by Anne Eliot
I smile.
Laura calls out with a wave, “I’m off to the showers, and I’ll grab your bag, wee Ellen, so you don’t have to. Remember, we’ve got that party tonight up on level three!”
“Floor three, you ass-backwards girl. Learn to speak our kind of English, would you? And try not to take too damn long,” Patrick adds, shooting me a look. “I’ve got a super-hot date with a French girl named Chloe! And Ellen’s going to lock in her love for one Harrison Shaw.”
I gasp and glance wildly around, because, of course, Patrick has said that way too loudly.
“Who are you going after tonight, Ireland?” he asks.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, Canada?”
Patrick mutters through gritted teeth so only I can hear him, “Yes. Yes. I would like to know so I can kill him.”
I splash water in his face.
Laura grabs her towel off the bleachers and gives us both a nonchalant shrug. “I don’t see why you think you need to keep track of what I’m up to, you maple-syrup-filled stalker, nor would I tell you if I had a crush. And, Ellen, don’t you dare give him any snippets of what we whisper about in our room.”
“Snippets?” Patrick’s brows shoot up, and he whispers, “Does she whisper about me late at night in the dorm room? Does she? Ellen, give me one snippet.”
I splash him again. Hard. “No.”
“She’s not going to utter one word about anything.” Laura flounces off toward the locker room, calling over her shoulder, “Patrick, you’re not mine nor Ellen’s bloody babysitter-spy!”
“How can she not know you’ve been my babysitter-spy since we were little kids?” I ask, swimming behind him until we reach the shallow end that has full-sized steps and a handrail so I can get out. Patrick hangs out with me while Laura showers so I’m not alone. On the first day here, we decided the long hallway to the pool showers was too slippery for me to risk, so he and I always shower back at the dorm. “And what about this Chloe? Do you really have a date?”
“No. She’s a cool girl, but we’re just friends. You know I’m just constantly trying to mention girls I’m meeting up with in order to make Laura jealous.” He hops out and grabs my crutches and towels for both of us, whispering with a glance over to where we last saw Laura, “Has she said anything about me and Harrison and our new French-girl besties? I keep trying to talk about Chloe and Charisse in front of her all the time, but I don’t think it’s working to make her jealous at all.”
I shake my head. “Sorry. She hasn’t said a word.” And then, because he’s lumped Harrison—my Harrison—into that comment, I add, “Uh…so…do Chloe and Charisse…are the French girls getting crushes on…on both of you guys, back? Or just…you know, you?”
Patrick flexes his muscles and says, “Of course they’re falling for us. Considering we’re talking about me and Harrison here,” he teases.
“What? French girls love Canadian guys. We’re adorable. It’s a known fact.” He laughs and ducks as I swing one crutch gently up and act like I’m going to deck him in the head with it. “I’m not going to lie to you and say the exchange students are all ugly or horrible or anything, because they’re not. They’re nice and cute and as funny as heck. And yeah, they do seem to like hanging out with us.”
He glances up to the ceiling as he goes on, “Those girls are super-sexy for sure, the way they talk all pouty, which makes me, at least, totally wind up staring at their lips, probably when I shouldn’t. Even conversations about pencil sharpeners become ridiculously intimate. And again, can’t lie that doesn’t make a guy’s heart flip a bit. Because it’s sexy. Did I mention they really are, like, on an entirely different level than Canadian girls?”
“New level of super-small clothes, you mean?”
“Ha. Yeah.”
I roll my eyes, but he’s not even looking at me, so it’s a lost move on him as he goes on: “And the high-heeled shoes and fashion thing they’ve got going on is interesting as hell, because”—he looks back at me and waggles his brows up and down—”this year, speaking of fashion and France, it’s a very low-cut season, if you know what I mean and ooh-la-la—”
“Patrick. Okay. I don’t know how Laura is standing all of this, because I’m now actually feeling twinges of major jealousy here. So…come on. Answer my original question about crushes—how can you not be getting at least little crushes if these girls are all exotic and sexy-sexy-sexy, like you say?” My glare’s gone from toned down to shooting bullets. “You know I’m not talking about you. Tell me if I need to be worried, because we both know I’m not going to be able to pull off the stiletto thing. Do I need to up my game? Should I give up before I start? Is it already too late for me?” I’m suddenly full of angst and the bad kind of tummy twists, the sinking kind that make me feel slightly ill. And if my almost-healed leg didn’t ache completely because of my swim, I swear I’d be kicking something with hit.
