The Girls Are All So Nice Here

by Laurie Elizabeth Flynn

  But she worried about me, and her concern was more than just friendly. I chafed against the hints of disapproval that spiked through.

  “Where are you going?” she asked me when she saw me getting ready for Sex Party, lacing up the corset top Sully had lent me.

  “Just a party,” I mumbled.

  “Oh,” she said, bunny slippers dangling off her bed. It was one syllable, but I unfolded it into a whole book. Another party. With Sloane.

  “You could come,” I said, knowing she wouldn’t.

  “I have to work on my paper. But call me if you need anything.” She held up her phone, knowing I wouldn’t.

  Where Flora was feather soft, Sully was the black swan wing I was swept beneath. At Sex Party, I stumbled after Sully like a baby deer, halls bleeding with pounding music and porn, couples having sex right out in the open, a Dionysian orgy reincarnated. All of us reduced to animals. It was in a room at Eclectic that night where I first tried cocaine, watching Sully’s neck, an elegant question mark bent over a neat line. Embarrassingly, my head was filled with overdose scenes from stupid TV shows Billie and I had watched. There was no room for fear in Sully’s shadow. My nostril burned, but I was still alive, more alive than ever.

  “So who are you going to hook up with?” Sully asked a few minutes later, as casually as if she wanted to know what I was ordering for lunch. “I’m going for that Buddy in the kitchen. After that, we’ll see.” She threw her head back.

  “I’m not sure yet,” I said, clenching my jaw to stop my teeth from chattering. I had to choose someone.

  “You’d love my best friend from home,” she said, sweeping her pinky finger across her gums. “Evie. She’s up for absolutely everything. Fucking wild.”

  “Cool,” was all I could manage. It wasn’t cool. It was another competition, this time against someone I hadn’t even met.

  Later, when my nerves had burned off, I was alone with a boy upstairs, broad-shouldered with a California tan. Buddy, I called him, his real name unimportant. I let him reach inside my underwear and pull them down, then press me against a wall plastered with pictures of naked girls. I became one of them, arching my back, his grip on my hair something primal.

  The next afternoon, Flora came back from Olin and found me and Sully in our room, my entire body still pulsing like a giant bruise. “I was worried about you guys,” she said, immaculate as she perched on her desk chair. “Amb, you didn’t tell me you were going to… that party.”

  I didn’t know who had told her about Sex Party—almost everyone was at Lauren’s thing. The night came back in jagged pieces, the boy from the wall, the one after him who snorted a line of coke off my hipbone. Sully, gyrating, her mouth on everyone.

  “It was just a party,” I said. “Nothing to worry about.”

  “It was okay.” Sully rolled over. “I kind of expected more.”

  My head spun with how something that seemed like so much to me was nothing to her. We weren’t on a level playing field. But just when I thought I should stick to softer terrain, she looped her arm around me. “But Amb made it fun.”

  A few days after Sex Party, when we were walking back from MoCon, Flora said what I knew she was already thinking. “Don’t take this the wrong way.” She adjusted the dainty gold heart above her breastbone. “But I think Sloane is a bit out of control. I’m afraid she’s going to do something crazy. And that you might too, if you’re with her.”

  “She’s fine. We both are,” I snapped. Flora recoiled like I had smacked her—she had a low tolerance for any sort of disagreement. I learned later that maybe her parents had something to do with it—she never talked about them, maybe because she didn’t want me to realize her life wasn’t an actual fairy tale.

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” she said. “It’s just, I’ve heard stories about what happens at parties with drunk guys. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

  “It won’t,” I said, softer. “I know how to handle myself.” Her arm slipped under mine, her skin soft and cool.

  “I want you to find your Kevin,” she said. “I know he’s out there. Just be patient.” A part of me—the part hammered into all girls that says the right guy is out there—wanted to believe it, because expectations were hard to shake.

