by Dahlia Adler
“First Daughter of Meridian. Has a ring to it, I suppose.” Even with the smile playing at her lips, though, there’s a sadness in her eyes that makes me wish Cait had never mentioned Parents’ Weekend. They’ll all be solo that weekend for different reasons, but it isn’t nearly as sore a subject for Cait as it is for Lizzie or, apparently, Samara.
Which of course makes me feel the need to offer her a distraction. “Well, as long as you’ll be on your own that weekend, if you wanna come check out the exhibit, it’s open to everyone. I don’t know if it’s your kind of thing, but—”
“It sounds great,” she says, and fuuuuuck, her smile. She has this one slightly crooked incisor, the tiniest rebellion against her perfection, and it fucking melts me. “I’ll definitely be there.”
Even though I made the offer, the idea of her coming to check out my stuff makes me want to crawl out of my skin. But I just say, “Cool.” Cait’s walking over, anyway, undoubtedly to break up whatever flirting I might be doing. And for once, I let her save me from myself.
Truly, I cannot be trusted.
I spend the rest of the weekend sleeping off the party and lazing around with Lizzie, but come Monday morning, I have no choice but to haul myself out of bed bright and early for my first day on the job. I get shown around for all of five minutes before I’m told there are boxes of files I need to alphabetize under the desk, and I get to work on it immediately, glad that it’s an easy enough menial task.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been at it when I hear, “Frankie?”
I pop up from under the desk and promptly hit my head. “Oh, fuck!” I clap my hand over the injury and look up, just as Samara gasps.
“Oh no! I’m sorry!”
Something about the sight of a beautiful blonde in a jean miniskirt makes my head throb a whole lot less. I wave a hand dismissively and climb up into the chair, ignoring the pain in my skull. “Hey, Sam. Catching me at my finest.”
She laughs, then covers her mouth like she feels sorry about it, which makes me grin. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
“No worries. What brings you to the building?”
“Behavioral Psych. It was already full by the time I transferred last semester, so now it’s basically me and a billion freshmen, Mondays and Wednesdays at nine. I didn’t realize this is where you got a job.”
“Yep, brand spanking new,” I say with a smile, glad to see it has at least one perk. “Apparently it comes with some unforeseen occupational hazards.”
She opens her mouth to respond, but I hold up a hand before she can apologize again. “I’m just kidding. I’m fine, I swear. Just not used to the early hour. Slow reflexes.”
Her lips twitch. “Let me guess—nothing before noon on your academic schedule?”
“Not where I can help it. But you look like a morning person.” She really does. Her golden skin glows, there’s not a single blond hair out of place in her ponytail, and even her manicure’s pristine. She’s exactly the kind of put-together that screams high-maintenance. It isn’t my type, but it’s certainly nice to look at. “Are you?”
“Something like that.” She pauses to sip from the cup in her hand, and I watch with envy, for both the coffee I was running too late to grab and the cup itself for touching that perfect pink mouth. “Maybe you can make it an early night, especially after that party.”
“That party was just the beginning,” I say with a wink, sinking into my new desk chair. “It’s Rainbow House Welcome Night, and a bunch of us usually go to XO after.”
Samara blinks like I’ve just spoken in Chinese, which, sadly, I can’t do beyond whatever swears my friend Lili’s taught me. Huh. Maybe she really is straight. “Rainbow House is the LGBTQIA group on campus. Seems to make new kids happy to see out-and-proud old-timers there, so Abe and I always make sure to go. Anyone’s welcome.”
Samara nods slowly, still looking at a bit of a loss, and I have to remind myself she’s from the south; who knows if she’s ever met another openly queer person in her life? “And XO?”
“Gay club. It’s fun.” I smile slowly as an idea forms in my brain. “You should come tonight.”
“Me? Come to, um, to…that?” God, she can’t even say it. She doesn’t look horrified, or offended; I’m not really sure what she’s feeling. Finally, she says, “I don’t think that’s really my thing, but thank you.” I guess she feels bad for shutting it down, though, because then she says, “but the art show y’all were talking about sounds like a lot of fun. That’s open to everyone, right?”
