Amy & Roger's Epic Detour

“All right,” Bronwyn said, returning to the room, checking her watch. “We have to hurry if I’m going to do your hair and makeup. We only have about an hour.”

Which was how I ended up at the party, wearing almost nothing that was my own, including the shoes. Bronwyn had picked out a pair of slingback heels for me that were a little too small, but she had refused to let me leave her room in my flip-flops.

It had been startling to look at myself in her mirror after she’d finished. I looked … not like my old self, since I’d never looked this fashionable. But I looked more like I remembered myself looking. Like I had somewhere to go and would have a story to tell about it afterward. I knew it was all artifice and would disappear as soon as I washed off the makeup she’d put on me—but it was nice to see, at least for a night, someone I’d thought wasn’t coming back.

We ended up in the Quiet Dorm’s noisy kitchen, with Bronwyn talking to someone she recognized from her organic chemistry class. I stood off to the side, next to Roger, sipping warm beer out of a red cup and feeling a strong sense of déjà vu.

“You look really nice,” Roger said. I looked at him, surprised, and saw that he was looking down into his cup.

“Oh,” I said. I turned this over for a moment in my head, trying to figure out if this was another “you look hot” moment and I was misunderstanding him. But I didn’t see how I could be, in this case. I touched the hem of Bronwyn’s shirt self-consciously. “Thanks,” I said.

“Sure,” he replied, swirling the beer around in his cup. He glanced up and smiled at me. I had the feeling that he was going to say something else, when three guys in various stages of drunkenness stumbled into the kitchen.

“Sullivan!” the tallest one of them yelled, and made a beeline for Roger. “Hey!” He stopped when he saw me, and looked from me to Roger. “Dude,” he said, shoving Roger’s shoulder, still looking at me. “You’ve got fire.”

I looked up at Roger, who had flushed. I had no idea what the guy meant, but I figured it was probably a comment about my hair. “Be right back,” I muttered, and walked across the kitchen to stand next to Bronwyn. I tried to stay at the edge of her group, but she grabbed me by the arm and pulled me next to her, making room for me in the circle.

“This is Amy,” she said to everyone, as she straightened my shirt, smoothed down my hair, and poked me in the back, making me stand up straight. She had interrupted a guy with thick, trendy glasses who had been talking about Kant, and he did not look happy about having to yield the floor. “She’s from California.” I blinked at Bronwyn as she said this. I hadn’t told her that—but I realized that Roger must have. I felt a momentary drop in my stomach, wondering what else he’d told her about me.

“Oh yeah?” the guy with the glasses asked. “That’s cool. What’s your major?”

“She’s undecided,” Bronwyn said smoothly, before I could reply. She gave me a tiny wink, then turned her attention back to the conversation.

Two hours later, I was actually having fun. My feet ached in Bronwyn’s shoes, and I was tired of hearing arguments about which sociology professor was the best, but I’d gotten to see Bronwyn absolutely decimate in a game of Quarters, and when he lost some kind of bet, the glasses-wearing guy do a pretty fantastic set of dance moves, including the Worm. I stepped out on the porch to get some air, and was sitting on the bottom step, just taking in the sight of the smoke rising up to the stars, the fire, and the drunk people who were now trying to play volleyball around it, occasionally singeing themselves.

“Hey,” a voice to my left said. I looked over and saw that a guy was standing on the ground, leaning on the railing and looking down at me. He was blond and red-faced, but whether from the sun or beer—or both—I couldn’t tell.

“Hi,” I said, then turned away again.

“Do you go here?” the blond guy asked me.

“Um, no,” I said. Not liking being forced to look up at him, I pushed myself to my feet, wobbling a little in Bronwyn’s shoes.

“Careful there,” he said, stepping closer, grabbing my arm to steady me, and then leaving it there. “You okay?” he asked, running his fingers up and down my arm.

“I’m fine,” I said, taking a step back and starting to put my hands in the pockets of my jeans, before I remembered I wasn’t wearing them.

“Yeah, I didn’t think I recognized you,” the guy said. “And I know I would have remembered you.” He took a step closer and smiled at me. “I’m Bradley. What’s your name, pretty girl?”

I blinked at him, feeling my heart beat a little faster, startled by a memory that had suddenly intruded with such force I wanted to shut my eyes against it.

“Pretty girl?” he asked again, his smile growing, taking another step closer. “You do have a name?”

“Hillary Udell,” I stammered. “I have to go.” I walked down the last step, stumbling slightly, and across the fake beach. I saw Roger walk onto the porch and look around, possibly for me. He caught my eye, and I pointed in the direction of the International House, trying to force a smile on my face, so he would think I was okay, before turning back and walking on.

“Hey!” I heard Bradley yell behind me. “Where are you going?”

But I didn’t turn around to look at him, and thankfully, he didn’t follow me. I made it to the sidewalk and took off Bronwyn’s shoes, looping the heel straps over my wrists. The stars above were beautiful, the sky was amazingly clear, and I could smell the fire faintly, but I barely registered any of it.

I kept my head down, trying very hard not to think about anything but avoiding broken glass on the pavement, as I walked barefoot back to the dorm.

Mistakes become regrets.

—Carolina Liar

MARCH 11—THREE MONTHS EARLIER

I stood in front of Michael’s door and knocked. I straightened my skirt and pulled down the stretchy purple tank top that I’d borrowed from Julia back in November. I hadn’t been sure what to wear for this, but I’d figured that leaving very little to the imagination was probably the way to go. I’d changed out of the black dress I’d been wearing all day, from the funeral in the morning to the reception afterward. Even though it had been unusually hot all week, in the seventies, my mother had insisted that I wear black tights. Throughout the service, I’d concentrated on feeling how itchy they were, and how they made my legs feel compressed, so I wouldn’t have to hear anything that was being said.