by Elle Kennedy
“Still got it.”
She looks pleased by that. “How about tomorrow night at Malone’s? Text me during the day to confirm?”
“Sounds great.”
“Perfect. See you then.” She squeezes my arm briefly, then hurries toward the same building Summer just disappeared into.
I guess I have a date tomorrow night.
13
Summer
As I get comfy in my seat in the History of Fashion lecture hall, I try to remind myself that I’m all about girl power. We live in a society where too many women tear each other down instead of raising each other up. That’s absurd to me. We need to empower one another, teach future generations of girls that it’s important to stand together. Once upon a time, we had a common goal and a common enemy. We were burning bras and fighting for the right to vote.
Now we’re body shaming each other on social media and blaming the mistress if our man cheats.
I don’t consider myself a radical feminist. I don’t believe men are evil demons from hell and should be purged from society—I think men have lots of good things to offer the world. Their dicks are fabulous, for one.
It would just be really nice if we could show some female solidarity like we used to.
But I know what’s stopping us: jealousy. We’re too frigging envious of each other, and envy is such a crippling feeling. It causes us to say things and behave in ways that we’re secretly ashamed of, or at least I am. I regret nearly all the things I’ve said and done out of jealousy. I’ve also been on the receiving end of it from other girls. Some of them resented me for my looks. Others assumed I was going to be a bitch to them because of said looks, so they attacked first.
In spite of that, I’ve always tried to keep a smile on my face and be nice to everyone, even the haters. Ironically, a lot of the haters in high school ended up good friends of mine once they stopped linking me to their own insecurities.
So yes, I’m pro girl power. Ladies doing it for themselves. I am woman, hear me roar.
Yet I hate this girl Nora with the heat of a thousand suns.
She was talking to Fitz before class. Now she’s sitting with two other chicks, talking about Fitz. I know her name is Nora because one of her friends called her that, and since I’m only two rows behind them, every word she utters floats toward me, clear as a bell.
“…just so cool. And wicked smart. And he’s so talented. You should see his paintings.”
“Doesn’t hurt that he’s hot as fuck,” her friend teases her.
“Those tats,” the other friend sighs.
I guess they’ve all seen Fitz’s tats somehow? I now loathe the friends too.
“So hot,” Nora says, pretending to fan herself.
And I’m so ready to accidentally throw something at her, because she’s so annoying with her overuse and overemphasis of the word so.
“We’re having drinks tomorrow night.”
The flames of hatred in my stomach are doused with an icy bucket of reality.
He asked her out?
“Holy crap, this date is finally happening?” One of the friends claps with delight.
“Yes! I’m so excited.”
Okay. So Fitz invited her on a date. She’s pretty, has a great sense of style. Why shouldn’t he go out with her?
And why should it bother me if he does?
Because…
Because, well, because she’s obviously a bitch. I don’t want Fitz going out with a bitch.
She’s not a bitch. That’s your jealousy talking.
No, I stubbornly argue with myself. She absolutely gave me a couple of dirty looks before she joined her friends. I didn’t imagine that. So there’s some bitch in her, at least.
And there’s a lot of bitch in you right now.
“Fuck off,” I order myself.
A few seats down in my row, a guy with longish black hair shifts his head in my direction. He arches a bushy eyebrow at me.
I raise my hand in a friendly wave. “Just ignore me. I’ve decided I’m going to be the crazy lady who talks to herself in class.”
He laughs. “Noted.”
Nora turns at the sound of my voice, narrows her eyes, and then turns back.
I hate her.
You’re being insane.
“Did we not just determine that I’ve chosen a path of insanity?” I say out loud, though mostly it’s to mess with my row-mate.
Bushy Eyebrows glances over again. “Oh wow. You weren’t kidding.”
I grin. “I’m done now. I promise.”
In front of me, Nora’s friends are grilling her for more details about her impending date.
“Just drinks?”