“Yup,” I confirm, wishing I could get more of a read on her turning down the Rainbow House invite. “Next Friday night at the Swaine Gallery.”
“Cool,” she says with that agonizingly pretty smile. “That’s in town, right? Hopefully I can manage that without getting lost.”
“I’ll make sure to get you good directions,” I offer. “Here.” I give her my phone. “Put in your number and I’ll text you.” If Cait were here, she’d probably smack me upside the head, while Lizzie would laugh at me for being so obvious, but, well, they can suck it.
“Oh, well, even better.” She types in her digits as I watch, admiring her long, thin fingers tipped with short pink nails. “Looking forward to it.”
The way she says it, it almost sounds like a date. This conversation is so many mixed messages, I’m not sure if I’m dealing with a closet case or just a sweet straight girl who’s so clueless she has no idea when a girl’s flirting with her. There’s certainly no question of my being a rainbow poster child, and she’s clearly okay with it, but anything beyond that is a total mystery to me. I take my phone back and send her a quick text. “There, now you have me,” I say when her phone beeps with my message, which is just a shameless winking emoji. “Hope I live up to expectations.”
Is that a blush? I’m pretty sure that’s a blush. “I’m sure you will,” she says, a little mumbly. “I have to run to my next class. I’ll see you…Wednesday at nine, I guess.”
I steal her line. “Looking forward to it.” And so help me God, I really am.
• • •
Rainbow House is brimming over with people by the time I show up that night. Everyone who enters gets one of those “Hello, My Name Is” stickers, only these say, “Hello, My Pronouns Are.” I grab one and a purple Sharpie, scrawl on “She/Her,” and search my shirt for a stretch of fabric large enough to hold it. I end up sticking it just above the hem of my glittery halter, then go off in search of familiar faces. I don’t spot Abe or Sid right away, but I do accept an excited hug from Emily Strother, who’s wearing an “I Heart My Gonads” pin affixed to her sweater.
“Solid accessory choice,” I say, flicking it with a grin.
“Oh, I went all out tonight,” she says, holding up a hand so I can see her nails, neatly painted yellow with open purple circles in the centers. “Intersex flag, bitchez.”
“Nice.”
“I like showing off my pride where it’s appreciated.” She blows on her nails and brushes them along her pin, then flips her long brown hair over her shoulder so that her hot-pink streaks catch the light. “I think I’m gonna skip out on XO, though. Too depressingly low on guys who like girls.”
This is where I’d normally talk her into going anyway, but the truth is, I’m not as psyched at the idea of it tonight as I usually am. Introducing a job into my schedule has me more tired than I anticipated. Hopefully, a couple of hours surrounded by My People rather than Psych students will pick me up. Because right now, I just feel like I’m a billion years old and need a nap.
“Did I just hear correctly?” Abe swoops in and wraps an arm around each of us, smacking a kiss on each of our cheeks. “Skipping XO?”
“Unless you’ve changed your mind and suddenly like boobs,” Emily says pointedly.
“You’d probably have better luck if you did that,” I remind her.
She grins. “Touché.”
We continue to chat over our soda cups, occas
ionally pausing in our conversation to greet obvious newbies. A cute but definitely freshman guy comments on Emily’s pin, and while she gives the quick-fire explanation of Complete Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome I’ve heard from her a few times before, and Abe taps out texts on his phone, I let my gaze travel the room.
It lands on a gorgeous androgynous redhead with alabaster skin, legs up to the ceiling, and a sticker reading “They/Them” in a firm, slanted hand. They’re working both of my biggest weaknesses at once—red hair and suspenders—but I just can’t seem to get it up. My brain is too occupied by wondering what Samara would’ve made of Rainbow House if she’d actually come.
Would she have relaxed and hung out? Would she have felt weird or made uncomfortable jokes? She seemed pretty turned-off by the idea of coming tonight, but was that because of us, or because of her?
“You all right there, buddy?” Abe asks, clapping me on the back as if he heard me choking. Then I guess he spots the redhead, because he says, “Ah. You going over there or what? They’re eye-fucking you hard enough to burn through your non-existent shirt.”