Patrick blinks blankly at me and makes his eyes all wide. “I thought this conversation was about me…but…whom exactly are you worrying about here?”
“Ugh. Are you going to make me say his name?”
“Yes. Yes, I am. I actually need to hear this.”
He bites back that devil grin as he finishes drying his legs and places his overlarge towel across his shoulders.
“Fine. Does Harrison Shaw have a thing for fashion and accents and get all intimate and insane over pouty lips…or…what?”
Patrick nods as if satisfied. “From what I can tell, Harrison only likes skinny girls on crutches. Hope you don’t lead him on too long.”
Laura skips out of the locker room, fully dressed and holding our bags.
Patrick quickly straightens and makes his voice louder so it will echo over to her.
“So. Yeah. Ellen. If you aren’t going to make a move on Harrison tonight at the party, then cut him loose so he can get a ticket to leave the country with me.”
“What are you talking about? Who’s leaving?” Laura, hooked already, calls out.
“I was just telling Ellen that France is where I’m heading tonight during the party.”
“I know. Chloe. I heard you. She’s a great girl. Good luck.”
“Thank you.” He pretends to not look at Laura while he’s glancing up at the large clock on the wall above her head. “And damn if those girls aren’t passing out free tickets. So I told your friend Ellen here that if she’s not going to make her move on Harrison, I’m pretty sure he can rebound with the French girls, like me. Right?”
He winks.
I glare, because the image of Harrison on a pouty plane to France is really pissing me off.
But I do understand. Laura needs to hear and see that Patrick’s not going to wait forever, and I suppose that means Harrison won’t wait forever either.
Laura’s made it around the end of the pool. “And I support both of your efforts!”
Patrick lets out a frustrated sigh that only I can hear. “Well, good. I’m out of here, ladies. I need to shower because you got to look good when you’re invited up to foreign first class.”
Without another word, he darts out the exit doors that lead to the quad.
When he’s gone, I ask. “You sure you’re okay with that?”
Laura picks up our bags, her mask back in place. “I vow, Ellen. I truly do not care what he does.”
I sigh. “Well, I vow to kiss Harrison Shaw before he also gets invited up to foreign first class. I’m not going to say you’re crazy about letting Patrick go, because we’ve already had that talk, but will you help me come up with a plan to save my man, at least?”
She grins. “Oh, have I ever been waiting for you to ask me something like this.” She’s nodding. But by the fire-red color of her cheeks, and the far-off look in her eyes, Laura London’s not thinking about helping me at all.
She’s obviously thinking about Patrick, and I mean to text him all about this look on her face.
Ellen
We’ve paused at the entrance to t
he giant third-floor student lounge. Someone’s moved all of the couches to one side of the room and created a makeshift dance floor by hanging a few cute, softball-sized glitter balls from the ceiling and adding flashlights on to each one of them. A rather interesting but very skinny guy—and most definitely French, because his entire button-down shirt is made of tightly sewn together mini French flags—has set up what looks like a real DJ system. As much as it all looks cool, my heart sinks.
Even with the help of the crutches, I’m the world’s most awkward dancer.
Laura gently leans in and taps my shoulder with hers, whispering, “Lord, but I thought Patrick was making things up about the French girls being beautiful and wearing extra-low-cut outfits, but look at those girls.”
“Patrick never lies.” A small, pained groan escapes me as my eyes follow Laura’s across the room. “That has to be the Chloe and the Charisse. Who’s the third girl?”
“Sheridan. She’s also quite nice. I wish I could hate them, but…” Laura sighs. “Yeah. I um…like them. And look at their cool dresses.”