  But I wasn’t waiting for my Kevin. That week, I hooked up with Hunter of the crooked dick again, and snuck another boy into our room for a quickie, his hot breath wilting in my ear, him not giving me so much as a compliment, much less an orgasm. In brief snatches of conversation, I overlaid their names with Buddy, because they were as disposable as the used condoms I wrapped in toilet paper and threw in the wicker garbage basket beside my bed.

  “See you around,” became the line I recited at the end, monotone and bored. But I rarely did. Maybe it was me—at the door, my hand migrated too close to theirs, like it wanted to be held. My body betrayed me in myriad ways.

  I made a point of not looking for anyone special, even as a few of the other girls paired off and found boyfriends. Sully made fun of them. “Boyfriends are the universe’s way of keeping us tethered,” she said. “We’re too dangerous otherwise.” I nodded in vehement agreement.

  But then the universe decided to up the ante.

  * * *

  It was your classic meet-cute, the stuff that made up the cheesy romantic comedies Billie and I used to worship. I was rushing into Olin to meet some of the girls to study and dropped one of the books I was carrying. He picked it up.

  Short hair, buttoned up, with a Superman jawline. He looked older, maybe a senior frat boy, hopefully DKE and not Beta. “I believe this is yours,” he said.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I mean, thanks.”

  “No problem.” White teeth. Up close, he looked vaguely familiar. Maybe I had seen him at a party. He could have been one of the two guys from Sex Party, one face blending into the other, and I was suddenly horrified with myself.

  “I see you’ve got John Donne,” he said. “John Donne, I know. Practically in the biblical sense. Actually, I’m studying him right now.”

  “Me too.” The words fused together. “Obviously. But I don’t know him all that well. Actually, I’m having a really hard time understanding him.”

  That was a lie. What was there to understand about a dead white guy? They all had one thing on the brain.

  He smiled. Those teeth glistened. The moment felt backlit with possibility.

  “Sounds like you need my expertise.” A cursory glance at his watch, a big blue face on a leather strap. “I can give you my special crash course.”

  It was a dumb line—even condescending, the implication that I needed anything from him—but I found myself nodding, parched for a boy’s undivided attention that wasn’t purely sexual. Instead of finding somewhere to sit in Olin, I led him to Foss Hill, passing trees shuddering brown leaves.

  “Cool view,” he said when we got to the top and sat down.

  He really was passionate about John Donne, which was both adorable and kind of sexy. Even though I personally hated John Donne, I liked any guy who could get that enthused about something other than beer and boobs. If he could get horny like that for John Donne, who knew what else he was capable of? He’d be the kind of lover who made you feel like an equal, not an ATM.

  “You know more than you’re giving yourself credit for,” he said. The wind pushed my hair over my face, and he swept it back behind my ear. “You’re smarter than you think. You probably don’t know how beautiful you are, either.”

  It was the beautiful I glommed on to, three trilling syllables, their own music. That was the moment I would look back on, and it was such a simple thing. The other boys I had been with weren’t in the habit of praising.

  “John Donne was a romantic,” he said. “He lost everything for the woman he loved.”

  I held my breath. He was going to kiss me, and I was going to let him. Suddenly Foss Hill seemed like somewhere I could fall in love. Suddenly, ridiculously, I wanted to be in lov
e. His thumb grazed my chin, briefly, before he pulled away and checked that stupid watch.

  “Shit. I’m out of time. But if you have any other questions about Donne, just email me. I don’t mind.” He leaned over, scribbled in my notebook: bigmac10@gmail.com. I wasn’t going to let a lame email address ruin him. It was the kind of thing that could be overlooked, maybe even considered cute later.

  “Thanks. I will.” My imagination careened away, barreling far into the future. He would let me pick the color scheme for our wedding. He would tell the wedding planner, Give her whatever she wants. I would insist on peonies, big white ones that hid in waiting, sweet fat orbs, until they were ready to unfurl their heads like pinwheels. I would insist that I already had everything I wanted.

  * * *

  I texted Billie right away. I think I met someone? My body was a live wire, running on beautiful. I stopped for lunch at MoCon, and even my shitty salad tasted better somehow. Billie hadn’t replied by the time I got back to Butts C, and I needed a reaction. That was when I realized I didn’t know his name. I had somehow never asked, and he hadn’t asked for mine, either. I recovered quickly from that barb of disappointment. I had his email address—we had just forgotten to introduce ourselves.

