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By the time Elliot had dropped me off, it was around four in the afternoon. I had enough time to take my signature Kat nap, chill in my room for another hour or so, then start getting ready to meet up with Tara for dinner.
Feeling gutsy, I was putting some mascara on when Pierre pinged. I reached for my phone and scrolled through the screen. He’d been texting me while I was with Elliot and the boys, and I must’ve missed his messages.
Fuck my life,he’d written.Classes just started and I’m already failing.
I giggled and started to write back.
That’sgottabe an exaggeration.
A moment later, he responded,I wish.I waited for him to elaborate.How are your classes?
They don’t start until Monday. Still doing the orientation BS.
I snorted at my own reply. In other words, still squeezing out the last bouts of teenage angst. And then some, in my case.
But he didn’t need to know that.
Ah.He’d left it at that, and so would I.
Switching off my phone, I placed it on the vanity and turned my attention back to the tube of mascara in my hand. Heavy eye makeup wasn’t foreign to me—I’d been made fun of because of it in middle school, complimented because of it in high school, and abandoned it altogether these past few weeks. I hadn’t wanted to give off the wrong sort of impression to my future college peers.
Too late.
I put down the mascara wand and picked up the eyeliner. My phone pinged again. This time, it was Tara.
Hey,she said.Want me to come to your room?
I heard a knock at my door before I could type back. That was fast. Shrugging, I put down the makeup, cursed my bad time management and skipped over to the door. Putting on a smile, I opened the door.
Vivian was staring back at me, looking like she’d just got dropped into a bucket of red Gatorade. Her hair was sopping, the blonde strands washed out in red liquid, and her white top looked bloodier than a sloppy tie-dye job. I covered my hand with my mouth, unsure of whether I wanted to break out in sobbing laughter or just… gasp.
“What are you looking at?” Vivian squeaked, pushing past me as she plowed into the room and slammed the door shut behind her.
I watched as she went rifling through her disaster of a closet to pull out a large towel and a few bottles of shampoo.
“What…” I started, but she shot me down with a glare.
“Don’t even bother finishing that question,” she snapped, shaking the bottles. She growled. “Fuck. They’reempty.”
I snickered. “How often do you wash your hair?”
She responded with another growl and threw the empty bottles back into the closet. Then, as if realizing who I was, she whipped around to face me, and took a slow, calculating steptoward me, as if she were figuring out just how quickly she could pounce and sink her claws into me.
“This was your fault, you know,” she said.
I put a hand up to my chest in mock offense.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not even quite surewhathappened to you.”
“Whathappenedto me,” she said through crazed, bared teeth, “was ten gallons of cheap hair dye raining from the sky onto myhead.”
I widened my eyes, looking like I was feigning surprise more than I was feeling it.
“Oh?”
“Oh, what?” Venom could’ve sprayed from her lips, and I still would’ve laughed. “What thefuckmakes you think you can do something like this to me, huh?”
Throwing up my hands in defense, I backed away toward the door, trying to keep the laughter from gurgling up out of my lips and vomiting it onto her. This was just too much for one day. Toogood.