I glance over their way, and Abe is…not wrong. And oh God, are they wearing actual suit pants? My heart is buzzing…
No, wait, that’s my cell phone, in the ass pocket of my tightest jeans. I slip it out to read the text, and am jolted by the sight of Samara’s name. Any chance your invite for tonight still stands?
To say that text was unexpected is an understatement.
The answer is Fuck yes but that seems a little overeager. Then again, subtlety doesn’t really go with this outfit. As I mentally formulate a slightly more normal response, another text comes in.
I’m sorry, I don’t know why I just asked that. I can’t. I’m just having a bad night.
There’s a twinge in my chest and I can’t even pinpoint why, whether it’s because she can’t come here or because I’m the closest person she had to contact or because I just do not fucking like a girl that sweet being that sad. You wanna talk about it?
That’s okay, thx. Have fun w/your friends.
I glance at the redhead, who’s now chatting with some girl, and then at Abe, who’s telling a joke to Sid, Emily, and a cute guy with black hair I’m guessing is his target for the night. Pretty sure no one will miss me if I slip out. It’s cool. I’d rather talk to you if you need it. I hesitate before my next text, not sure if I’m crossing over into “too pushy” territory, then tell myself she can always say no if I am. I can come over, if you want.
Admittedly, I’m pretty surprised when she writes back, That’d…actually be really nice if you don’t mind. I hate to bother you, but I could use a friend.
I look down at my sparkly halter-top, second-skin jeans, and fuck-me shoes. Not the friendliest attire, but I like that Samara wants to confide in me, that I could maybe make her feel better. Much as I enjoy booty calls, I get those far more frequently than I get ones like this. Of course, I wouldn’t have any complaints about Samara wanting me for my booty, but I like that she wants me for my ear.
I like it a lot.
Which feels weird.
No bother, I assure her. Just gimme 20 minutes. Enough time to say my goodbyes, jump on my Vespa, and head straight over. 30 if you want me to pick up pizza. The best way I know to improve a bad night if you don’t drink.
I’ll take care of the pizza, she writes back, and I’m back to mentally playing “Date or No Date.” No, wait, this is obviously not a date. (And since when have I ever wanted anything to be a date, anyway?) She texted me as a friend, and all we’re doing is hanging out and talking. It just happens to be that one of us is obscenely cute, and the other one would like to fuck her six ways from Sunday. No bigs. Any requests?
It takes me a second to realize she means regarding the pizza. Surprise me, I write back, and then I slip my phone back into my pocket and say my goodbyes.
• • •
I end up needing twenty-five minutes to get to her room, because Abe insists on some quick gossip about the cute dark-haired guy, but for my seldom-punctual ass, that’s actually pretty good. In any case, when she answers the door in her usual way-too-flattering yoga wear, I’m pretty sure my five-minute lateness isn’t the reason for her red-tinged eyes and nose.
“You’ve been crying,” I say, because I’m too dumb to filter myself. “Shit. Is everything okay?”
“Guess I didn’t hide it as well as I thought.” She sniffles even as she smiles a little. “Sorry, I’m so gross right now.”
“You literally could not be gross if you tried,” I say, settling onto Cait’s bed.
She laughs weakly. “You should talk. That’s quite the outfit.”
“I thought I was going to a club tonight,” I say sheepishly.
“I know. I’m sorry to drag you out like that.”
“Trust me, I was perfectly happy to be dragged out. What hap—”
A buzzing sound cuts me off. “Pizza guy must be downstairs,” says Sam, hopping up from her desk chair. “I’ll be right back.” I try not to stare at her ass when she moves to the door—friends—but those fucking yoga pants make it impossible.
I make myself comfortable as the door closes behind her, peeling off my heels and changing into a pair of Cait’s shorts; those pants weren’t really made for pizza-eating. By the time Samara returns I’m comfortably stretched out on Cait’s bed, staring at the cheesy glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling.
