“Bronwyn,” I started, not wanting to offend her, but not wanting her to make all this effort for nothing. “Not that I don’t appreciate this, but I just don’t think I feel like going to a party tonight.” That was an understatement, but I wasn’t sure how else to put it. I was only just getting used to spending time with Roger. I had spent almost three months barely talking to anyone, and the thought of seeing so many people, and being around that many strangers, made me feel like the only thing I wanted to do was crawl into bed. Once, I’d happily gone to parties. It had never been an issue. But that, of course, had been Before. That had been Old me.
“I know,” said Bronwyn with a sigh, surprising me. “Half the time I don’t want to go out either, darling. But you know what? You go anyway. It’s the Taylor family motto: You get up, you dress up, you show up. And usually have a pretty good time by the end of it.” She threw the blue shirt at me, and I caught it. “And sometimes,” she added, in slightly hushed tones, like she was letting me in on a secret, “if you don’t feel great on the inside, just look great on the outside, and after a while you won’t be able to tell the difference.” She smiled at me. I guess I didn’t look totally convinced, because she shrugged and said, “But if you’re miserable, I promise you can leave early, ’kay? Now put that on and I’ll find you a skirt.”
I realized that resistance was futile and pulled off the jam-stained T-shirt as Bronwyn emerged from a pile of clothing with a denim skirt. She glanced up at me, and I tried to turn away—I was only wearing my bra—to put the blue shirt on. As I felt the softness of the material, I could tell that this was a really nice shirt. After spending the last few months in preshrunk cotton, I’d almost forgotten what it felt like, and I ran my fingers over the neckline, which was delicately scalloped.
“This too,” she said, and a bra whacked me in the head.
“Um,” I said, holding it up, “I think I’m okay….” This just seemed to be taking the clothes borrowing a little far.
“Don’t worry, it’s new,” she said. “I bought it for my roommate last year. I mean, the girl lived in her sports bra. Such a shame. But she told me she didn’t want it. And that I was being inappropriate. Can you believe it? Try it on.”
“Um,” I said, wishing I could just get dressed, “it’s really all right….”
“No, it isn’t,” she said. “If you’re going to dress, you have to do it all the way. I think that good underwear is so underrated.”
I turned the bra over in my hands. It, like the shirt, was obviously well made. It was a pale green with underwire and delicate lace, and definitely a lot sexier than any of the bras I currently had. “Well, thanks.”
“Of course. And,” she said, grabbing something else and throwing it at me, “here.” It was a matching pale green thong with the tags still attached.
“You bought your roommate underwear?” I asked.
“Well, it was a set!” she said, a little defensively. “You don’t want to separate a set. And you can just save it for special occasions, if you like.” She winked at me, and I tried not to blush. The first—and last—time anyone had seen me in my underwear, it certainly hadn’t been anything this impressive. But then, Michael hadn’t really seemed to care, so maybe it didn’t make a difference after all. “So you get changed and then we’ll see how it looks!” she said, grinning and clapping her hands together as she headed out the door.
When the door closed behind her, I got dressed, then had to sit down on the bed for a moment and try to wait out the wave of sadness that had just clobbered me. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed hanging out with another girl—how much I’d missed Julia—until now. We always got ready for parties together. She was a genius with hair, and loved doing mine, since hers was so curly she said she could never do anything fun with it. Sometimes the getting ready part—in my room, music blasting, choosing clothing—was much more fun than the party itself. And then after the party, I’d drive her home and we’d recap the night.
“All right,” Bronwyn said, returning to the room, checking her watch. “We have to hurry if I’m going to do your hair and makeup. We only have about an hour.”
Which was how I ended up at the party, wearing almost nothing that was my own, including the shoes. Bronwyn had picked out a pair of slingback heels for me that were a little too small, but she had refused to let me leave her room in my flip-flops.
