“I’m really, really sorry.”
Alex chews on the cap of a silver Sharpie and stares back at me. We’re upstairs in Dionysus, and she’s wearing a simple, flowy white dress that juxtaposes perfectly with her grungy hair, tattoos and smeared black eyeliner.
Hungover Sunday Morning Chic.
I’m in yoga pants, a sports bra and a tank, even though there’s no way I could work out right now if my life depended on it.
“I want to say, ‘It’s okay,’ but it’s not.”
“I know.”
She continues to examine me.
“I’m still sorry,” I say.
She exhales. “God, Cassie, do you have any idea what you’re doing?” The question is half sympathetic, half angry.
I shake my head. “No.” My voice catches. I clear my throat.
She bites her lip. “Well, are you gonna help me paint this wall or not?”
Not exactly profound forgiveness, but it’s not nothing. I know I’ll have to keep apologizing and proving myself to rebuild our friendship. But nothing has been irrevocably broken. As much as she hates me, she still loves me. And that’s the important part right now.
And I will get better. Not just at being a friend, but as a person. Because I’m mad at me, too.
“Should I do black paint or Sharpie the quotes?” I ask.
Half the far wall is painted black, ending in a half-done jigsaw. The room is not hers, of course, as Dionysus has a communal sleeping porch, but they voted to let her have this wall for her artwork.
She laughs. “You definitely don’t get to do the quotes. Get back on my good side and we’ll talk.”
I pick up a roller and the black paint, and work carefully.
She kneels on the already done side with her pen and writes her favorite quotes, some in flowing calligraphy, others printed, and some in this tortured-looking scrawl.
It is a far, far better thing that I do now, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.
Let me live, love and say it well in good sentences.
Did you hear about the rose that grew from concrete?
Only Alex would put Dickens, Plath and Tupac next to each other.
She continues to create art; I continue to create stripes of darkness.
After an hour she goes downstairs to make tea, then returns with two cups and an armful of blankets. We wrap ourselves in the warm coziness and sip the green tea that has promised it will counteract the toxins of the night before.
The almost painted wall and words of so many amazing artists hang above us.
We probably inhale too much of the paint fumes, but let’s be real, that’s the least dangerous thing you may get exposed to secondhand at Dionysus.
I hug my mug to my chest and let the liquid warm my hands.
“So tell me about this boy.”
I take a sip of my tea. “The one who made me cry?”
“No. The one who texted me from your phone last night to say that he was taking care of you and that you were going to be fine.”
Jordan did that?
I raise my eyebrows.
She shrugs. “I was worried. He must have seen my texts.”
I pull out my phone. Sure enough, in response to an assortment of concerned texts from Alex after our fight—including the gem “Still pissed but you’re not dead in a ditch, right?”—Jordan replied that she shouldn’t worry.
“There’s nothing to tell.” I click my phone off and shove it back in my pocket.
“I don’t believe that. What boy, what Delta, is that sensitive?”
“He was just being a good person.”
“Yeah, but if those fuckbois are being decent human beings, something’s up.” She laughs. “He liiiikes you.”
I elbow her.
“Ow, you’re gonna spill my tea!”
I roll my eyes. “I guess he did go a little bit beyond the call of like, making sure I didn’t die,” I say. I run my thumb along the rim of my mug. “He kind of slept over.”
“Like in your bed?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh my God, Cassie.” She pops up, spilling tea on the blanket. She looks down at it. “Fuck. Whatever.” She looks back up. “Oh my God, why did you not open with that? Details, details!”
“There’s nothing to say—nothing happened, dude.”
She squints her eyes. “So, like, you didn’t screw?”
“No, Alex, I did not lose my virginity last night.”
“Right, right.” She shakes her head. “I always forget you haven’t fucked. But you know what I mean. You didn’t even kiss or anything?”
“No.”
“Hmm.” She purses her lips. “Did you cuddle?” She raises her eyebrows.
“No—I mean, yes, but it wasn’t like that.”
She squeals and jumps again. “Oh my God! That’s so cute. I love it!”
I sip my tea.
“And really, in a way that’s kind of like a bigger deal,” she says. “Very sensitive of him to want to sleep with you but only sleep with you. Not at all Delta Tau, but that’s kind of fabulous.”
“I don’t know. I mean, he definitely hooks up with a lot of girls, and none of them sleep over, so maybe he just doesn’t see me that way. He probably just felt bad for me. Tears are not very sexy, A.”
She shakes her head. “No. I think he just thinks you’re different from other girls, which, don’t get me wrong, is the sign of some underlying issues with his view of women in general, but it’s also kind of cute.”
We sip our tea.
“Also, what does that mean for the project?” she asks.
“I don’t know. They never said anything about dating the guys, and I never really thought about it. I kind of thought I would just hate them.”
She laughs. “Honestly they were probably rooting for it secretly. What sells research more than a little sex?”
I almost choke on my tea. “This will not be funny when I lose my scholarship.”
“Eh, you won’t lose your scholarship. Have a little fun. You deserve it.”
We spend most of the day on the floor. Talking about our parents back home and divorce, friends who are trailer hopping and going to rehab, or who don’t have the money for rehab and are sleeping around for drugs or sleeping around for food.
And then we talk about classes with Nobel laureates and frat parties and football games.
“Can I write something?” I ask as we stand up to leave.
“Sure.” She hands me a Sharpie.
Feminist: a person who believes in the social, political and economic equality of the sexes. “Nice.”
“Thanks.”
“Beyoncé?”
I laugh. “Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. You know her book, We Should All Be Feminists? I lent it to you like a year ago.”
“Right. Knew that.”
“Of course.”
My phone beeps, and I glance down.
“Shit, this is an email from the Stevenson people. I’ve got to go.” I cap the Sharpie, hand it to her and am out the door and pounding down the stairs by the time the email opens.
It’s a reply to an email Professor Price sent to me with her notes about the project she cc’d the Fund on. A very professional message where she outlines the research, gives her endorsement and adds her notes and suggestions moving forward.
My project coordinator responded like this:
From: [email protected]
Subject: Project Notes
Hey there,
So I haven’t finished reading it yet but so far it’s good but kind of a little too...science-y. If you know what I mean? Like we want something that really pops: lists, catchy headlines...maybe gifs? I don’t know. This seems good for the first semester, but next time let’s try to make it more fun!
Thanks!
Madison Macey
Region Five Project Coordinator
Stevenson Fund
I have to read it twice, and I still can’t believe my eyes. How can academic research be “too scientific”? Excuse me, I mean “science-y.”
Like seriously, I do all this research and they want clickbait?
“Um, excuse me.” A girl with glasses and a purple stripe in her hair pushes past me.
“Oh, sorry.” I’d forgotten I was still in the doorway.
I step forward, eyes still on my phone.
I mean really, these are human issues. They are nuanced, they don’t tie up in a bow. It’s hard enough to be lying to the boys to run an academic study I’m proud of, but how can I justify a...a hack job?
I shove my phone back in my bag and take off toward home.