  I could hear Flora’s laugh coming from our room in garish, overly girly bursts, and I decided I would tell her, because her energy was exactly what I needed.

  She was on her bed in the fluffy pink bathrobe she wore when she was cold. But she wasn’t alone. He was sitting with her, the mystery boy, my mystery boy, beautiful boy, and for a minute it didn’t register, how he knew where I lived, why he was on Flora’s bed and why she was okay with it.

  “Amb.” She waved me in. “There you are. I want you to meet Kevin. He showed up and completely surprised me, can you believe it?”

  He turned to me and shock crossed his face, but just barely.

  “Hi,” I said. For half a beat, I considered saying something like, “We already met.” But I didn’t.

  He didn’t either.

  “I’m Kevin.” His voice was different from the boy on the hill’s. More formal, like he was someone else. “Nice to meet you.”

  “You too,” I managed.

  Kevin. That was why he had looked familiar, even though he didn’t resemble his picture. His hair was shorter, fair skin no longer ravaged by acne. He was a liar, the same as Matt. The same as every guy.

  Sully chose that moment to materialize beside me—I had left the door ajar. “Who’s this?” she said, strolling in. “You don’t go here, or I’d know you already.”

  “This is my boyfriend, Kevin,” Flora said, grabbing his hand. I hated boyfriend in her mouth, how it swelled like a bubble. She’d be the type to say fiancé and husband with too much vigor. “Kevin, this is Sloane.”

  “Sully, actually.” She leaned in to kiss his cheek, her generic greeting, then faced me. “Come over and we’ll get ready together.” All I could do was nod.

  “So this is Amb,” Kevin said when she was gone. “I’ve heard a lot of good things about you.” I searched his face until I saw it—the glinting eyes, pleading for my silence.

  “Likewise,” I said.

  Flora wanted me to meet my Kevin, but I never did. I met hers.

  NOW

  To: “Ambrosia Wellington” a.wellington@wesleyan.edu

  From: “Wesleyan Alumni Committee” reunion.classof2007@gmail.com

  Subject: Class of 2007 Reunion

  Dear Ambrosia Wellington,

  Friday is registration day! Check out the official weekend schedule here so that you don’t miss a thing. When you check in at Usdan, you’ll be able to pick up your meal tickets, itinerary, and key cards to your dorm room.

  We look forward to seeing you for the start of what will be an unforgettable weekend.

  Sincerely,

  Your Alumni Committee

  I wanted to drop out of Wesleyan during my first year. I could have started fresh at a different school, or even joined Billie at Miami University. But it would have looked suspicious. So I stayed, and I let my grades plummet until my overall average was in danger of putting me on academic probation. By sophomore year, I refocused and committed to the original reason I applied to Wesleyan—theater, not boys—and felt idiotic for letting myself veer so far off course. It wasn’t too late, I told myself. Except when it was time to declare my major, I didn’t have the requirements I needed or the motivation to follow through.

  “I realized acting isn’t for me,” I told Hadley and Heather instead of the truth. They knew about Dorm Doom but either didn’t believe the rumors or were too ensconced in their student-athlete bubble to care.

  And there was another reason I stayed. He wasn’t coming back—I knew that—but maybe Sully could.

  But now, arriving in Middletown, with Adrian easing our rental car into V Lot off Vine Street, I wish I had transferred anywhere else. I wouldn’t have this rock in my stomach, this heavy thing pressing down on my insides. Why now? I keep wondering. Why ten years?

  “Nice,” Adrian says as we enter campus behind the Nics and walk toward the crest of Foss Hill. “This place has a good vibe. If I had gone here, I definitely would have been inspired to finish school.”

  I roll my eyes behind my sunglasses. Sometimes he wears his college-dropout status as a badge of honor. If his novel ever gets published—if he ever manages to start it, much less finish it—he’ll tell everyone that he doesn’t even have a college education, implying that he was too gifted to need one.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Everything is nice here.”

