of this text. Some part of him is interested in me. Maybe he felt the same energy I did the other day in the break room. Maybe his knee on mine was on purpose after all.
“You have to go to the party,” Danielle says.
“I can’t go to a college party,” I say immediately. “I don’t even like high school parties.” I feel like a pent-up ball of energy—like I need to jump or scream or run around the room.
“Your parents already think you’re sleeping over at my house, so you have no excuse.” Danielle types a response.
Maybe. I don’t know how late I’ll be. What’s the address?
He answers almost immediately.
415 Maplewood Ave. Don’t bring your date. I want you all to myself
“And that’s how it’s done.” Danielle drops the phone onto the rug. “Let’s get ready.” She stands up and begins rummaging through her closet. “I know I have something perfect in here for all of us.”
“Wait, all of us?” I ask, a sinking feeling creeping into my stomach.
Danielle turns back to me and rolls her eyes. “You don’t think I’m going to let you go to this party by yourself, do you? You’ll get eaten alive.”
“College party!” Ava squeals, running over to the closet, her boobs bouncing with every jump. I feel my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with the Chinese food.
ELEVEN
DANIELLE LIVES RIGHT by the west end of campus, only a few blocks away from the EVmU pool and track. When we look up Dean’s address and find out it’s walking distance, it feels like it’s meant to be. And yet the walk is not easy or pleasant because Danielle has dressed us all in heels—sparkling, sequined, five-inch monsters.
Ava has put on two bras—a sports bra over her everyday push-up bra, so her boobs are hoisted to her chin, her tiny frame overpowered by cleavage. I refused to wear a short skirt like the others, and Danielle eventually relented and let me wear my jeans on the condition that I borrow one of her bras and lacy black crop tops. My stomach is more exposed than it’s ever been, and the air feels chilly against my skin. Still, the cold stomach is nothing compared to the feet. My feet are a half size smaller than Danielle’s, so they’re slipping and sliding in the torture shoes and rubbing in all the worst ways.
“This is what everyone wears,” Danielle hisses when I complain. “I’ve been going to frat parties since birth. Deal with it.”
“Yeah, everybody calm down,” Ava says, even though her complaints about being cold have been our steady soundtrack for the last twenty minutes.
Hannah did my makeup tonight for the party, keeping it simple like I requested—just eyeliner, mascara, and a touch of lip gloss, which feels sticky and tastes like cotton candy. My hair is in soft waves, curling down my back. I have to admit I feel . . . pretty. Pretty, but not myself.
We turn down Maplewood Ave. and pass some grad student housing, a convenience store, and a few fraternity houses, their yards scattered with the debris of old parties—red cups, destroyed cardboard beer cases, a Slip ’N Slide that looks frozen solid. There are a few guys outside in the yard, and I automatically fold my arms over my stomach, trying to hide myself. Someone whistles as we walk by, and Danielle flips her hair over her shoulder, looking back at the frat guys with a smile.
We stop at the end of the street and I check the address.
“I think this is it. 415 Maplewood.”
The house is white and slightly run-down, peeling paint and scattered trash. There’s a faint thump of music coming from inside and a murmur of voices, too quiet to understand.
“Were we supposed to bring something?” I ask no one in particular, an overwhelming sense of anxiety filling me.