“Just drinks,” she confirms. “Do you honestly think I’d ever agree to a first-date dinner after Eight-Course Ethan?”
The girls break out in laughter. “Oh my God! I forgot about him!”
I tune them out as they reminisce about the time Nora got stuck on an expensive, four-hour dinner date when she was ready to bail before the first course. It’s an entertaining story, but I’m too busy trying to combat my unwanted jealousy.
Fitz can date whomever he wants. Besides, I have no right to be jealous. I cuddled with Hunter the other night. Granted, we didn’t do anything but spoon, but it felt nice lying there with a warm male body pressed up against me. And if Hunter had made a move, I can’t say with absolute certainty that I wouldn’t have reciprocated.
The doors at the base of the lecture hall swing open, interrupting my thoughts. The man who enters the room needs no introduction, yet he still approaches the podium and greets us as if none of us have ever picked up a fashion magazine.
“Good morning! I’m Erik Laurie and I’m sorry to inform you that you will be enduring my unbearable presence for the next four months.”
Laughter ripples through the hall.
“Just joshing,” he says with a hearty chuckle. “I’m a fucking delight.”
I smile along with everyone else in the room. He’s establishing himself as the cool, fun prof right off the bat. I like that. He also looks a lot younger than his photos. Possibly because he usually sports a thick blond beard in those pictures, and today he’s completely clean-shaven, revealing the baby face underneath.
I know he’s in his mid-thirties, though. And his fashion sense is so on point I almost purr out loud. The clothes are Marc Jacobs—I recognize the retro blazer from Marc’s fall collection. The shoes…Tom Ford, I think. I’d have to get a closer look to be sure.
“Welcome to the History of Fashion, ladies and gentlemen.”
His voice is smooth and velvety, turning every girl’s face into a real-life heart-eyes emoji. For some reason, he doesn’t have the same effect on me. Objectively, Laurie is an attractive man, but something about his angular, symmetrical face doesn’t do it for me.
Our new professor doesn’t miss the female attention he’s garnering. He winks at two girls in the front row as he rests his forearms on the podium. For the next ten minutes, he lists his impressive credentials, not revealing anything I didn’t already know.
He’s had an insanely prolific career for his relatively young age, and it’s evident he has a genuine passion for what he does. When he’s done reciting his résumé, he talks about what we can expect from his course. We’ll be examining the global influence of fashion, how it’s taken shape over the years, and how certain eras and historical events have impacted the concept and implementation of style.
Laurie has a way of speaking that captures your attention. He tells us that rather than a formal lecture, today he just wants to “chat” about why we love fashion and who inspires us. He kicks it off by confessing that his idol growing up was Ralph Lauren, then proceeds to spend five full minutes fan-girling about Lauren.
After he’s done, he passes the torch to us. Bushy Eyebrows, who introduces himself as Ben, surprises me by proclaiming his love for Versace. Judging by his hobo-chic style, I would’ve pegged him as an Alexander McQuee
n enthusiast. But Ben goes on and on about Versace until our prof finally grins and asks for another volunteer.
Since I’ve never had any problems speaking in class, I raise my hand.
Laurie studies me from the podium. “And your name is?”
“It’s Summer.”
“No, sweetheart, it’s winter. Have you not looked outside?”
Nora and her friends titter behind their hands. A few other students giggle as well. Me, I roll my eyes, an action that brings another grin to Laurie’s face.
“Get that joke a lot, eh?” He waves a hand. “All right. Tell us who inspires you.”
I answer without hesitation. “Chanel.”
“Ah, yes.” He nods his approval. “Gabrielle Bonheur Chanel. Also known as Coco. Do you know how she got the nickname, Winter?”
Cue more giggles.
I’m not sure how I feel about Professor Comedian, especially since he keeps flipping between two personalities. One second he’s suave and confident, the next he’s Mr. I’m Just Gonna Crack Jokes Because I’m One of You!