“Right? So cool,” I add, also noting the girls’ retro-looking, faded floral summer dresses. Faded flowers must be the current French rage, because every single girl in the room besides me and Laura is wearing something similar—a floral blouse (low cut), a really cool floral scarf (tied to the side so the low cut part can still be seen), and an A-line flowered print skirt of my dreams paired with a low-cut black T-shirt.
I figure this stuff will probably hit the Canadian stores next summer. My gaze moves back to Chloe’s and Charisse’s dresses, because they’re beyond cool. And they seem to have been custom made, to the point they look actually painted on the girls in a way that highlights tiny waists and every single curve.
Only…
It’s not just that the dresses are low cut; it’s more like these girls had extra vitamins while growing up or something. They’ve both got shining chestnut hair. One has hers up in a twisted and very sophisticated bun; the other has hers pulled into a cool 1920s-ish curling, messy bun at the base of her neck. Their skin is positively luminous, and what they’re showing off on those low-cut fronts, well…even if we get to buy those dresses in a year, months and months of tanning and gobbling vitamins are not going to ever bring Laura and I what those two have got going on in the body department.
*Tries not to care. Tries not to care.*
Searching for additional confidence, I glance down at the outfit I thought was going to make a fashionable statement at this party. With Laura’s advice on how to properly ‘trap a man’s attention’, I’m wearing my hair down long and straight to my waist, with only two hidden pins she stuck in to keep the heavy parted side from sliding over my face. Despite the scars on my hamstrings, which I mean to keep hidden some by standing against the walls or in the darkest corners of the room, I’m as tan as I’ve ever been thanks to the last few days here on campus. We’ve spent every extra minute hanging outside in the sun in the little garden or on the quad. Laura’s also convinced me to wear the shortest jean shorts I’ve ever worn, paired with a white sheer blouse and a tight lacy undershirt. The blouse has low-key lace accents on the half-sleeves and the oval neckline, which I thought was really low cut and sexy…but…
I sigh, looking around again. Now I know it’s not.
Laura’s also got her hair down and she’s used my flat iron to make her waves go long. She’s wearing short shorts and her brand new University of Western Arts School V-neck T-shirt she bought at the university bookstore this afternoon. A shirt we both thought was sexy and also very low cut, like mine.
From a doorway across the way, tons of kids crowd into the room just as Chloe and the girl called Sheridan launch into a little French song. Their clear voices, smiling faces—and fine, those cool low-cut dresses that I can’t stop wishing were mine—have the attention of everyone in the room.
Thank God, because that means no one has seen Laura and I doing the goldfish-out-of-water thing quite yet. At the end of the song, the pouty-lipped French beauties giggle, and they’ve somehow both got their arms going around Patrick’s shoulders. They’re giving each other these secret-language looks, as if they totally agreed to share him.
Patrick, laughing now, puts his hands around both of their waists, returning their admiring grins. His happy gaze can’t seem to decide if it should rest on the girl to the right or the girl to the left, or to Charisse, who clearly is also into Patrick. We hear Patrick say, “I have no idea what you two were just singing, but…my answer is yes. Just yes.”
Everyone in the room laughs.
Laura breathes out, and her shoulders visibly slump. She seems to be shrinking like a balloon with a slow leak. She leans against the doorjamb like she can’t hold herself up. “They’re like Selkies…”
“What?”
Her eyes catch mine, and they’re wide and heavy with a sadness I’ve never seen before.
“Seal maidens. Unearthly beauties who come up out of the Irish Sea. They hide their sealskins on the beach to sing and dance under the light of the moon. Should a mortal man stumble upon them…even though the seal maidens will never love such a man because their heart is only held for the sea, the men don’t care and try to keep them anyway.”
“I thought you didn’t care,” I whisper.
“I…” She blinks back. “I…absolutely do not care.” Laura sighs, and the way she’s pulling at her the ends of her curls as if to tame them somehow tells me that she cares way too much.