It had been startling to look at myself in her mirror after she’d finished. I looked … not like my old self, since I’d never looked this fashionable. But I looked more like I remembered myself looking. Like I had somewhere to go and would have a story to tell about it afterward. I knew it was all artifice and would disappear as soon as I washed off the makeup she’d put on me—but it was nice to see, at least for a night, someone I’d thought wasn’t coming back.
We ended up in the Quiet Dorm’s noisy kitchen, with Bronwyn talking to someone she recognized from her organic chemistry class. I stood off to the side, next to Roger, sipping warm beer out of a red cup and feeling a strong sense of déjà vu.
“You look really nice,” Roger said. I looked at him, surprised, and saw that he was looking down into his cup.
“Oh,” I said. I turned this over for a moment in my head, trying to figure out if this was another “you look hot” moment and I was misunderstanding him. But I didn’t see how I could be, in this case. I touched the hem of Bronwyn’s shirt self-consciously. “Thanks,” I said.
“Sure,” he replied, swirling the beer around in his cup. He glanced up and smiled at me. I had the feeling that he was going to say something else, when three guys in various stages of drunkenness stumbled into the kitchen.
“Sullivan!” the tallest one of them yelled, and made a beeline for Roger. “Hey!” He stopped when he saw me, and looked from me to Roger. “Dude,” he said, shoving Roger’s shoulder, still looking at me. “You’ve got fire.”
I looked up at Roger, who had flushed. I had no idea what the guy meant, but I figured it was probably a comment about my hair. “Be right back,” I muttered, and walked across the kitchen to stand next to Bronwyn. I tried to stay at the edge of her group, but she grabbed me by the arm and pulled me next to her, making room for me in the circle.
“This is Amy,” she said to everyone, as she straightened my shirt, smoothed down my hair, and poked me in the back, making me stand up straight. She had interrupted a guy with thick, trendy glasses who had been talking about Kant, and he did not look happy about having to yield the floor. “She’s from California.” I blinked at Bronwyn as she said this. I hadn’t told her that—but I realized that Roger must have. I felt a momentary drop in my stomach, wondering what else he’d told her about me.
“Oh yeah?” the guy with the glasses asked. “That’s cool. What’s your major?”
“She’s undecided,” Bronwyn said smoothly, before I could reply. She gave me a tiny wink, then turned her attention back to the conversation.
Two hours later, I was actually having fun. My feet ached in Bronwyn’s shoes, and I was tired of hearing arguments about which sociology professor was the best, but I’d gotten to see Bronwyn absolutely decimate in a game of Quarters, and when he lost some kind of bet, the glasses-wearing guy do a pretty fantastic set of dance moves, including the Worm. I stepped out on the porch to get some air, and was sitting on the bottom step, just taking in the sight of the smoke rising up to the stars, the fire, and the drunk people who were now trying to play volleyball around it, occasionally singeing themselves.
“Hey,” a voice to my left said. I looked over and saw that a guy was standing on the ground, leaning on the railing and looking down at me. He was blond and red-faced, but whether from the sun or beer—or both—I couldn’t tell.
“Hi,” I said, then turned away again.
“Do you go here?” the blond guy asked me.
“Um, no,” I said. Not liking being forced to look up at him, I pushed myself to my feet, wobbling a little in Bronwyn’s shoes.
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“Careful there,” he said, stepping closer, grabbing my arm to steady me, and then leaving it there. “You okay?” he asked, running his fingers up and down my arm.
“I’m fine,” I said, taking a step back and starting to put my hands in the pockets of my jeans, before I remembered I wasn’t wearing them.
“Yeah, I didn’t think I recognized you,” the guy said. “And I know I would have remembered you.” He took a step closer and smiled at me. “I’m Bradley. What’s your name, pretty girl?”
I blinked at him, feeling my heart beat a little faster, startled by a memory that had suddenly intruded with such force I wanted to shut my eyes against it.
“Pretty girl?” he asked again, his smile growing, taking another step closer. “You do have a name?”