It’s disorienting.
“She got the nickname when she was a cabaret singer,” I answer. “She tried to make a go of it as an actress, failed, and went into fashion.”
“Finding unimaginable success,” he concludes.
“That’s one of the reasons I love her. When her original plans fell through, she didn’t give up. She chose a different path, succeeded, and became an icon. Her brand has been around for nearly a century. It survived the Second World War—”
“Yeah, because she was a Nazi collaborator,” Nora pipes up in a snide voice.
I ball my fists and press them to my thighs. Is she for real right now? Interrupting me so she can insult a fashion legend?
“And you are?” Laurie prompts.
“Nora Ridgeway.” She shrugs. “And it’s common knowledge that Chanel was shady. Documents that were recently declassified speculate her wartime activities were downright despicable.”
Our professor does not disagree. “Yes, that is what’s being alleged. And when she reentered the fashion world after the war, there was indeed a lot of anger about these claims. Yet the brand recovered.” He tips his head. “Why do we think that is, Summer?”
“Because…she…” I bite my lip in thought. “Because she was fashion. She pioneered the little black dress, for Pete’s sake. People accused her of being too conservative, but honestly I think she revolutionized the industry. She showed the world that fashion isn’t just about wearing a nice dress or tailored suit to a dinner party—it’s a way of life.” I pause, scanning my memory. “There was this famous quote of hers about how fashion is everywhere—‘It’s in the sky and in the streets, it’s in how we live and what we do.’ That’s a philosophy I believe in.”
He nods. Many of my classmates are nodding too. Nora, however, scowls at me over her shoulder and then stiffly faces the room again.
Whatever. I don’t care if she doesn’t like me. She tried to make me look like a fool for respecting Chanel, and it backfired on her. Tough shit.
“Very well said,” Laurie tells me before sweeping his gaze over the room. “Who’s next? I want to know who inspires you.”
The next hour flies by, and I’m less than thrilled when we’re dismissed. I was dreading this moment, even more so now because I know I impressed Erik Laurie. I really don’t want him to lose all that good will toward me when I tell him about my learning issues.
As I navigate the aisle, I hear Nora speaking to her friend. “I’ll meet you outside. I want to tell him what a huge fan I am.”
Oh great. Now if I go talk to him, Nora will think I’m trying to one-up her.
“Summer,” Laurie calls from the front of the room. “A quick word?”
Okay. At least it doesn’t look like I’m the one initiating the contact.
But I think this might be worse.
Nora stops in her tracks. Her eyes burn into my back like hot coals as I hurriedly descend the steps.
“It’s nice to officially meet you.” Smiling, he extends a hand.
I give it a shake. “Nice to meet you too, Professor Laurie.”
“Call me Erik.”
“Oh. Um. We might need to work up to that. I feel weird first-naming authority figures.”
He chuckles. “Fair enough. How about Mr. L until you warm up to Erik?” He winks at me, and his tone holds a flirtatious note, but I’m starting to think this is just him being friendly. I saw him winking at several other girls throughout the lecture.
“Mr. L, it is.” I hesitate, readying myself for the awkward part. “I don’t know if you had a chance to speak to Mr. Richmond. He’s serving as my academic advisor this year.”
“I did, actually. Rest assured, he advised me about your learning difficulties, and I do plan on sitting down with you to discuss it further. But we’ll need to do that during office hours.” He studies me for a moment. “I was impressed with you this morning. You’re a very eloquent speaker.”
“And a very terrible writer.”
“Hey, you could say that about plenty of individuals. And there are ways around it. Like I said, we’ll talk during office hours, but I do believe I can make alternate arrangements for you. Perhaps a lower word count for the midterm, supplemented by an oral element?”
A tiny smile lifts the corners of his mouth at the word oral. I know he’s referring to an oral presentation, but the accompanying smile triggers my ick meter. Either he’s skirting a dangerous line between his authority and his female students, or he’s just overly friendly. I really hope it’s the latter.
