CHAPTER 8
TEQUILA AND THINGS
The food component turns out to be Italian food from a restaurant down the street that I’d never tried. Steffi inhales her plate of fettuccine Alfredo, and, in between bites, chastises me for never having been here. “I mean, really? Do you now understand what you’ve been missing out on?” Then she stabs one of my meatballs and shoves the entire thing in her mouth.
A quick pit stop at the liquor store (where Steffi is handed flyers from three different guys for various parties), and we are back in my room, with Steff now pouring us our first tequila shot. I haven’t had a drink since this summer, and the alcohol burns down my throat. I smile. “God, I missed tequila.”
“And tequila missed you.” She bites a lime wedge and winces. “Know what else missed you?”
“What?”
She reaches into the paper bag next to her and raises a bottle. “Gin!”
“Yay!”
Her other hand goes to the bag and emerges with another bottle. “And tonic!”
“Yay!”
“And yay for my bangin’ fake ID.”
I pour us strong drinks and get some ice cubes from the minifridge while Steff makes a playlist on my computer and blasts music from my bedroom.
“Oh, hell. Is today Friday?” she calls out.
“Yeah, why?” I step into my bedroom and set down her drink on the desk. “Why are you on Amazon?” I squint at the screen. “And why are you buying a roll of cartoon sheep stickers, duct tape, and a nose-hair trimmer?”
Steff takes a large swig and then spins in the chair to face me. “Remember the apartment that I lived in last summer? Well, after I moved, I accidentally sent some things there because I forgot to update my address on some websites. Including, I will have you know, a site where I bought a megahot and not-inexpensive dress. The two stupid girls who moved in after me never sent back anything.” She takes another drink. “Or they would just claim things never arrived. Liars. So, every month I send off something addressed to me at my old address. I like the idea that they get all excited, thinking they can steal more of my purchases, and they probably get hyped up, thinking it’s something cool—because I always order cool things, right?—and then they open the package, and it’s striped tube socks and a poop emoji pillow or whatever. So I am punishing them forever.”
Oh, how I have missed this girl.
I sit on the bed. “That’s kind of goddamn brilliant. I want to help!”
“Go ahead. Pick out something. Aside from buying plane tickets, this is also what I do with the extra financial aid money.” She puts her hands behind her head and stretches. “I really am a genius.”
After some browsing, I add a no-solicitors sticker and a box of poorly reviewed quinoa crackers, and when the confirmation e-mail dings on her phone, telling us that her order was received, we celebrate by slamming down our drinks and both burping at the same time. Soul sisters, we are for sure.
I’m a definite lightweight, so by nine thirty, I am beyond tipsy, and it feels fantastic. Steffi is doing some crazy dance that is predominately defined by Hula-Hoop hip moves and Superman arms. It’s superodd but rather entertaining. From my spot on the couch, I suck an ice cube and watch my friend move through the common room as she dances off the beat. I am still gobsmacked that she is here, and the smile plastered on my face is a welcome respite from the events of this past week.
It’s that thought that makes me sit bolt upright. “Hey! Wait a minute!” I yell, my voice garbled from the ice cube in my mouth. “Stop!”
“Huh?” Steffi pauses her dance. “You cannot handle my sexiness?” She shakes her hips.
“You!” I thrust a pointed finger her way. “You are not here because you had extra money!”
Her face drops. “What do you mean? I wanted a long weekend with my best girl. That’s all.” But she reaches for the gin bottle and starts to pour a drink.
“You are here,” I say forcefully, while repeatedly jabbing my finger at her, “for nefarious reasons!”
Steff laughs. “Nefarious reasons? Oh really?”
“Stephanie Elinor Troy! You are sneaky! ’Fess up, right now!”
But she can barely talk because she is doubled over, laughing and trying to breathe.
I frown. “What is so funny?”
Finally, she answers. “My middle name is not Elinor!” Then her fit of hysterical laughter continues, and she sits beside me.
