cup and take a sip, which I promptly choke on.
“That’s what you get for mocking,” Lizzie says sweetly. Connor just shakes his head.
“Lemme guess.” Cait’s hand snakes around from behind me and plucks the cup from my fingers. “Lizzie’s hundred-proof special.” She sniffs it and her eyes go wide. “Jesus Christ.”
“Pretty sure that’s not on the ‘aspiring captain’ menu,” says Mase, and Cait mock-gags as she hands it back to me.
A couple of girls walk over just then, and hearing one of them call our amateur bartender Elizabeta, I can only assume they’re friends from her Russian class. I take a sip of my drink, blinking against the potency, and leave her to them, scanning the room for someone who might be up for a little fun tonight. “Mase, any of your hot basketball friends coming tonight?”
“You didn’t seem too crazy about the one I brought the other night,” he points out. “Judging by the company you ditched him for, maybe it’s Cait’s teammates you should be asking about.”
“Off limits!” Cait declares, digging her nails into his arm. “Especially once she’s got one of those drinks in her.”
“Everyone’s off limits to me, Mase. Haven’t you heard?”
“Oh please, drama queen.” Cait rolls her eyes. “My teammates and my roommate are not too much to ask, especially considering there aren’t any gender barriers to your options.”
I stick out my tongue. “You know that doesn’t mean I find literally everyone on the planet fuckable, right? It’s not my fault you happen to surround yourself with people I do.”
“What can I say?” She hooks an arm around Mase’s neck and pulls him down for a kiss. “I’ve got fabulous taste.”
For a brief moment, I envy my friends for knowing without a doubt their nights will have happy endings. I didn’t invite Racquel—she’s strictly a hookup buddy—or my most consistent on-campus friend-with-benefits, Doug Leach, who definitely would’ve taken the invitation as an opening for something more official. They were both probably the right moves, but the realization I might have zero prospects at a party in my honor is a little depressing. But I shake that off quickly, because I’ll happily pay the price of a few Friday nights alone if it means I’ve got my freedom.
I love my fellow musketeers, but I do not get their whole monogamy thing.
“I thought couples are supposed to wait until they’re married to be unbearably smug,” I mutter at Cait and Mase.
Her snarky response drowns in the sound of banging on the door, which turns out to be a combination of a couple of her aforementioned teammates (though neither of the ones I’ve hooked up with, than
kfully—that got ugly), Abe, and our friend Sidra. “Hey, lovers!” I exchange cheek kisses with them both. “You made it!”
“Despite your terrible directions,” Sid teases.
I stick out my tongue. “Where’s Jen?”
“Dealing with roommate issues.” She waves her hand dismissively. “She always manages to find new drama. I think I’m over it.”
“You stayed together all summer and now you’re giving up a week into the semester?”
“Oh, don’t even get me started on the summer.” Sid rolls her eyes and steers us to the drinks, where Abe helps himself to a Lizzie Special and I pour Sid some juice. “My parents are finally, finally getting somewhere decent on the whole bisexual thing, and we had all these good talks this summer about how I’m not forsaking Islam or the hijab. Then, after weeks of progress, she undoes it all with a bunch of ridiculous phone calls to their house. Like, she couldn’t reach me for two hours because my phone was off while I was at a movie with my cousin, and bam. Who does that?”
Abe throws back his head and laughs. “Yes, fuck, remember that guy who was in Studio with us for a like a day last semester before dropping? We hooked up that first weekend and he called me every damn day after that for weeks.”
“Ugh, clingers.” I take another sip of my drink and pull some grapes from the not-so-impressive fruit platter Lizzie and I put together earlier. “And relationships. Why. I can’t even imagine how boring my summer would’ve been if I were tethered to someone here. Western Mass is boring enough. At least Mike helped make it vaguely interesting. And Rowan. And Shea. And Lena.”
“You know, you’re suddenly making Jen seem so much more bearable,” says Sid, laughing. “I don’t think I could handle your social calendar. One person at a time is intense enough.” Then I see her gaze shift, and realize she’s noticed Cait’s lacrosse teammates.
“You were saying?”
Abe laughs as Sid blushes pinker than her headscarf, and we talk and drink for a while as friends and neighbors drift in and out. At some point, Lizzie puts on music, and I dance until my feet hurt and all the vodka has gone straight to my brain. When Abe asks if I wanna keep him company while he goes out on the patio for a cigarette, I eagerly join for the chance at some fresh air. But it’s chillier outside than I anticipate, and I’m only wearing a tank top with my jeans. After a couple of minutes, I step back inside, and immediately spot a familiar blond head.
I curse the fact that I smell like smoke—something I suspect Samara wouldn’t care for—then remind myself it doesn’t matter, because Cait plays lacrosse and can crush me with one hand. “Hi, Sam.” I give her a peck on the cheek hello, and am rewarded with a nose full of sweet citrus. “Glad you finally put the book down long enough to join us.”
She smiles shyly and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her cheeks flushing rose. Jesus, she is so fucking pretty. “Cait sold me out, huh?”
“Hasn’t living with her for a whole semester taught you she’s never to be trusted?”
“I’m Samara, not Andi,” she says dryly, then claps a hand over her mouth. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
I burst out laughing. Andi was Cait’s roommate last semester, and Mase’s girlfriend…at least until he realized his feelings for Cait—his ex-girlfriend from summer sports camp—had never really gone away. “Wow. Samara Kazarian, talking shit. That was unexpected.”
She blushes harder. It’s pretty great.
“Come on,” I say, linking an arm through hers. “Let’s get you a drink before your face burns any hotter.”
I cast a glance at Cait as we pass her to see if she’s glaring at me for flirting innocently with her roommate.
