by Rachel Shane
I scoffed. There were twelve sororities on campus and fourteen frats—or well there had been up until two weeks ago. At least one of them threw an unregistered party every single night of the week. I leaned back in my chair, knowing a lost battle when I saw one. She’d shoot down any argument I made. I shifted in my seat and decided to try another tactic. “Okay, then what about Corey Taft? Why is he being singled out? He didn’t force feed me alcohol like the rumors suggest.”
She lifted her glasses a centimeter down her nose, her lips pursing ever so slightly, like she was judging me. “I assure you, Ms. Shaffer,”—wow my name must be a household entity around here—”We’ve taken his situation with the utmost consideration. There’s nothing—”
“Fine.” I pushed back my chair and scrambled into a standing position. She was a brick wall, stationed there to thwart anyone who tried. “And here I thought the Greek Organization gave a shit about philanthropy.”
After the Greek Org office, I went straight to the painting studio. Painting was like meditating to me. I lost myself in the repetitive brush strokes and let my head clear. Visions of future paintings would often come to me when I did this, and so I hoped a way to help everyone would seep into my unconscious psyche.
I’d stopped painting my motif of 16oz cups and started painting Corey’s Angel coin in a variety of compositions. My teacher thought I was having a religious experience, inspired by images from art history. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was a Jewish girl who only worshipped porcelain gods. Sometimes I painted my own face reflected in the coin’s shiny surface. Or the coin falling out of Corey’s hand, in descent to the floor. Once I covered a canvas in dark blacks and blues with a glint of light toward the bottom. It was supposed to be the coin inside my jeans pocket.
Fallon’s own work had progressed from painting self-portraits to elaborate still lifes. Instead of the usual bowl of fruit popular throughout art history, her work concentrated on everyday objects found in a college student’s room. It was a play on an installation piece she did freshman year. Her thesis was to prove that even the mundane could be beautiful, that one person’s junk was another person’s art. A pile of lipstick. A laundry basket shadowed by a heavy industrial washer. A close up of rumpled bed sheets. I loved her inventive use of color and the way she globbed the paint so thick, the images looked three-dimensional. However, I wasn’t exactly a fan of her subject matter. It didn’t seem like she was saying anything new, after all, Corey had stumbled into the same art statement when he tossed plates off his balcony. The problem with painting every day objects was the artist needed to find some twist, some new angle, to make the viewer rethink the object in a new way. Her work only presented the images as is, very in your face.
I leaned back from my canvas and studied the glint of the coin. For this composition, I’d mixed the subject with every day change, tarnished and old, while the coin glinted in gold, clean. It almost looked normal, worthless, but it was so much more. My mind supplied the obvious connection from Corey’s Angel coin to money. Even if he got a job, it would be at least two weeks before he received his first pay check. How would he possibly be able to put a down payment on an apartment by Sunday?
The brush fell from my hand, splattering on the concrete floor, as an idea formed in my mind. I hopped off the school and swept to the computer graphics lab across the way to look up Holly’s number in the online directory.
“Hey, it’s Mackenzie,” I said when she picked up. “Shaffer.” My voice mixed with the hum of computers. A boy from one of my classes glared at me.
“Oh, hey. Are you going to come on Friday?” Her voice rose up on the end like Bianca’s usually did when she was excited.
“That’s what I’m calling about, actually.” I left the lab and paced through the empty hall, my footsteps adding to the echo. A found beat. “I have an idea that could possibly help Corey, but involves your party.”
“Okay…” She sounded skeptical.
“So you know how for some sorority philanthropies, the bars donate their cover money to a cause?” Layla had always demanded we head to Quigley’s and pay cover to support the other houses even if we couldn’t actually get into the bar. This happened at least once a week.
“Yeah,” Holly said. “Wait—you want to get Quigley’s to donate the cover to…what charity exactly?”
