by Nicki Elson
“We won’t.” Kate grabbed Jen’s hands to keep her upright. “Please. I won’t go without you.” Kate rarely went out with the girls, and she really did need this, probably more than Jen. Jen couldn’t say no to that pitiful, beautiful face.
“Fine,” Jen relented.
“Yay!” Kate suddenly didn’t look quite so pathetic. “And don’t worry—Dave won’t be where we’re going.”
“Where’re we going?” Jen asked.
“The Ritz!” Chris shouted as she connected Jen’s phone with the speaker on her dresser and blasted the Pitch Perfect soundtrack.
Jen smiled. The Ritz wasn’t her favorite place, but Dave definitely wouldn’t be there. It was strictly a dance club—no punk allowed.
Chris pulled out various blouses from Jen’s closet, shouting over the music, “We’re raiding each other’s closets!”
Jen’s room became a flurry of mini-skirts and off-the-shoulder sweaters. They dug heels from the back of their closets. While the girls teased and flat-ironed their hair, Maria called Tom. Jen heard her say, “Sorry, hon, girls’ night.” She slammed down her phone and ran for a bottle of Malibu rum, which the girls passed around, taking swigs as they got ready.
“Let’s call a cab,” Kate suggested. “We’ll never make it there in these heels. Especially not with our rum buzz.”
“Tom’ll drive us.” Maria picked up her phone and called her boyfriend again. Twenty minutes later, he picked them up and drove them to the Ritz. As they piled out of the car, Maria told him not to wait up—they’d call a cab to take them home.
“Have fun, girls,” Tom said. “But not too much fun.” He raised an eyebrow at Maria.
As he drove away and the girls stepped through the door, Maria announced, “Get ready boys—here we come!”
Their first stop was the large, three-sided bar, where Chris ordered four Blow Job shots. How apropos, Jen thought, forcibly reminded of her last night with Dave.
The bartender set four shot glasses of pale, chocolate-colored liquor in front of the girls and topped each one with a large dollop of foamy whipped-cream. Jen inhaled deeply before tightening her lips around her glass and lifting it into the air with no hands. She downed the sweet, sticky liquid in one gulp and placed the glass back on the bar using nothing but mouth. Chris and Maria met with similar success, but poor Kate wasn’t as practiced as the other girls and struggled with her shot. She’d only managed to skim off the top portion of the whipped cream when the glass slipped out of her mouth and slammed back onto the bar.
Jen came to the rescue. “Leave it to me—I’m a professional.” She sucked down Kate’s shot, receiving applause from a group of guys across the bar.
The girls agreed to take turns buying shots throughout the night. This way, they could maintain their buzz without having to hold drinks while they danced. In between Slammers and Sex on the Beach, they boogied to extended dance versions of Lady Gaga, Frankie Goes to Hollywood, New Order, and God help them—Justin Bieber.
During their trips to the bar, the girls acquired a fan club. A group of slightly older-looking guys had staked out a section of the concrete counter. Since the bar was shaped like a U, they had a perfect view of the girls whenever they came back for another round of shots, and they cheered each time. During the girls’ fourth trip to the bar, one of the guys called across the open space that this round was on him.
“Four sets of Slippery Nipples,” he shouted to the bartender.
Kate had given up on the shots and merely took a small sip before passing hers to Jen.
“We should go thank them,” Maria said after they’d down the creamy, licorice flavored drinks. The other three followed her around the bar. The guys introduced themselves as graduate students at CIU. Kate cut the conversation short, saying she had to go to the bathroom. She’d given each of her friends a pointed, wide-eyed look that said she expected them to join her.
They bypassed the line for the stalls, going straight to the mirrors, where out of habit they reached automatically for their lip glosses. “You know those guys are more likely Townies here to scam on undergrads, right?” Kate said. “I mean, how many graduate students do you know who go out to dance clubs unshaven and wearing flannel shirts?”
“Have you not noticed Tom’s new beard?” Maria asked. “Facial hair is in.”
Kate shook her head. “Tom’s beard is nicely manicured. These guys look more like they either lack hygiene or their razors are rusty.” She gave a dramatic shiver. “You had to have picked up on their lower-Illinois drawl.”