Yup.
I stick my tongue out at her. “I’m being good,” I mouth before offering Sam a Lizzie Special.
“I’m not really a drinker.” She eyes the mixers—one bottle each of orange and cranberry juice, both of which are down to their dregs. “I’ll just fill a cup in the sink.”
I dash ahead to do it for her—I’m nothing if not chivalrous—and brandish it like I’m serving Dom Perignon. Apparently, this girl turns me into a massive dork, but the smile she flashes me as she takes it in her perfectly manicured hand makes it so worth it. “Thanks,” she says before taking a sip.
“Well, I heard you’ve been working really hard, so.”
She laughs. “It’s a really good book! Though it actually kind of destroyed me—it’s about a school shooting, told in real time from all these different perspectives, and honestly I probably would’ve just stayed in tonight, but after I finished, I felt like I needed to be around living, breathing people for an hour.”
I’m tempted to offer her a hug or…anything else she might need, but Cait is giving me a death glare. “Jeez,” I say instead. “That’s bleak. Not sure I could handle reading that.”
“There are lesbians.”
“What’s it called again?”
She laughed. “Cait’s right; you are predictable.”
I don’t know whether to hug or throw a drink at Cait for talking about me in the room; I’m guessing she’s not exactly writing up the ideal dating profile for me. “In a good way, I assume.”
“Is there any other way?”
Okay, she’s flirting with me. She has to be. But before I can think of a clever response, Abe calls, “Franklin! Come here a sec.”
I peek around Samara to see that Abe’s standing with Sid, Lizzie, and Cait, and this cannot be good. “This feels like something at my expense,” I say with narrowed eyes.
“Just a harmless game of Never Has Frankie Ever,” says Lizzie, lifting up a shot glass of I’m not sure what. “We need you to settle something.”
“Never Has Frankie Ever?” Samara asks.
I groan inwardly. Of course they’d have to do this now, when I’m talking to the most pristine princess on the planet. “It’s nothing. It’s a stupid game they play.”
“It’s like ‘Never Have I Ever,’” Cait explains, since apparently my mumbled response to Samara wasn’t a strong enough clue that I don’t want her yelling this over the entire party. “Only we have to come up with stuff Frankie hasn’t done.”
“And if we’re wrong, and she has done it, then the person who said it has to drink,” Abe finishes. “I’m Abe, by the way.”
“Samara.” She shoots me a smirk and walks over to the rest of them, giving me no choice but to trudge along behind her. “So, what’ve I missed so far?”
“Well, Lizzie is correct that never has Frankie ever gotten a tattoo on the inside of her lip,” says Cait, “but incorrect that Frankie has never ridden her Vespa into a parked car.”
“And Sid here was sorely mistaken to assume Frankie joined the mile-high club with a flight attendant,” adds Abe, “but we only made her drink half a cup because she has made out with one.”
“Plus, I’m just drinking water, so no one really cares,” Sid adds, wagging her plastic cup. “Hi, I’m Sidra.”
“Another non-drinker,” Samara says with a hint of relief in her voice. “Excellent. I can get behind that.”
“So you’re in?” asks Cait. “Hey, Mase, get Samara a cup of water, will you?”
“Guys, this is not normal. Go play Seven Minutes in Heaven like normal people.”
“No way,” says Samara. “I still have so much to learn!”
“Including the answer to our question,” Lizzie breaks in. “Cait insists you were serious about getting a certain piercing over the summer, while I maintain you were kidding. So, which is it?”
Next to me, Samara’s cheeks turn pink, and I have to bite my lips hard to keep from smiling. “Only one way to find out,” I say, plucking Lizzie’s artfully painted shot glass from her hand and tossing it back.
If possible, Sam’s cheeks get even redder.
I wonder how far down her body that blush goes.
Cait coughs, and I guess I’ve been caught staring at the neckline of Sam’s lilac sweater. Whoops. “Really, it
’s not too late to switch games,” I suggest. “Perk of being in college—we don’t need to use a closet for Seven Minutes; my bedroom’s right there.”
“Or perhaps it’s time for us to finally toast the host of honor,” says Lizzie. She takes the shot glass back—one of a set she bought in the Philippines last summer when meeting her grandparents for the first time—and dings it with Abe’s beer bottle until the entire room turns to look at us. “Hey, everyone! You were invited here for a reason!”
“Free booze?” someone calls from the crowd.
“That too,” Cait says with a grin. “But we’re here to celebrate our little Frankie growing up and getting a job and a solo exhibit at an art show during Parents’ Weekend.” She lifts her own beer. “To Frankie!”
The room choruses “To Frankie!” even though I’ve barely met some of them, and now it’s my turn to blush. Especially when Samara turns to me and says, “I didn’t know about the exhibit. That’s fantastic! Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, wishing I could sink into the floor. “It’s really not a big deal.”
“It sounds like a big deal. I’d love to see it. Are your parents coming that weekend?”
“That’s the plan.” I’m actually pretty excited. Each one of the series I’m having displayed is inspired by one of them, and though my dad’s already seen plenty of pictures of last semester’s work—a set of biblically inspired paintings—I know he’s looking forward to seeing them in person. As for my mom…that’s a little more nerve-racking, since I’ve woven in some of her anxiety and depression, but she’s always been open about that stuff, and we’re close enough that I know she’ll appreciate it. “Yours?”
She purses her lips just long enough for me to remember that she and her parents aren’t really on the best terms. “Nope. Mayor Kazarian needs to remain with his constituents that weekend. Something something fund-raising something.”
When she tosses back her water for a long drink, I could swear she wishes it were something stronger.
“Mayor. God, that’s still so funny to me. So are you, like, first daughter of your town?”