“The one that will help out one of their best customers.” I explained about Corey being cut off by his parents and needing money A.S.A.P. “Quigley’s might do it if we can fill the bar on a Friday.” Fridays were usually a dead night on campus compared to Thursdays and Saturdays. Fraternity mixers usually took place on Fridays. “And you benefit by having the largest birthday party ever.”
“That’s brilliant! I’m in.”
“Only, I don’t know how to convince the bar owner.”
Holly paused for a second. “I already arranged my party with him. I’ll talk to him about this, too.”
I knew there were flaws to this plan—like holding a party in a bar, the very cause of so many of our problems. But it was the best I could do under the circumstances. Even if we only raised six bucks from mine and Holly’s cover, it would be more than Corey currently had.
I’d still have to face Bianca there but maybe she would understand. Maybe she would see that even though I destroyed, I also rebuilt.
Back at my dorm, I grabbed my mail and flipped through it while I road the slow-as-hell elevator. One envelope made me breath halt.
Throckmorton letterhead. Something official. My pulse ratcheted to heart attack levels. The only time I’d ever received formal letters was when they delivered bad news. The school probably figured out Rho Sigma hadn’t hazed me or forced me to drink and put me on academic probation like Corey.
I made it all the way to my room before I allowed myself to tear it open. My stomach flipped as I slid out the paper folded into three neat rectangles.
Dear Ms. Shaffer,
I wanted to be the first to inform you that the faculty has selected your mixed media series, “16oz IV,” to be displayed in the annual showcase retrospective. The series will be featured starting March 21st in the campus gallery alongside other student works. A reception will be held on opening night.
This is an incredible honor. We are only showcasing the very best work produced this year, one student per grade. We pride ourselves in honoring students who have shown not only great artistic achievement, but have proven to the school community that they are committed to their work. We believe you exemplify this description. On a personal note, I am very proud of you.
Sincerely,
Professor O’Brien
I hugged the paper to my chest. Gray skies hovered over Throckmorton nine months out of the year, but finally a small ray of sunshine broke through and beamed on me. I’d been part of the freshman show last year…but that show featured a single piece by every freshman. It wasn’t an honor, it was mandatory. This one would dedicate an entire wall to my work and I’d be the only sophomore represented. I tacked the letter above my computer, then squinted at it like I’d do a painting.
On second thought, I tore it down and tucked it into a folder inside my desk where Fallon would never see it.
NEWS OF THE CAMPAIGN to help Corey with cover charge donations spread on campus. Securing the bar owner’s participation was the easy part; he wanted to support his regulars and the PR stunt made the bar look good. Retweets and reposts swept social media and word of mouth filled in the gaps. Whenever I heard students gossiping about the shutdowns, they tacked on the info about Quigley’s Friday night cover charge for Corey. In only a day he’d morphed in everyone’s eyes from a villain to a victim.
I spent most of Friday making Holly an elaborate birthday animation as a thank you. I didn’t have time to model her as a 3D character but I animated her in 2D, cartoon style, doing a cute little dance. Inside the card I filled out for her, I taped a printed-out QR code that would bring her directly to the animation. That night
, I wore a corset style top and swanky jeans. Four inch fuck me heels ornamented by feet. I curled my hair in homage to formal.
The beer-laced atmosphere and familiar pang in my stomach made my throat close when I stepped foot inside Quigley’s. This was my first test. At the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting last night, I’d stood up at the podium and admitted my weakness earning a round of applause that still echoed in my brain. Now, I tilted my head away from the colorful liquor bottles lining the counter and braced myself for an immediate attack from my friends, but when no one launched at me, I relaxed my shoulders. Bodies packed the room, all of them familiar, none of them the people I wanted to see. My hands stayed strategically void of drinks. Fallon supported my sober stance, abstaining as well. She was the only other person I’d told about getting help.
“Wow, what a turn out,” I told her.
“This is a good thing you did,” she said.