“People from Central Illinois go to grad school,” Jen said.
“Sheesh, Kate. I think your fancy lawyer boyfriend has turned you into a snob,” Chris added.
“Believe what you want.” Kate peered into the mirror, giving her pale blond bangs a fluff with her long fingernails. “I’m just telling you to be careful.”
The girls left the bathroom and headed up the spiral staircase to the upper level. Jen gripped the railing and tried not to look down as she circled upward. Her head swam. Not only had she been drinking double shots because of Kate, she hadn’t eaten anything for dinner.
The foursome pushed their way to the balcony railing and watched the dance floor. Their fan club at the bar craned their necks to keep their eyes dutifully on the girls. Kate sniffed and looked away while Jen blew the guys a kiss. Chris let out a high-pitched screech when the DJ played a song from the soundtrack they’d been singing along with while they’d dressed at the apartment. She pulled down on Jen’s and Maria’s shoulders, yanking them back from the railing as she formed a one-woman kick line.
She flung her leg into the air, and her shoe—a size too big because it was, in fact, Jen’s—flew off, over the rail and fell onto the pulsating dance floor. Chris screamed, and the other girls doubled over in laughter until Jen, getting a good look at Chris’ remaining shoe, remembered it’d been raided from her closet. Even worse, it was from the pair she’d purchased at the local mall to wear at her brother’s upcoming wedding.
Jen shot up straight and scurried down the spiral steps, taking deep, cleansing breaths along the way. Barreling through the dancers on the floor, she reached the area where she thought she’d seen her shoe disappear. She crouched and searched, trying to avoid getting smacked in the head by gyrating hips. She saw it, just a few feet away. Enthusiastic dancers stomped and swayed dangerously close, threatening to crush it. Jen lunged to the ground, reaching out and grasping the prize. She rested back on her knees, clutching the strappy heeled sandal to her chest and breathing a sigh of relief.
Rising back to standing in the middle of the press of moving bodies proved difficult. Her inebriation didn’t help. Neither did her extra tight, extra short mini-skirt. She was about to grab onto the dancer next to her for support when she detected a swatch of green flannel moving toward her. A man broke through the dancers and held out a hand. Jen gaped at him and stayed kneeling on the ground, holding the shoe up toward him as if to explain why she was down there. It was all very Cinderella.
Jen grabbed onto his strong hand, and he pulled her up in the middle of the dance floor. “Want to dance now that we’re out here?” he asked. A new song was melding into the end of the current one.
“Sure. Your one a’ the bar guys—Sippery Nipples?” Jen slurred.
“Uh-huh.” He nodded.
Jen looked at him while they danced, closing one eye to bring him into better focus. He was sort of cute. She rubbed a hand against the whiskers on one side of his face. “I think you’re manicured.” She giggled. “Man-icured.”
He quirked an eyebrow and one corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. Jen noticed a gray T-shirt peeking out from under his flannel shirt.
“Are you hot?” she asked, raising her voice above the music.
“I don’t know,” he replied, his smirk widening. “What do you think?”
“I think yur hot.” Jen was too drunk to catch his innuendo and fumbled with the buttons on his
outer shirt. “Take this off.”
He finished unbuttoning his shirt and peeled it away. Then he wrapped it around Jen’s waist, using it to pull her up against him. A thousand spots of light swirled all around them, but Jen paid them no attention as she pressed against the stranger on the dance floor.
Jen half yelled into his ear, “How’d you know I needed you? With th’ shoe?”
“I’ve been watching you, sugar. C’mon, let me buy you another drink.”
He led Jen off the dance floor and took her to a corner of the bar, away from his friends. Jen noticed him nod to the other guys, so she waved. They snickered and waved back. Her dance partner placed a hand at the small of her back and didn’t take it off. “How about sex on the bar?” he asked.
“Wha’?”
“I mean, Sex on the Beach,” he corrected with a smirk.
“I’ve had that a’ready,”
“Oh, right. How about a real drink, then?” He waved over the bartender. “She’ll have a Long Island Iced Tea.”