I see Harrison enter the room with another crowd of people. Because Patrick’s so tall, Harrison seems to spot him first, which means he’s making his way to…to…France and once he gets there, Canada doesn’t stand a chance.
My heart starts racing with a very uninvited panic attack, and I try to figure out its source.
*Wonders if I don’t want Harrison to see me in my Canada-hick outfit.*
No…it’s not that.
*Wonders if I don’t want him to see the beautiful French girls.*
No, it’s not that, either.
I lean on one crutch and put my hand up to my chest just where my heart’s exploding, wondering at the sudden pain in the center of all the excited beating.
*Decides it’s going to hurt a ton to watch Harrison checking out the French girls. Because what if…what if…he’s just not that in to me?*
Before he spots us, and just as I think Patrick’s tossing a long look in our direction—like he knew we were there the whole time—I yank Laura out of the doorway, almost toppling over on top of her with the effort it takes.
“What are you doing?”
“I can’t do this. I don’t want to…watch…dancing.”
I look away from her down the long hallway, my eyes fixed on the EXIT sign that leads to the stairs and the elevator. “What I mean is, you know…I can’t participate so…you can go in, but I feel…” I shrug. “I don’t think this party’s for me. Also…maybe we’re…underdressed?”
“Do you mean maybe we’re not undressed quite enough?” Laura yanks at the V-neck of her T-shirt, trying to make it wider, longer, deeper. When she lets it go, it reverts to being just a small V on a V-neck shirt. She glares at her chest, and then shoots me one of her sideways eye-roll grins, and even though I don’t want to, I crack up.
“You know I love you, Laura London. Right?”
“Of course you do.” She leans against the wall along with me. “I also know what you’re up to. And if this were just about me, wee Thumbelina, I’d be with your running-away plan. But if we turn tail now, then we shall never respect ourselves in the morning.”
“I think you wind up not respecting yourself if you stay at the party and end up making out with all the wrong guys.” I blink at her, my face deadpan. “I think leaving parties before they begin is always the safest idea.”
“Although you have a point, I’m not letting you out of your Harrison Shaw checklist.”
“And if he’s got his own checklist that
does not involve me…?”
A low chuckle comes from the door. Laura and I startle to see Harrison Shaw’s head peeking out into the bright hallway. “Do you two always talk about me when I’m not around?”
“Yes. She does,” Laura says.
I turn beet red and simultaneously deny her statement. “No! I do not!”
An over-loud techno beat starts blasting out of the room. Harrison steps into the hallway, wincing a little at the sound. “Well, for the record, Ellen Foster, I talk about you all the time when you’re not around, too. And did you get a look at the girls in there?”
Laura and I exchange a glance and nod.
My heart starts doing the painful thing again.
Laura saves me by saying, “Yeah…well…not really, because we were just deciding if we were going to stay. I’ve got this horrible food baby left over from dinner and it’s possibly attacking me from the inside out, so I for sure can’t stay—”
Harrison doesn’t let her finish. “Well, that’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. I’m for going. Major going. Every girl in that room looks like they got into my grandmother’s house and stole all of her couch cushions, her curtains, and even some of her throw pillows, tore them apart, and made really freaky post-World War II outfits with them. At first I was all freaked, thinking…damn…I had no clue this was supposed to be a costume party, you know? But then I realized the outfits are legit.”
“Really?” I say, biting back the hugest smile I’ve ever hidden. “You don’t like them?”
“I’m allergic to floral fabrics.” Harrison motions me to the door, just as the techno music hits full blast. “Look at them dancing in that stuff. It’s like dishtowels gone wild!”
We peek in as the dance floor fills with about twenty kids. I try to see all of the exchange student girls in the floral fabrics with different eyes, and I realize maybe he’s right.
Harrison shudders. “Do you know that scene in The Sound of Music when that singing nanny lady makes all the kids’ clothes out of the hideous curtains from her bedroom, and then they dance all around the town singing ‘Do-Re-Mi’? Well this looks like the bad remake version of that, and with terrible music.”