I found Holly by the counter, decked in a glitzy birthday tiara and sash. She raised her hands in the air when she spotted me, then stumbled, catching herself on the counter. “Whoo! I’m legal to drink now!”
I smiled. “I’d buy you a drink, but looks like you’ve had plenty.” I handed her the card. “But I have something better.”
She ripped open the card and found the QR code. After squinting at it in confusion, she scanned the code with her phone, then watched the animation with several other people peering over her shoulder. “Oh my God. You made this? It’s amazing!” She wrapped me in a giant hug. “I have to show everyone!” She darted off, earning cheers from people she passed.
Fallon leaned against the counter as if she intended to block me from ordering a drink with her body. She was fiercely protective of me, my best friend, and here I’d been keeping something huge from her. I took a deep breath. “I have news.”
She reguarded me warily. I knew her well enough to guess she thought my news involved the lower half of Corey’s body.
“Really good news, actually. But—” I swallowed. My heart pumped in tune to the pop song blasting from the speakers. “I don’t want to get you upset.”
“That doesn’t sound like good news.”
“You know the Spring Student Showcase? The one we didn’t like last year?” Maybe if I downplayed it, she’d think it wasn’t a big deal. That she was still on par with me. But after all, we’d only disliked last year’s showcase because we hadn’t been in it.
“The one you’re in this year?” She looked down at the floor, and when she came back up, her eyes glistened with moisture.
I swallowed hard. “You already knew?”
“Everyone’s been talking about it in my classes.” She studied her nails. “I didn’t understand why you hadn’t told me.”
My heart plummeted. “Really, it’s not a big deal.”
She met my eyes. “I’m really happy for you.”
I placed my palm on her shoulder. “You’ll find your inspiration and next year the showcase will feature you.”
“Thanks, but I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
I tried to give her my best sympathetic smile. “Yes, it will. You’ll make it happen.”
Her lips curled into a half-smile. “No. What I mean is I have news too. I figured it out, what’s been missing in my art.” She pushed her blond hair behind her ear, the smile widening. “Me.”
I opened my mouth to protest but her stop sign palm made me pause.
“You taught me something. All year I watched you pour your emotions into your work. You never talked to anyone about what you were feeling, well until the counselor anyway, but I understood what you were going through just by looking at your assignments. Then you kept trying to help me find my inspiration. And it hit me. What I could be good at.” Her eyes sparkled, and this time not from the onset of tears. “Art therapy. I want to help other people deal with their feelings through art. Like you did.”
“Fallon, that’s amazing! You’ll be really good at that.” I thought about all those times she talked me down from the edge, how effortlessly it came to her. This would be an easy transition for her.
“I know.” We both laughed. “I’ll have to take some psych classes next year, but I think it’ll be easy for me.”
I offered her my knuckle and she returned the fist bump. We couldn’t clink with glasses, but this was just as good.
Fallon’s face fell and her eyes focused on something over my shoulder.
I spun around and spotted Corey across the crowded bar. Everyone else disappeared. The black light he stood under shone on him like a spotlight. He looked worn out, restless, like he’d only now woken up from a hundred year nap. His hair seemed darker, as if the shadows hanging over him the last few days had seeped into him. Wrinkles creased his usually pristine button-down shirt. His hands only held air.
His usual supporting cast followed behind, until Erin broke off from the group and weaved through the crowd in the direction of Holly. Bianca rolled her shoulders backward, gyrating to the music, while Nate squeezed into the space next to Corey. She spotted me and rolled her eyes, then tapped Nate.
Nate made eye contact with me, and we both flinched. I hadn’t told anyone the cover plan was my idea. I let Holly take all the credit even though the thought made my throat tighten. But it was the only way to keep my name out of the guerrilla marketing gossip.
It was dangerous for me to be in the same place as Corey. I couldn’t stop looking. He was a car accident, and I was a driver on the other side of the road. I had to stop and engage in the rubbernecking traffic jam.
