Chapter Five
Lyla
They always say dressing rooms have the worst lighting and mirrors, and right now, I was hoping whoever “they” were, knew what they were talking about. Why wouldn’t stores invest in fabulous lighting and mirrors that smoothed out flaws? Wouldn’t that sell more clothes?
“Lyla?” It was Beck, obviously. I’d heard him talking on the phone a moment ago, although I couldn’t make out the words. Whoever it was, she’d immediately gotten a sweet tone I’d never heard him use before.
“Just a second,” I called, tugging at the hemline of the skirt. If guys wanted to see girls’ bodies, well, this getup certainly accomplished that. I hadn’t worn a skirt that didn’t brush my ankles since a band concert in high school that required boring black and knee-length. This one was black, showed off lots of thigh, and was more adventurous than boring—the adventure being maybe I’d accidentally flash everyone. Wahoo!
The beaded purple top scooped low, showing off quite a bit of cleavage. And by quite a bit, I mean holy hell balls, that’s a lot of boobage. I had a lot of it to show off, too, which, trust me, I wasn’t one to brag about. I’d actually wished for not-so-much many times through the years, but especially when I was younger and they were the bane of my existence.
When I’d suddenly developed at eleven, way before the rest of my friends, my mom freaked out and bought me lots of super high-necked shirts and jackets. Since she made a point to always tell me—with a frown on her face, no less—if there was even a hint of cleavage or if my shirt was “so tight it’s graphic,” it only added to the stress. She warned me guys would think I was older, and that I’d have to be careful. Didn’t want to give them the wrong idea. Didn’t want to make myself a target. I heard about it so much that I got paranoid about it. Then I found scarves, and they at least made my boring, high-necked T-shirts look cuter.
“I’m sorry to do this,” Beck said through the door, “but something came up. I need to go.”
The girl who’d been on the phone. My heart dropped. Of course he’d choose her over helping me shop. I didn’t blame him, but it still stung a little—didn’t he get how important this was to me? I stripped off the revealing clothes and started to pull my long sweater and leggings back on.
“If you want to keep shopping, maybe Whitney could come get you? Or you can catch the bus?” His voice got closer, and I saw his Adidas under the stall. “I know that sucks, though, and I swear I wouldn’t leave if it wasn’t important.”
Maybe I wasn’t the only damsel currently in distress that Beck had to attend to. For all I knew he had needy friends like me spread across campus—he rarely talked about anything but hockey, with the occasional remark about his classes, but I knew he had more than that going on.
“Maybe I’ll just catch the bus, then. It’s not that far of a ride to my apartment.” I cracked open the door, wishing I’d left the outfit on so he could’ve told me if it was a go or not. He looked a little paler than usual, and the lines in his forehead were creased. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, no worries.” His attempted smile didn’t fully catch hold. He glanced at the discarded skirt and shirt bunched up on the floor. “How’d they look?”
“Skimpy.”
“Well, that’s the opposite of nice and sweet. I say go with it. Just act confident and you can pull off anything.”
“Confidence.” I gave one sharp nod, even though confidence had always been a hard thing for me when it came to anything besides school. “Got it.”
He took my hand and squeezed it, calming the worries rising up to tell me that I’d never be able to even fake that much confidence. “Thanks again for being so cool. I’ll catch you later.” His gaze remained on me as he backed away from the dressing room. “And I found us a party to go to, so start your preparations, because I know you’ve got some kind of checklist typed up.”
“I don’t.” Yet. That was tonight’s activity. “Is there anything I should put on there, though? If I decide to make one?”
Beck gave me an I-knew-it grin. “Don’t overanalyze, and don’t stress. Buy yourself that outfit, and I’ll take care of everything else.”
He nearly bumped into the attendant who’d come in, only he somehow sensed her right before contact, confirming my suspicion that he might be part ninja. She beamed at him and batted her eyes.
The fact that he didn’t bother stopping to deliver a flirty line meant he truly did have an emergency situation to get to. In the past I’d gotten a little hurt that he didn’t tell me much about his personal life when I constantly divulged too much. I also sent him way too many pictures of my cat doing funny things, but what can I say? Einstein’s freaking adorable.
But I digress.
I now knew that being tight-lipped about himself was just part of who Beck was, and that was okay. Still, I couldn’t help but worry. Occasionally he got this faraway look that said he had a lot on his mind, more than hockey and classes. Or maybe I was overanalyzing—as he pointed out—I tended to do that sometimes.
Which was why I was going to buy the clothes I thought were far too revealing. I’d get a couple of pairs of jeans, too. It’s not like I never wore pants, but after my life-long fight with jeans that were too long, not to mention the struggle to find ones that also fit my hips, it was just easier to go with dresses, skirts, or funky leggings.
Suddenly it hit me that what I wore was more function and styles being pushed on me for the sake of not “showing off too much” than items I’d picked out myself. I’d just gotten used to them. Used to not rocking the boat. I looked at myself in the mirror, studying the outfit I was wearing. Did I even like my style?
Guess it doesn’t matter, since I’m trying out a whole new look anyway.