The bartender mixed seven shots of who knows what and handed her the deluxe beverage in a curved glass. Jen was thirsty and the drink was sweet and delicious, so she drank it down. Her head spun. The only things that cut through the spinning and into her awareness were the pumping beat of the music and the hand on her back. She knew she’d come with friends but didn’t have any idea where they were. Apparently, this hand was going to take care of her now. At least that’s what the voice that was attached to the hand told her as the hand directed her toward the door.
The night air felt miraculous on Jen’s face as they stepped outside. She breathed it in and tried to get her bearings.
“My car’s right over here, sugar,” the voice coaxed.
Jen turned to see where the voice had come from. A bright light from one of the parking lot lamps caught her straight in the eye, throwing off her equilibrium. Without warning, a boiling cauldron of bile rushed up her esophagus and out of her mouth. She spewed the rancid contents of her stomach all over the body belonging to the voice.
“Aw, nasty!” the voice shouted.
Jen’s throat burned. A light breeze blew toward her, bringing with it the pungent aroma of her vomit. She fell to her hands and knees on the rough asphalt and coughed. Her mouth filled with saliva. She stayed prostrate, spitting on the ground and fighting not to collapse.
“Fuckin’ hell!” the voice yelled as it faded away in the distance.
Jen felt hands on both of her arms pull her up.
“Oh, sweetie,” said a sympathetic voice that sounded familiar. Kate.
“Yeah, you better get the fuck out of here!” shouted another familiar voice. Maria.
“Asshole!” screeched another, followed by the sound of something flying through the air and clattering to the ground in the distance. Chris.
Someone said, “Let’s get you home.”
The next thing Jen was aware of was a wicked vice squeezing her skull the following morning. She winced as she gingerly walked down the hall to the kitchen to take ibuprofen and gulp down a huge glass of water. Her body felt vaguely sore all over. At least her stomach didn’t feel too bad. Vomiting the night before had rid her body of most of the poisons. Still, she chewed on a chalky, cherry flavored antacid. Padding into the living room, she collapsed onto the armchair and stayed there for the rest of the day, lacking the energy to mourn Dave.
Chapter 8
Despite the nasty hangovers and embarrassing public behavior, Jen kept the party rolling over the next few weeks. She didn’t go out every night, but often enough. After the episode at the Ritz, she avoided shots and no longer accepted drinks from strange men, but she still managed to get pretty ridiculous. Why have one drink when she could have ten?
Her initial buzz usually led her into one of three directions—either she’d feel stupid for having thought that Dave actually liked her, or she’d get angry at Dave for using her and at herself for letting him, or worst of all, she’d scan the bar, willing Dave to appear and beam a smile at her and explain that it had all been a misunderstanding. She’d then pound several more drinks in an effort to kill whichever of these moods had struck her. Even though the alcohol only exacerbated whatever she was feeling, and even though she’d often end up dissolved into a pile of nonsensical tears at the end of the evening, she’d repeat the process the very next time she went out.
During a sober moment after class one day, Jen crossed paths with Tom in the hallway of her apartment building. He huffed past her and barely grumbled a hello. When she stepped into the apartment, Maria stood by the kitchen counter with swollen eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Jen asked.
“Nothing,” Maria said in a higher pitch than usual. “Allergies. I’m going to go lay down for a while.” She disappeared into her room, slamming the door shut.
Jen wondered if she should go after her, but then noticed her roommate’s iPad on the counter. The screen was on and across it was an image from the girls’ spring break trip the previous year. It was of Maria in a cozy—and incriminating—position with Mr. Margarita, the hottie she’d hooked up with in Daytona. Jen flicked through more pictures: Maria leaning against him; him with his iron arms wrapped around her shoulders; Maria rubbing lotion into his perfect pectorals.
Jen wondered why Maria would’ve kept the pictures at all, much less in a place so easily discoverable. Poor Tom, Jen thought. As far as she knew, Maria had told the truth when she’d said Mr. Margarita was a final fling. Though an incurable flirt, she’d been faithful to her boyfriend except for that one time. Jen didn’t see anything to gain by Tom finding out about this now, a year after the fact.