“Hillary Udell,” I stammered. “I have to go.” I walked down the last step, stumbling slightly, and across the fake beach. I saw Roger walk onto the porch and look around, possibly for me. He caught my eye, and I pointed in the direction of the International House, trying to force a smile on my face, so he would think I was okay, before turning back and walking on.
“Hey!” I heard Bradley yell behind me. “Where are you going?”
But I didn’t turn around to look at him, and thankfully, he didn’t follow me. I made it to the sidewalk and took off Bronwyn’s shoes, looping the heel straps over my wrists. The stars above were beautiful, the sky was amazingly clear, and I could smell the fire faintly, but I barely registered any of it.
I kept my head down, trying very hard not to think about anything but avoiding broken glass on the pavement, as I walked barefoot back to the dorm.
Mistakes become regrets.
—Carolina Liar
MARCH 11—THREE MONTHS EARLIER
I stood in front of Michael’s door and knocked. I straightened my skirt and pulled down the stretchy purple tank top that I’d borrowed from Julia back in November. I hadn’t been sure what to wear for this, but I’d figured that leaving very little to the imagination was probably the way to go. I’d changed out of the black dress I’d been wearing all day, from the funeral in the morning to the reception afterward. Even though it had been unusually hot all week, in the seventies, my mother had insisted that I wear black tights. Throughout the service, I’d concentrated on feeling how itchy they were, and how they made my legs feel compressed, so I wouldn’t have to hear anything that was being said.
Everyone had gathered at our house after the service, the living room filled with relatives, friends, colleagues, and my father’s thesis students looking uncomfortable in jackets and ties. The caterers walked around discreetly with passed appetizers that everyone grabbed at, as though food was one thing that was still understandable. Everyone clutched their drinks a little too tightly and talked in small groups, in low tones. My mother circled the room, making sure that everyone had food and drinks, directing the catering staff, replenishing the napkins, not really stopping to speak to anyone. It was as though she was simply organizing an event that had nothing whatsoever to do with her. Charlie had disappeared halfway through the reception and returned an hour later, glassy-eyed. I had stood in the kitchen, off to the side. I’d nodded and agreed with relatives and family friends who approached and told me what a terrible loss it was, and thanked them when they told me that I was bearing up well. I was just waiting to wake up from this surreal dream that I’d somehow landed in. Nothing seemed to be making sense. It was like a bomb had just gone off in the kitchen, and instead of cleaning up the rubble, people were stepping around it and eating mini-quiche.
But eventually everyone had trickled out, the last pair of headlights swung around the cul-de-sac, my mother had locked the front door, and the three of us were alone. We’d all ended up in the family room. My mother was sitting in her armchair, but for some reason looking very small in it, like it might swallow her up. Charlie was sitting in the middle of the couch, hunched over his knees, ripping threads off the cuffs of his navy suit jacket. I was standing against the back wall, looking down at my black heels. The last time I’d worn them—to the winter formal in January—I’d been dancing.
“So,” my mother said, and Charlie and I both turned to look at her. We hadn’t talked about it yet. There had been things to organize—the service, the reception, the relatives, the caterers. But now there was nothing left to take care of. I’d been waiting for her to do something since it happened. I didn’t even know what—to talk to me about it, or give me a hug, or just look me in the eyes. What I really wanted was for her to take charge, like she always did, and somehow make this okay again. To show us how we were going to get through it.
She glanced at Charlie, then at me, before looking away and standing up. “I’m going to bed,” she said, rubbing her neck. “You two should probably get some sleep as well. We’ve all had a long day.” She left the room without looking back at us, and I heard her steps, unusually slow, going up the stairs.
I stared at the door she’d left through, feeling a little bit like I’d been punched. I’d been waiting for her to fix this. I’d never even considered the possibility that she might not. I had no idea what to do now. Was it because it had been my fault? Was that why she was doing this—as a punishment?