“You can check the department website for my availability, but I think the sooner we sit down and hammer this out, the better.”
“I agree.”
He reaches out and squeezes my hand. “And, please, continue to speak out in class the way you did today. I appreciate students who are as passionate as I am about this topic.”
Another wink.
Or maybe he’s not winking, and that’s just his eye? Is there a possibility that this is how he blinks, one eye at a time? I have no clue, and I don’t care to find out. Nora is still glaring at me. And Laurie is still holding my hand.
I awkwardly slide my palm out of his grip. “I’ll do my best. And I’ll check your office hours when I get home. Thanks, sir—I mean, Mr. L.”
“That’s better.”
He winks. Or blinks. Who the fuck knows.
I practically sprint toward the exit, ignoring Nora’s thunderous expression.
Outside, I shiver from the cold as I pile all my winter clothes on. I didn’t want to do it in the lecture hall under Laurie’s gaze. The man might be a legend in the fashion world, and he did seem nice enough, but I got such a weird vibe from him.
Ugh. I don’t know. Maybe I’m reading too much into it.
Since this was my only class for the day, I’m free as a bird, so I text Brenna asking if she’s on campus. She’s quick to answer.
BRENNA: Library
ME: Just finished class. Wanna grab lunch at the diner?
BRENNA: Yessss. Come get me?
ME: Kk. 10 min
ME: Be prepared to discuss MH or I won’t let you in my car!
This time, there’s a delay in her response. Shocking. I texted her a bunch of times yesterday begging her to tell me exactly what happened between her and Hollis, but she refused to discuss it.
BRENNA: MH?
Seriously? She’s going to play dumb?
ME: Mike Hollis. AKA king of the bros. I want all the deets today or else this friendship is over.
BRENNA: I’ll miss u
ME: You think I’m bluffing? I’ve cut friends off for not tagging me in Insta posts. I’m ruthless, Bee.
BRENNA: Don’t believe u
ME: Arggghhh! Come on, please?? I can’t take it anymore. I must find out 1) his dick size and 2) WTF WERE U THINKING
After another long pause, she responds with: Fine. You win.
Despite my threats, I don’t push Brenna to talk about Hollis during the drive to Hastings. We discuss our classes instead, and I confess that I’m feeling a tad uneasy about my professor.
“I got a pervy vibe from him,” I say as I search for street parking.
“What’s his name?”
“Erik Laurie.”
“Never heard of him.”
There’s no reason why she would, unless she follows the fashion world closely, which I know she doesn’t. I give her a quick rundown of his credentials before describing the chronic winking.
“Maybe he doesn’t understand the concept?” she suggests. “Like, to him, winking could be another form of smiling. So if you give him a compliment, he says Thanks! Wink. And when he greets people, he goes, Nice to meet you! Wink.”
I bite my lip to stop from laughing. “Are you fucking with me right now?”
“Of course I am. Nobody is that dumb. Winking is flirting. Everyone knows that.”
“So he was flirting with me?”
“Probably?” She rolls her eyes. “And if you try to tell me this is the first time a prof has ever flirted with you, I won’t believe you.”
“No, it’s happened before,” I admit. “But I wasn’t expecting it from this one. He’s so respected in the industry.”
Her loud snort echoes in the car. “Right. Because well-respected men can’t possibly be douchebags. Do we need to have a talk about the current climate in Hollywood?”
“No, let’s not go there.” I find a spot and squeeze my Audi into it.
Five minutes later, we’re seated across from each other in one of the retro, red vinyl booths. Brenna orders a coffee, black. I order a mint tea with lemon. Somehow that sums up this friendship of ours. Appearance wise, I’m all about light colors and nude makeup, while Brenna prefers smoky eyes and black everything. In terms of personality, I’m more carefree, she’s edgier, but we’re both a little nuts. It’s a hoe-mance for the ages.