Maria eventually emerged from her room in a somber, reclusive mood. Jen didn’t ask about the photos, and Maria didn’t explain. Jen told Kate what had happened, and the two of them kept a tentative eye on Maria for the next few days. Maria pretended not to notice the weird way they looked at her.
The incident sank Jen further into her downer on love. When she returned to her parents’ house for spring break amid the flurry of her brother’s wedding, she could only view the upcoming event with a cynical eye. She felt lucky to have escaped most of the pre-wedding preparations, but there was no escaping the bridesmaid dress. It actually wasn’t horrible—a floor-length, melon-colored, strapless gown—but there was still no chance she’d be caught dead wearing it again. The rhinestones at the waist assured that.
The dress’ best feature was that it extended past her knees, covering the lingering remnants of the nasty scrapes she’d acquired on the brutal asphalt outside the Ritz. She’d had to buy a new pair of shoes when she’d gotten home. The one she’d rescued on the dance floor had gotten left behind, and there was no way she’d go back and ask for it. The Ritz was off her list of places she’d ever go again.
As Jen examined herself in the full-length mirror on the morning of the wedding, she wondered for a brief second what Dave would’ve thought of the dress—or more accurately, what he’d have thought of her in it. She couldn’t believe that only a few weeks ago, she’d toyed with the idea of inviting him as her date to the wedding.
The ceremony was long and boring, and the reception was headed in pretty much the same direction. Jen’s face hurt from smiling at all of her long-lost relatives, whose names she struggled to remember. In her romantically fragile state, she wasn’t the least bit tempted to scope out any of her brother’s friends. Even if she’d been interested, that would’ve waned the moment they started group singing and wearing their ties around their heads—frat boys to the end.
Jen was still barely under the legal drinking age, but the bartender wasn’t carding. Her dad said she could have one of something her mother had called a Fuzzy Naval. After Jen’s third drink, she still felt no effect from the alcohol. Her tolerance level had grown beyond a few ounces of peach schnapps. She asked the bartender if he had anything stronger that looked like a Fuzzy Naval.
“Ever had a Hairy Naval?” he asked.
“It’s a Fuzzy Naval with a shot of vodka,” he explained when Jen didn’t answer right away.
“Set me up,” Jen commanded. “Go heavy on the hair.”
When Kelly Clarkson’s voice belted out of DJ’s speakers, she grabbed her drink from the bartender and slammed it one huge gulp, then dashed to the dance floor. The kiss-off lyrics of the song echoed the attitude she wanted to adapt toward Dave. After that song ended, she stayed to dance with a couple of the other bridesmaids to UB40’s reggae-esque version of “Red Red Wine.” Its drink-to-forget sentiment more closely matched her current state. The melancholy rhythm bled into the first disco beats of Sister Sledge. From out of nowhere, the rest of the bridesmaids descended upon her, hooking arms. They formed a circle around the bride, singing “We are Family” at the top of their lungs.
Jen attempted to escape further assaults on what was left of her dignity by hiding out with some of the older guests at a table far, far away from the dance floor. The group included a few of her mother’s bowling league friends and a couple of aunts, including Jen’s godmother, Aunt Lou. Jen adored her godmother. She was funny and down-to-earth and never took anything too seriously.
“Darling!” Aunt Lou greeted Jen in her rich, gravelly voice. Jen leaned in to give her a kiss on the cheek, sitting down in the empty chair next to her. “Everyone, this is my beautiful, wonderful goddaughter, Jenny.”
“Everyone calls me Jen now, Aunt Lou, and I already know everyone here. But they may not have known that I was lucky enough to have you as a godmother.”
“Aw, honey.” Aunt Lou patted Jen’s hand before turning and shouting to her son. “Kenny! Get us more drinks!” She turned to Jen. “What’re you having, honey?”
“Hairy Navel,” Jen answered.
“Ooh, sounds good. Kenny! Two Hairy Navels!”
Jen didn’t know what the ladies had been talking about before she’d arrived, but their attention turned immediately to the fresh blood. They fired the usual barrage of questions at her: