The Trouble With Quarterbacks

I’m prepared to let my bad mood ruin the entire night when I feel my mobile vibrate on my lap.

I glance down to read the text, and my stomach flips upside down.

LOGAN: Hey C. What kind of chips do you like? I’m buying snacks for the party.It’s a silly question, and I wonder—or hope, rather—if he’s only asking because he wants to ensure I’ll actually be there. He texted yesterday with the address and time, but it looked so generic, like maybe he sent the same text to all his mates, so I only sent back a thumbs-up emoji in reply.

But this text is personal, and it makes me smile. He’s called me C like we’re old pals! I take my lower lip between my teeth and text him back right away.

CANDACE: Salt and vinegar, please! And they’re called crisps, by the way. ;) Chips are what you get with a burger at a restaurant.LOGAN: Seriously? Could you be more un-American?CANDACE: Should I just don an American flag cape for the party? Maybe walk in with a twelve-pack of Bud Light on one shoulder and a bald eagle perched on the other?LOGAN: Give me a second to regroup. That’s quite the image…CANDACE: Ha ha. Too bad! Don’t go fantasizing. I’ve already got my dress on and it doesn’t have blue and white stripes. It’s red.LOGAN: Red, huh?CANDACE: I can practically see you salivating. You’ve got a bit of drool on your chin, I bet.LOGAN: Can’t help it…red’s my favorite color.The cab pulls up to our building then and we hustle up the flight of stairs to our flat. I don’t get the chance to text Logan back because I’m too busy morphing into the version of myself who belongs in this fancy red dress. Yasmine goes wild with my hair, curling it and teasing it and then combing through it so it’s this mass of blonde waves when all’s said and done. I take so long applying my makeup that they start shouting for me to hurry up.

“We’re already late! At this rate, we’ll arrive just in time to help the lads clean up!” Kat warns.

“I’m coming!” I shout back, leaning in close to confirm my eyeliner is perfectly symmetrical on both eyes. I can’t take any chances. It feels absolutely necessary. Then I swipe on some red lipstick—something I never bother with, but tonight it’s perfect. It makes my lips look edible.

I’m buzzing in the back of the cab as we traverse Manhattan from our lowly borough to some otherworldly area where the streets are treelined and the flowerbeds are well manicured. Logan’s apartment is going to knock my socks off. I know, because the doorman of his building is wearing white gloves and a little boxy hat as he ushers us in like we’re royalty. He only lets us pass because we’ve told him we’re here for Logan’s party, and he has to check a list to confirm our names are printed there. They are! WILD! WHAT KIND OF PLACE IS THIS?! Another attendant guides us through the lobby toward a bank of lifts. He holds a keycard up to an invisible panel on the lift wall and then the doors glide shut. I feel absolutely out of my element.

“Is this real? People live like this?”

“Some people,” Yasmine says, fidgeting with her hair. She grew up with wealth, sure, but nothing like this. This lift is probably inlaid with real gold and the blood of extinct leopards or something. It whisks us higher, away from the city and toward Mount Olympus, or so it feels.

Once we’re on the twentieth floor, the doors slide open and here we are: out in a hallway with a single door that’s propped open for guests. It leads right into the penthouse flat.

I see an absolute crush of people inside as we stroll closer. My heels carry me across the marble foyer as I hug my coat tighter around my red dress, but then Kat notices and her eyes widen.

“Off. Take it off. Quick!”

The coat gets yanked off immediately, and Kat takes it along with hers and sort of shoves them under her arm. Smart move, really, because when we walk in and see the guests, it’s obvious my checkered coat wouldn’t have really blended in. There’re proper celebrities here—ones I know by name! There are beautiful women popping up around every corner, all dressed in slinky numbers or barely-there tops and skirts.

I think that girl there is a pop star I like, or maybe she just looks like a pop star? I can’t be certain.

Before we make it past the front hall, we pass off our coats to an attendant, and our mobiles too after they demand it. Apparently, famous people have to worry about normal people like us snapping photos they don’t want leaked to the press. I comply right away, partly because I understand their reasoning and partly because the attendant looks quite intimidating. I don’t want him thinking I’m trying to break the rules or anything.