“There is literally an iron line down the front of those pants, so no.” Ronnie pulls out a tiny black dress from her wardrobe. “How about this?”
“I’d like to keep breathing tonight.” I pull myself out of bed and join her at the wardrobes, reaching into mine and pulling out a dress with a bold sunflower pattern all over it. It's not really a winter dress, but it's one of my favorites, and I can always pair it with a cardigan and tights to make it less summery. “What about this dress? It’s bright and fun.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Maybe if we were going to a family barbecue. We’re trying to attract guys tonight, not drive them away. You need to look sexy.”
“Fine. How about this?” I reach into the back and pull out a pair of tight black pants Ronnie made me buy last year, “because you needsomethingbesides khakis and pencil skirts.” I never did end up wearing them to anything. The tags are still on them.
I know the pants aren’t the vibe she's going for, so I’ll have to compromise a little on something else, but a) it’s freezing out, and b) I want to keep some of my dignity tonight. Even if the only reason I am going to this party at all is to maybe see a group of guys I’ve only met once and who probably won’t be there.
“Let me wear these, and I’ll let you pick out the shirt to go with them,” I tell her.
“Not bad. I could allow it if you paired them with …” Ronnie steps over to her own wardrobe and pulls out a slinky, sparkly pink tank top. “This.”
I grit my teeth because I don’t do sparkly. It draws way too much attention. But if I don’t want to freeze in a miniskirt in January, I need to let her pick the top.
“Deal. But I’m wearing my own shoes.” I grab a pair of black ballet flats out of the wardrobe.
It’s Ronnie’s turn to sulk. “Fine. At least in those you’re short enough for most guys to get a good glimpse of your cleavage and want to chat you up.”
I hadn’t thought of that, but with the neckline on Ronnie’s top, it’s sure to happen. Great.
I try to snag a sweater on our way out the door, but she catches me and throws it back in the room at the last moment.
“We’re trying to meet boys and have fun, not be warm,” she says, dragging me down the hall to find our ride. “Besides, if you’re cold when you get there, you’re doing it wrong.”
The other girls from our dorm heading to the party are dressed in even less clothing than I am, and I suddenly feel lucky Ronnie let me get away with wearing so much. I suppose I should thank her for not letting me go in what I was wearing, because I’d probably have attracted more attention in my normal clothes than I will dressed like every other girl at the party. Plus, I have to admit this is a pretty cute outfit, and if by some miracle the cube guys are there, I’ll be glad I look like I put in some effort.
By the time we park down the street from the party, it’s beyond freezing, and misting to boot. We race up the sidewalk and across the lawn to get inside, the other girls all squealing about their hair and makeup getting ruined by the rain, but I’m just annoyed my glasses are all misty-wet. Inside the house, it’s packed and smoky and I hate to admit that Ronnie really was right. It’s almost oppressively humid in here with so many people. I’d have roasted with more layers on.
Still, I’m glad I didn’t let her pick my shoes. She and the other girls barely made it across the lawn in their strappy heels, and their toes have to be like ice cubes from tromping through the wet grass.
“I’m going to grab a drink and see if Trevor is here yet. Maybe let him talk me into finding a private corner or a room upstairs.” Ronnie winks at me, then squeezes into the crowd and disappears, leaving me alone in a room full of drunk strangers just like I was afraid she would.
And she wonders why I don’t like going to parties with her.
Edging around the crowd, I scan it for another familiar face—hoping, even though it’s unlikely, to find the guys from the cubing competition. I’m not surprised when I don’t see them in the sweaty mass of people dancing and drinking. They’re brilliant mathematicians from MIT, a loud house party like this one is almost certainly not their scene. If they even go to parties at all, they’re probably only ones where my cardigan would have been appropriate attire. I chide myself for even looking for them and decide I’m going to put them out of my mind and stop obsessing over them like a weirdo.
I make my way to the kitchen, where there’s a keg and coolers full of canned drinks, but I don’t see Ronnie anywhere around. I accept a plastic cup of beer from the guy manning the keg and shuffle over to a corner to keep an eye out for any of the girls I came with. They’ll all have to get thirsty at some point.
My moment of quiet personal space is short-lived.
“What’s a pretty girl like you standing over here looking so lonely for?” A guy whose whole look is so generic-college-guy that I can’t tell him apart from any of the other men around leans against the wall next to me, standing a little too close as he peers down at the cleavage Ronnie made me display.
Glad as I was for my flats a few minutes ago, I now have to admit she was right. I should have worn the heels so this guy doesn’t have a perfect view right down my shirt.
“Not lonely. Just enjoying some peace and quiet.” I can barely stop myself from rolling my eyes. Even his pickup line is generic. I can’t imagine it’s ever actually worked for him. “And some breathing room,” I say, hoping he’ll take the hint.
My eyes keep roving over the crowd, searching for any familiar faces. I come to these types of parties so infrequently, I don’t know any of these people. Ronnie probably knows half of the people here. She goes to a lot of parties, and she’s such a people person, always chatting up literally anyone who looks ather at these things. Whenever I try it, I end up sounding like I’m interviewing them for a newspaper story because that’s the type of interaction where I feel safest.
“Cool, cool,” the guy says, the hint bypassing him entirely. “You know, if you’re interested in quiet, maybe we should go upstairs?” He gestures around the room with his beer, sloshing some of it on my shoe. Gross. “I can barely hear you. Although I bet in the right circumstances, you can be loud.” He grins as if this is actually a clever thing to say.
This guy isn’t bad-looking. In fact, I’m sure most girls would consider him quite attractive, with his floppy dark hair and square jawline, but his attitude is so smarmy it detracts from his looks. I don’t care how hot a guy is, if he’s going to be a pervert right off the bat, I’m not interested. I can’t believe this type of behavior actually works on some girls.
“Umm.” I need to get away from this guy, but if I just walk away, I bet follow or try to herd me upstairs. If only Ronnie would come into the kitchen for a drink right this moment, she could rescue me, but of course she doesn’t.
Somebody shouts something from the other side of the room, and the guy, who still hasn’t introduced himself—such an asshole move, if you’re going to stare down a girl’s shirt you should at least tell her your name—turns a little to call back at them. His shift in position leaves me just enough space to look past his shoulder, and there’s a gap in the crowd that gives me a perfect view into the next room.
There, at a table, is a guy with blond hair and red glasses whose face I know almost as well as my own reflection, because of how much I’ve been staring at his photo all week. As soon as I see Felix, though, Mr. Generic turns back to me and blocks my view again.