I felt my throat tighten and I looked down at the floor, which was blurring in and out of focus as my eyes filled with tears that felt hot. I blinked them back, hard. I had a feeling that if I let myself start crying, there was a very real possibility I would never stop. The need to cry was so strong that it scared me, and I pushed back against it as hard as I could. I looked over at my brother. The days when we’d known everything about each other had ended years ago, but maybe there was a chance we could talk about this and acknowledge the fact that it had actually happened.
“Fuck this,” Charlie said, taking off his jacket and dropping it on the couch. He stood, heading for the front door, already loosening his tie. “I’m going out.”
“Where?” I asked, hearing how strangled—how needy—my voice sounded.
“Out,” he said, unlocking the door and pulling it open. “I have no fucking idea where.” He slammed the door behind him, and I felt myself flinch, even though I’d known it was coming.
Not sure what else to do, I crossed to the door and locked it. Then I picked up Charlie’s jacket from the couch to fold it. I could feel panic rising up inside me, the kind of nerves I would get before I went onstage, but these were somehow worse, stronger, and I could feel my heart beginning to pound. I put the jacket down, then picked it up again and crumpled it in my hands, wishing I was strong enough to tear it in two. Seeing what I was doing, I dropped the jacket again.
I knew couldn’t stay there. I needed to go somewhere, and do something, that would push this away for a while. I headed up to my room to change, taking the stairs two at a time. I was also going out. But unlike Charlie, I knew exactly where.
“Hey, pretty girl,” Michael said, opening the door and smiling. This was his name for me, what he’d started calling me after our first makeout session. I always just called him Michael. He was from Oregon, an inch taller than me, and always smelled faintly of Irish Spring.
“Hey,” I said, putting a smile on my face. “Can I come in?”
“Of course,” he said, opening the door wider. I stepped into the room he shared with Hugo, a German exchange student who kept his side of the room immaculate. Michael’s side was always a mess, his bed piled high with clothes and books. But those could easily be moved.
“Is Hugo here?” I asked.
“No,” said Michael, shutting the door. “He’s at a study group.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Look, I know I’m probably going to say the wrong thing here. But I’m really sorry, Amy.”
I nodded, as though these words meant something, as if they hadn’t just bounced off me. “Thanks,” I said, walking over to him. “I really appreciate that.” I slid my arms around his neck and kissed him, lightly at first, then more intensely. He kissed me back
, but then pulled away.
“Um,” he said. “Are you sure we should be … I mean, don’t you want to talk or something?”
“No,” I said. I was there to forget I wanted to talk, there so I would have something else to feel for a while. “It’s fine. I promise.” I kissed him again, just wanting to think about something else. Or not think about anything at all. And this was the perfect solution. I tugged at the bottom of his College of the West T-shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it on Hugo’s bed. And then, before I could change my mind or lose my nerve, I pulled my own tank top off.
“Wow,” Michael said, looking at me. “Um.” I struggled with my skirt’s zipper with fingers that were trembling slightly. But I got it undone and stepped out of it and stood facing him. “Really?” he asked, sounding incredulous.
“Absolutely,” I said, as though I was sure. And to prove it, I started kissing him again. We stumbled backward together until we hit his bed. I sat on the edge of it while Michael cleared it off hurriedly, then stepped out of his khakis and yanked off his tube socks. “The light?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even.
“Right, sure,” he said, crossing back to the door, locking it, then flipping the switch and throwing us both into the dark.
Have you ever been down to Colorado? I spend a lot of time there in my mind.
—Merle Haggard
I let myself in the front door of the International House. I wanted to go to Bronwyn’s room, clear a spot on the floor for myself, and go to sleep. I just wanted to close my eyes and make it all go away for a little while.
“Sullivan?” a voice called from the TV room. I paused, one foot on the stairs that would lead me to peace and quiet. “That you?” the voice asked, sounding a little desperate this time. I sighed, turned, and walked toward it.
Amy & Roger's Epic Detour Page 11