Seated on the designer couch Zoe’s decorator picked out––yes, her decorator––Zoe puts down her Kindle while Blake stops typing on her iPad. Just to give you a visual, when I moved into this dorm it looked like a prison cell. Now it looks like a suite at the Standard Hotel complete with an oversized flat screen TV, a designer rug, and art on the walls.
“About damn time,” Zoe shoots back with a knowing smirk.
When I don’t continue, Zoe’s head tilts, her platinum blonde ponytail falls to the side, and her perfectly groomed eyebrows hike up her tan forehead as if to say well? My gaze nervously shuttles to Blake who bites back a smile knowing I’ve just made a deal with the devil. Is this plan strife with danger? No doubt, but I’ve made up my mind. I cannot continue on like this. Hiding. Fearing rejection at every turn. That’s not living––it’s existing. And it’s not enough anymore. I’m tired of waiting for life to happen to me.
Screwing up every bit of courage I have, (which, for record, is not a lot) I force the words out of my mouth.
“I w-want a boyfriend.” My overloaded backpack falls to the floor with a thunk.
“Don’t we all, sister,” Blake mutters drily.
“I-I mean I really want to try. H-how do I get one?”
The two of them share a look I can’t decipher and this isn’t the first time. They’ve been best friends since junior high, having grown up in Beverly Hills a block from each other, so it doesn’t surprise me.
From what I’ve been able to piece together, they’re living on campus because Zoe got in megatrouble with her mom when she threw a party at her mom’s condo, which they were both living in at the time. Apparently, someone stole an expensive painting.
“Haven’t you ever had one?” Blake adds, her face wavering between disbelief and polite neutrality.
A boyfriend? Mmmno. Not even close. I’ve shared a couple of sloppy kisses in high school with a boy named Ted Turner who was visiting his grandparents––our next door neighbors––for the summer. Not the famous one who created CNN. Just a regular Ted Turner. There might’ve even been some clumsy over-the-clothes groping involved. But that’s the extent of my sexual life or lack thereof.
“D-define b-boyfriend.”
“We’ll take that as a no,” Zoe answers for both of them.
I failed to mention Zoe’s spooky sixth sense about people. She sussed out my sexual inexperience within a few weeks of meeting me and I hadn’t said more than two words to her yet. You don’t want to be caught in her crosshairs telling a lie.
Zoe’s large hazel eyes scan my clothes and her refined features twist like someone just dropped a stinker. “We start with your clothes obviously––”
I’m just going to put it out there––I am not a fashion person. Khakis, button-down shirts, and polos make up most of my wardrobe because they help me blend in. They don’t draw any unwanted attention, and I’m comfortable. In my book, that’s called a win win. Besides, I have better ways of spending the money I earn from my afterschool jobs. Like donating it to the animal shelters I volunteer at.
“At some point we need to discuss blowjobs––” she continues. “But it’s too long a conversation to have now. We’re gonna have to block out an entire afternoon for that––”
“At least,” Blake chimes in.
“At least,” Zoe echoes. “In the meantime, hear this…do not, under any circumstance, close your eyes around an aroused penis––like ever. It’s stupid,” she marks off with a thumb, “it’s dangerous,” she flips up her index finger. “There’s a very good chance you’ll catch a dick in the eye, and trust me, you will not like the consequences.”
“That was a nasty case of pink eye you got,” Blake commiserates.
“It really was,” Zoe muses.
Chapter Four
Dora
New Study Finds That An Alarming Number of Cases of Pink Eye Are Linked to Blowjobs. #eyeswideopen
I stifle a burst of laughter as the Twitter headline flashes in my mind’s eye. My attention returns to the closet I’m blindly staring into. Then I remember that hidden among the mess in the corner is the Cat Woman costume, and thoughts of Dallas immediately replace fears of getting poked in the eye by an aroused penis.
“Dora––” Zoe says, tone annoyed. A clear indication that it’s not the first time she’s called my name. “Earth to Red. Come in, Red.”
I glance up to meet her narrowed hazel eyes. And when I say up I mean way up; Zoe’s head practically grazes the ceiling of my cramped dorm room. She’s five ten to my five three. In addition, she’s wearing platform espadrilles which puts her somewhere between here and the moon.
“Where’s Blake?” I ask, glancing around.
“Inspiration struck.” Tilting her head, she strokes her platinum ponytail. “Have you heard a word I’ve said?” I let my silence speak for me as it often does. “For a minute there, you looked like you were mooning over some dude.”