  Campus is teeming with people. Several class reunions are happening this weekend, along with commencement on Sunday. I watch the graduates with their parents, who snap photos of the Van Vleck Observatory and the campus panorama from Foss Hill like tourists. I stare at lazy sprawls of girls and wonder who did the worst thing and who struggled to keep up.

  Foss Hill offers an unfettered view of Andrus Field, with the back side of Olin cast in shade. Olin was always my favorite building on campus, stately and proud. I’ve wondered so often what would have happened if I hadn’t been there the day I met Kevin.

  “Is that where you watched football games?” Adrian asks. It’s a legitimate question, but I just laugh.

  “Football wasn’t a big thing,” I say. We played other games.

  “So where were your dorms?” Adrian says. “I’m still bummed we can’t stay there. Justin said they all got rooms. I guess they can’t assign roommates, but they try to put you near people you know.”

  “It’s too bad it didn’t work out,” I say. “I’ll give you the full tour later.”

  I lead Adrian into Usdan. People are milling everywhere, clustered in knots. I expect them to recognize who I am. Some of them turned on me after it happened, dog-piled on the AW thread on the ACB—the Anonymous Confession Board, where spores of gossip bred into battlefields. Some of them swore it was my fault, somehow, or even me who did it. Others just know I did something.

  We wait in line to register. Tara Rollins is across the lobby, her hair twisted into a milkmaid braid she can’t pull off. I grab my phone out of my purse and send a text to Hadley and Heather. Are you guys here?

  “Ambrosia.” I whip around. It’s not Sully, of course—she would never call me by my full name. It’s Lauren. In second semester of freshman year, she started a rumor about what I did at the Double Feature party. I never hung out with her again, but here she is, leaning in for a hug.

  “Hey. Lauren. Good to see you.” I’m surprised at how easily my voice slips into the fakeness I cultivated here.

  She pulls away, her smile wider than it ever was back then. She’s faking too. “I was literally just thinking about you and wondering what you’ve been up to. I thought I sent you an invite to the group I made on Facebook, but maybe you never got it.”

  Maybe you never sent it. I shrug, flashing back to the Hamptons weekend and my non-invite. Lauren’s power was always exclusion, her tool
a chisel used to shape the group and excise the fat. Speaking of which—she has put on a good deal of weight since I last saw her, a fact I let myself feel smug about.

  “This is my husband, Adrian.” He enthusiastically pumps her hand. Adrian is all about first impressions. He must have read somewhere that a strong handshake means everyone will like you.

  “Hey,” he says. “It’s so cool to meet more of Amb’s friends.”

  Thankfully, Lauren doesn’t correct him.

  “Nice to meet you, Adrian. I should go find my husband. I met him here, actually,” she says, turning to me. “We were just friends, though. Do you remember Jonah Belford?”

  “I don’t think so. But that’s great.”

  I do remember Jonah Belford, or more accurately, I remember the night we spent together sophomore year, both of us wasted at a WestCo naked party. I had expected to see Sully there—she never used to miss any event where the dress code was no clothes—but instead I found Jonah, or he found me, telling me I had a great body. We ended up in his room, where he asked me about Dorm Doom while he was still inside me. “Come on. Is it true?” he grunted. “You can tell me.”

  “Yeah, we’re doing well,” Lauren says. “How did you two meet?”

  Adrian takes a deep breath, ready to thank the Internet, but I cut him off. “It’s a long story. Maybe we can catch up later.” I can’t handle any more of Lauren’s act—nice suits her as badly as it suited me. Mercifully, it’s almost our turn to register and pick up our itinerary and the name tags I don’t plan on wearing.

  “Definitely,” says Lauren. “I’m sure we’ll see lots of each other. Oh, hang on, I have to show you the kids. We have three. And I never used to think I wanted any.” She whips out her phone and swipes through pictures. Three blond heads, each one slightly smaller than the next. “Between these guys and my job, I swear, I solve other people’s problems all day.”