“Wasn’t sure what you’d like,” she says. “I was craving barbecue chicken, but I didn’t know if you preferred vegetarian, so I got that too. And one pepperoni, just in case.”
Her melodious accent is a little thicker than usual, or maybe I’ve just never heard her say “barbecue” before. Either way, I want her to say it again. “Sounds perfect,” I say. “All of them.” I’m not just being nice; I really like pizza.
“Good.” She puts the box on her desk and opens it up, filling the room with the mouthwatering scents of tangy sauce, spicy meat, and yeasty crust. If she notices I’ve changed into Cait’s shorts, she doesn’t acknowledge it, just takes out a couple of paper plates from a cabinet in their kitchenette, puts a slice on each, and hands me one. I move to Cait’s desk to eat—there are no other tables in their double—and accept a full glass. “It’s sweet tea,” she says as I take a sip, and indeed it is. “Y’all have no idea how to make decent iced tea up here.”
Her words are joke-y enough, but she looks deflated as she says them, which adds a little more fuel to my suspicions that it’s shit from home that’s ruined her night. “Thank you for taking the time to right our wrongs,” I say in mock-seriousness, putting down the glass. “As a show of gratitude, how about I listen to you tell me what happened tonight?”
She’d been lifting a slice to her lips, but she puts it back down as if my question’s made her lose her appetite. “It’s not import—”
“Sam. Don’t you dare.”
She sighs. “My family’s just… Well, I told you how it was a huge fight when I said I needed to get out of South Carolina and transfer to college up north, right? And finally my parents agreed if I majored in Poli-Sci, kept my GPA above a 3.5, came home for every break, et cetera, et cetera?”
“Vividly.” We talked about it last semester, the night we met. Cait had ditched us at a basketball game to talk to Mase, and Samara and I went out to dinner alone. Most of the conversation between us that night was just superficial stuff about Radleigh and what people do for fun around campus—Sam was a new transfer then—but after I watched her send a series of calls to voicemail, the stuff about her parents had come tumbling out.
“Well, they’ve been adding more conditions, including demanding I drop my creative writing elective so I can pick up a useless American history class and choosing some friend’s son at Cornell they want me to date. But the worst part is—” She cuts herself off and glances toward Cait’s bed, as if she’d somehow materialized there in the last ten minutes.
“Cait’s not here,” I s
ay softly. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”
Her cheeks flush as she picks at a piece of chicken on her pizza. “They want to pull me out of the dorm, put me in my own apartment.”
“Why?”
“My mom saw Mase earlier today when she and I were Skyping and he came to pick up Cait. After they left, she asked me who he was and said she didn’t feel safe with me living in a room ‘a man like that could walk into whenever he wants.’”
Anger bubbles up in me. “Is she fucking serious? Because he’s black?”
She nods miserably. “I mean, she didn’t say that, of course, but it’s not hard to guess. Runs in the family—my mom’s parents hated my dad the second they heard the name Kazarian; couldn’t get over how ethnic it was. It was only when he met them and proved he looked and sounded as WASP-y as they do that they calmed down. You’d have no idea my dad has any Armenian blood if not for that name. Lord knows he never, ever acknowledges it; I know he’d have changed it if his parents wouldn’t have disowned him. He’s gotta be a Good Ol’ Boy for Meridian and all the other South Carolinians he’s hoping will vote him into the senate someday. Five generations of Clemson grads. Yet another reason I’m a raging disappointment.”
“Sam—”
“Not to mention my chosen reading material,” she continues as I haven’t spoken, her accent thickening with every rant. “Doesn’t matter that I do all my reading for school, that my parents combined probably read five books a year—they have to make sure to tell me how utterly infantile it is that I read ‘children’s books.’ Y’all’d think YA was written by Dr. Seuss. I told them this is why my dad will never get the youth vote. He did not like that very much.”
I can’t help smiling at that, and after a few moments, so does she. “I recommended a really good political one about a girl whose dad is running for president, but he was not amused. Might’ve been the hot-pink cover.”
Her smile turns impish, and I crack up. “I love your version of being a bad girl,” I tell her, shaking my head. “It’s so damn fitting.”
