Sweet Little Nothing

She shrugs. “Good enough. Do you need to shower?”

“I’m good,” I say, having showered this morning. Plus, I can use the free time to do some research for my psych paper, since I’m doing the work of two people.

An hour later, Stella emerges from the bathroom looking like a Victoria’s Secret model with her blonde hair styled in soft, beachy waves and her face made up in a way where it’s hard to tell if she’s wearing makeup or is simply blessed with perfect skin.

All I have to show for my sixty minutes is a sizable list of source documents to hunt down in the library and online.

“Do you want me to do your hair?” she asks, but I wave her off.

“Nah, I’ve got it. You finish getting ready.”

I plug my flatiron in and begin the process of smoothing out my long, thick, nearly waist-length hair. Once it’s silky-straight, I start on my makeup.

I waffle for a moment between subtle and bold. Old me would have gone bold, with dark eyes and bright lips. Current me prefers to blend in. But tonight, I think I’ll marry the two sides of my soul and do a smoky eye with a nude lip.

It’s a silly thing to read so far into, and yet somehow, it feels like one of many baby steps to reclaiming myself.

“Okay,” Stella says, walking back into my room dressed and ready. If my top is anything like hers, it doesn’t bode well for me. “Put this on.”

She passes me a top; well, a scrap of cotton fabric masquerading as one, anyway.

I give her a dubious look, but she’s not having it. “You promised you’d try.”

She has me and she knows it. I grab the top from her and toss it onto my bed alongside the skirt. I hesitate for only a minute more before stripping down and pulling on the outfit of Stella’s choosing.

The top almost fits like a sports bra, with the hemline hugging the top of my rib cage. My skirt sits at my waist, leaving a strip of flesh on display.

“You look hot!” Stella exclaims.

“I feel naked. And it’s cold outside.”

“It’s like fifty.”

I give her a deliberately blank look. “Cold.”

She huffs and grabs a flannel shirt from my closet. “Here, wear this, too.”

“And boots?” I ask, sliding my arms into the sleeves of the oversized button-down.

“Fine.”

Between my lace-up boots and the flannel, I feel a little more like myself. “What time are we heading over?”

Stella checks the time on her phone. “Now!”

We each grab our ID badges and step out into the hall. Melanie is already there, along with the other girls on our floor.

“Okay, ladies, a few guidelines before we head over. Your roommate is your buddy. Stick together at all times. I mean it. Gotta pee? Go together. Gotta puke? Go together. Found a hottie you want to hook up with? Well, maybe don’t bring a friend, then, unless that’s your thing.”

She winks before continuing, completely clueless to her contradicting and dangerous advice. “I’m technically supposed to tell y’all not to drink, but I’m not an idiot. So, while I am heavily suggesting that you not, keep these tidbits in mind if you do. Do not accept a drink from a stranger. If possible, make your own. Do not be the drunkest person at the party. Do not fall asleep at the party. And most importantly, beer before liquor, never been sicker—that saying exists for a reason, ladies.”

Melanie begins walking toward the elevator. “Oh, and, ladies, have fun!”

Most of the girls break into excited chatter, but I’m a big ball of nerves. I haven’t been to a party since my junior year of high school. I went from being the life of the party to a social pariah almost overnight.

The thought of attending one now has me feeling a little queasy and a lot keyed up. My only saving grace is that aside from a handful of girls from the dorm, I won’t know anyone. And more importantly, they won’t know me.

There’s a bite to the night air, but the walk to the Delta Psi house passes quickly—probably because we’re all underdressed for the weather.

The sound of thumping bass hits half a block before the frat house comes into sight. The music is cranked up so loud it nearly shakes the ground beneath our feet.

Anticipation rockets through me. Just breathe, Emmy. You’ve got this.

By the time the house comes into view, the sounds of laughter and yelling can be heard over the music, but just barely.

People spill out onto the lawn, some drunk, some dancing, all having a good time.

Stella nudges me with her elbow, and I look over to see her grinning like a fool. “This is my first party,” she confesses. “I wasn’t ever allowed to go to any in high school!”