After I browsed through several more stores and racked up enough purchases to make me fear the day my credit card bill arrived, I hesitated in front of the salon. I had a few pictures on my phone, and I figured I could ask one of the hairdressers for help choosing the exact cut and style. I’d considered short and choppy, but I wasn’t quite ready to lose a few feet of hair—I was planning on wearing it down more, but I still needed bun capabilities. It drove me crazy when it was in my face as I studied, and there were plenty of bold choices that didn’t require me going short.
Luckily, one of the hairdressers had an opening. She ushered me into a chair, I showed her a picture, and then explained that I also wanted to do a bright, edgy color, but I couldn’t decide between really blond or really dark.
She pursed her lips as she studied my hair and then my face, and then my hair again. “Blond is so harsh and hard to keep up, and with your pale skin tone, I think dark might look Gothic.” She glanced over my clothes. “Which doesn’t really seem like you.”
“No, not the look I’m going for. But I also want edgier than my current style—I’m looking for a more modern upgrade all around.”
She picked up a strand of my hair, studied it for a couple of seconds, and then asked, “Have you ever thought about going red?”
…
Einstein jumped onto my lap as I typed the list items I had into a document. He curled into a fluffy ball and purred as I scratched under his chin and ran my hand down his back. Even though I was a hardcore chemistry nerd, I occasionally dabbled in physics, and when I saw my new kitty, his long gray and white hair sticking out at all angles, I knew Einstein was his name, no question about it.
I saved what I’d written so far as “College Bucket List,” and then added a number four to the bottom.
So, what else should I add? In general, I was trying to be bolder and not have too many rules, but I knew myself well enough to know that I’d need certain goals to check off—I worked best that way. Little goals got me to big goals, and anything I took the time to put on paper got done. Plus, it’d keep me on schedule so I could accomplish the list by the end of this semester and go home an entirely new, more-fun and less-scared person.
I do need to make sure to keep my grades up, despite going out more.
But that didn’t belong on my bucket list. Just in general life goals, and it wasn’t something I’d accidentally forget to do. To get more ideas, I pulled up Google, typed “college bucket list,” and started scrolling through the resulting links.
Yikes. There were a lot of things I didn’t want to do. Skydive, bungee jump. Get into a bar fight, and then get thrown out. Considering my non-existent fighting skills, I’d have to be carried out on a stretcher. No thanks.
Streaking—yeah, I’d never be able to do that one. The risqué wardrobe choices I’d made earlier in the mall were enough to give me heart palpitations. Not to mention a big part of the reason I’d chosen to live in an apartment instead of the dorms was having my own private shower and bathroom—well, a bathroom with a locking door that I only had to share with one other girl—so that I didn’t have to risk ever being even semi-naked in front of people I didn’t know.
The other reason was Einstein. Dorms didn’t allow cats, and I didn’t trust my parents enough to leave him behind. Not that they wouldn’t have tried to take care of him, but with Mom’s job as a flight attendant constantly taking her away from home and Dad working all day at the coffee shop he owned in Utica, New York, no one would be there to make sure my kitty got enough love and attention—and a full food bowl.
I scratched Einstein behind his ears. I would’ve missed him like crazy, too. Whenever I was having a lonely day, he made me feel loved, even if only for my ability to get him food and make him comfy.
Let’s see. What other suggestions do they have? I skimmed down the page to the next item. Skip a class to have sex.
I stared at that one. Sounded kind of exciting. Then again, why couldn’t you just have sex at a normal time and not skip class? I’d never be able to focus, and wouldn’t everyone else be in class around that time? Except for slacker guys, who’d never been my type.
Plus, here’s the thing about sex: I didn’t really get the big allure. It’s not awful, but it’s just okay for me. Nothing worth skipping class for and then stressing out about how to make up the work. But maybe that was me not being bold or edgy enough, and it was something I should work on.
Deciding I’d chosen a list that might be over my head—and noticing most of the items were geared toward guys, what with the “get a chick to eat a banana during a wet T-shirt contest,” which was definitely against my feminist values—I clicked back and went to one of the other search options.
“Thank your favorite professor? Really?” Talk about the opposite of bold. That was just common courtesy. Then again, at least I was unknowingly doing something right already.
Try food on campus that you’ve never tried before.
Okay, this one’s too weak. It’s what I’ve already been doing, and by their definition of bucket list, I’m a total rebel.
Another search showed things I couldn’t afford to do, like go to Hawaii and study abroad—I mean, who didn’t want to do those things? Awesome ideas, webpage, but first I’d need to win the lottery, and I’d spent too much time studying statistics to believe that’d ever happen. As Miles used to say, the lottery was just a tax on people who weren’t good at math.
I smiled at the memory of the first time he’d said it and I’d laughed, linking my fingers with his and thinking my boyfriend was smart and my kind of funny. Man, I miss him sometimes.
I shook my head. Focus, Lyla.
And then, like Goldilocks—or whatever the redheaded version of that was—I stumbled upon a list with items that were just right. The top suggestion took my number four spot.