He must have felt the same way because he beelined toward me, holding my gaze the entire way. In his wake, he left behind Bianca, red faced, arms flailing in a way that could only mean she was pissed off. Nate held up his hands in a protective stance, mouth set in a thin line.
I stood like a deer in headlights, remembering my confession a few days in Corey’s room, when I told him I’d made a mistake about us, then promptly fled with the last word. As Corey stopped right in front of me, my insides froze. Would he declare he felt the same way? Scold me for being in a bar after everything that happened? Instead, he kissed me on the cheek. The tenderness of his moist lips against my skin felt succulent, even if only for a brief second. “Thanks for coming out,” he said.
Fallon glanced at us before excusing herself toward the bathroom.
“I thought I’d get the opposite reaction.” I fidgeted with my fingers, clasping and unclasping my hands. My palms yearned for the shape of a cup. I made a mental note to mention that to my counselor at Monday’s appointment.
He looked away from me briefly, then back again. “Holly told us this was your idea.”
Something in my chest loosened.
“But I’m not going to accept the donation. This is my grave. I have to dig myself out.”
“Did you find an apartment?”
“A one-bedroom all the way down on Euclid. Long ass walk to class, but it’s the best I could find. I move in tomorrow afternoon.” He flicked his head back toward our—his—friends. “Nate loaned me the money.”
“Corey, everyone would have paid cover anyway tonight. It’s not like they gave up anything. You should take it. Think of it like the bar giving back to you after all the money you gave to it.”
“And that was a lot of money.” He let out a raspy laugh through his nose.
A guy tapped Corey on the back. “Hey, man. Hope it works out for you.” They did a secret handshake, fingers flying. “Thanks,” Corey told him. “For all your help.”
I took that as confirmation. Corey would take the money. Or at least he’d hand it right over to Nate.
“You wanna come hang with us?” he asked once the guy left.
“Bianca’s still pissed at me.” It was a sentence and a question at the same time. My eyebrow rose enough to skew the ratio toward question on the Libra scale.
“It’s been hard for her, without the sorority. Trust me, I know how she feels.”
A gi
rl with stilettos squeezed into the space between us, her friends trailing after her with linked arms like an elephant circus. That only told me we weren’t standing close enough together, so when they passed between us, I stepped forward. The scent of Corey’s cologne wafted to my nose. He placed his hands on my hips where they belonged and my eyelashes fluttered closed. Maybe I hadn’t ruined everything.
I glanced longingly at Bianca, still sparring with Nate in the corner. “I just wish I could help them. They don’t deserve this.”
Another person bumped into us on their way to the counter. Corey tugged me closer to the center of the room, out of harm’s way from people desperate for a drink. “Bianca told me Layla has been trying to get all the other frats and sororities to petition and boycott Greek Week.”
“That’s a good idea.”
He squeezed my hip, tingles spreading at his touch. “Nah, it’s not working. Some of the sororities prefer not to have Rho Sig as their competition anymore.”
“But the frats should still count?”
“Not enough.” Corey leaned into me, his breath hot against my ear. It was all I could do not to melt right there, in the middle of everyone. Out of nowhere, he whispered, “Mac, what you said when you left my room earlier this week…”
I tensed, bracing myself for the answer to my question. When I’d asked it, it had been a statement—I never should have broken up with you—but it was really a plea—can we get back together?
But Corey didn’t continue. Instead he dropped his arms from my waist, his gaze reaching far past my shoulder. I craned my neck, following his vision until it connected with a set of dark hair and narrowed eyes hidden behind take-me-seriously plastic-rimmed glasses. Harrison Wagner made a big show of chugging a beer, then wiping away the foam from his mouth, leaving only a smirk.
“DUDE, GET OUT.” COREY’S hand pressed gently against the small of my back, attempting to steer me through the crowd and away from Harrison. They parted to let him through but swiveled their heads to watch whatever juicy showdown was about to occur.