4. Sing karaoke
I’d always wanted to do it, and had actually gone to a birthday party where they had a karaoke machine, but had chickened out. Beck was probably going to try to resist being the other half of my duet, but I’d feel much better with someone else than going solo, so I’d find a way to talk him into it.
Hmm, kiss a beautiful stranger is pretty much the same as my number three. Only that one sounds more poetic. Maybe I’ll change it to that.
Oh, dancing on a bar! That one might be a good one.
Or it might be humiliating.
But I’d already ruled out skipping class to have sex, and I needed to stop talking myself out of things and go for a few of them. So I added number five, with a sub goal, of course.
5. Dance on a bar. (Learn how to sexy dance, so I don’t make a fool of myself when the bar dancing happens.)
After a few more minutes, I added another one that had always appealed to me, but I’d never thought I could do.
6. Get a tattoo
It’d be something cute and feminine. Not too big, and something not many people saw. But it was definitely bold, so go me!
I skimmed the other items on the webpage, wondering if I should add anything more, but the knock at the door cut my search short. I quickly minimized my list.
Whitney stuck her head in my room. “Hey, I was wondering—whoa! Your hair!”
I shook out the thick fringe bangs and tugged one of the fiery strands in front of my face. The bright color still caught me off guard, but it also gave me a thrill every time I saw it. “What do you think?”
“It’s effing fabulous. It looks amazing with your skin tone, and those bangs and the long layers really add volume and style. I’m impressed. That took balls.”
My grin was probably way bigger than the situation allowed, but I did something bold. Me. Who knew I’d be so happy to be accused of having balls? “Thanks.”
“A group of us are going to grab food and then go bowling. Do you wanna come with?”
I bit my lip. “Is Colin going to be there?”
“Yeah. What happened with him the other night, anyway?”
I was too embarrassed to relay what the guy had said about me, especially to the flawlessly put together girl who wore outfits Barbie would be proud to rock and looked like she belonged in a sorority house. Since Kristen was in one, I was surprised Whitney wasn’t, actually. “I just don’t think he and I are a good fit. I’m going to pass tonight, but I swear I’m going to go out more.” Just not anywhere Colin was. There was bold, and then there was putting myself in a situation that’d destroy my limited confidence. That was the last thing I needed if I was going to go to a party in a couple of days.
Whitney leaned her hip against my doorframe, crossing one ankle over the other. “You know you can hang out with me and Kristen anytime you want, right? It makes me sad to think of you all by yourself studying while we’re out.”
That made me feel a bit like her pity project—she was a nice girl, her heart in the right place, but we didn’t have much in common. I’d met her through the roommate finder search on the Boston College housing site. She’d fit the two requirements I needed most. 1) She didn’t mind a cat, and 2) The rent she’d listed for the apartment was in my price range. Five months of living together and I still didn’t know much about her besides she went out a lot, and liked guys, and that the feeling was mutual. She could probably teach me a lot about confidence and flirting, but again, if I had to deal with Colin on outings, it wasn’t worth it.
“Don’t worry about me. I’ve got Einstein to keep me company tonight.” I patted his head and he snuggled his nose deeper into my sweater. “And like I said, I have plans this weekend—Beck and I are going to a party.”
“Beck. Good choice.” Whitney got a dreamy look on her face, no doubt picturing him now. He’d only been here a handful of times, mostly to pick me up—he was allergic to Einstein, so he could never stay long. But that was all it took for my roommate to crush on him. As soon as I suspected he might not be totally uninterested in Whitney’s come-ons, I’d asked him if he could please refrain from sleeping with her. I didn’t need the extra drama, and he had a ton of other options, so I didn’t think it was an unfair request.
But the way Whitney said his name made me wonder if I was being unfair to her. No, I’m saving her the hump and dump treatment. Plus she’s been with what’s-his-face a lot over the past few weeks, and even if that doesn’t work out, it’s not like she’s ever had any shortage of male attention.
And maybe, just maybe, there was a part of me that wanted Beck to myself. Not the way she wanted him, but the part I could have. He was my friend—the person I relied on out here in Boston—and if he was suddenly more interested in sleeping with my roommate than hanging out with me, it’d crush me. Especially if she became the one he decided to stick with for a while.
I didn’t want to evaluate what exactly that said about me.
“Well, see you later, then,” Whitney said. Since Beck was on my mind now, I sent him a quick text checking in.
Me: Thanks again for everything. I hope that you know I’m always here for you, whatever you need.
After about a minute, I received a text back.
Beck: I know
A few seconds later, a smiley face came through, and I had to laugh. A week or so ago, I’d told him that his texts were always so short and blunt. “Couldn’t you add a smiley face or something?” I’d asked.
He actually listened! A smug sense of victory swirled through me. He could be so stubborn about things that I could hardly believe it, even as the emoticon smiled up at me.
After debating just leaving it alone, I couldn’t help myself. I went ahead and sent him back a winky smiley face with a nose. Excitement over our upcoming weekend plans sent sparks of energy dancing across my skin. A party. With Beck. The potential and hope morphed into an all-consuming anticipation that promised this weekend would be the one to change everything.