In Time

Saturday Night Out

Wooden railings. A baby pink hanging couch. The tinkle of wind chimes on the otherwise placid patio. Brown banisters and a white staircase. Polished hardwood floors. My perfectly decorated white room with its expertly curated paraphernalia: posters from 2014 saying things like Keep Calm and Carry On in Charleston and Good Vibes Only, my overflowing stuffed animal collection, the vanity framed by white LED lights on my wall, the hanging rose-petal multi-light chandelier, and most important of all, the four poster king-sized bed with the big, white, fluffy comforter enclosed by silken drapes.

I'm sitting by the vanity and doing my makeup, the way I used to. I've gotten a lot more heavy-handed with experience, but back in high school I would just quickly apply some clear mascara, dab on some blush and lip gloss, and maybe just a touch of concealer under my eyes and leave it at that. I smack my lips together after coating them with some lip gloss and pucker them, making a duck face in the mirror. In my head I cringe. Back then, you could spot the duck face in every picture I took.

A whoosh sounds on my right. I whip around.

My window is sealed shut.

The whoosh sounds again, this time from beyond my room. I put down my lip gloss pen and cautiously cross the threshold. Instinct tells me there shouldn't be anyone in the house but me---but the sound draws me to the staircase. I slowly descend, keeping my hand on the banister.

All of a sudden my hand is ripped from the banister and my feet are upended from under me. I don't even have the chance to react before I'm tumbling down the stairs, down and down and down. Too late, I let out a scream.

I jolt up and wince. I'm tangled in my coverlets on the floor. I probe the back of my head and feel a small bump.

I must have fallen off of the bed.

Today is Saturday, so there aren't any classes. I consider my options. I can a), lay in bed all day and watch movies, b), lay in bed all day and watch Netflix, or c), lay in bed all day and read a book.

I'm in a reading kind of mood, so I pick up one of the books I ordered during last week's Amazon shopping spree. It's pretty captivating. It's about this girl who dies when her family and their guests get into a car accident on a mountainside during their annual winter holiday cabin trip. Because they crash in the middle of nowhere, they have to survive the night in the freezing, blistering cold with barely any shelter and no food or water. As a spirit, she gets to witness how the people she's known for her entire life treat each other when the stakes are high. When it's a test of survival, of life and death.

She may be dead, but I can't help but feel she's the lucky one.

I'm almost halfway through the book when I get a text: Party tn @ PGD. U in?

It's Jackie, my on again, off again partygoing partner. U know it bitch, I reply.

I figure I should eat something, so I won't be chugging down Hennessy and Jack Daniels on an empty stomach. I check the minifridge, but, sadly, there's nothing but a container of salsa with nothing to dip in it. I'm due for a restock.

I sigh and throw on a white hoodie with some olive cargos. I lace up a pair of white Converse and accessorize with the same round, black sunglasses from yesterday. Making sure not to forget my umbrella this time, I tuck my AirPods in my ears and leave for the dining hall.

Today they're serving lasagna (my favorite), and I get a big, heaping plate. The table I sat at yesterday is empty, so I settle in the same spot near the back of the hall. If there's one dish USC knows how to make other than salad, it's this. Before I get up to throw my plate away, I find myself checking the starer's former spot three tables down. But the only people there today are a bunch of sleeveless-shirt-wearing gym bros. One of them peers at me curiously.

I quickly turn away and exit through the double doors. There's a trash bin outside Suwannee, and I throw away my plate there.

Back in my room, I contemplate what I'm going to wear. I already wore my favorite jean skirt the day before yesterday, so that's out. Remembobering yesterday's flash drizzle, I check the weather. Fifty percent chance of rain.

But a hoe never gets cold, am I right?

I text Jackie, Outfit prep. Come over ?

Omw, she replies instantly.

Thirty minutes later, we're taking shots of Pink Whitney and trying on outfits from my closet. The alcohol's not mine, it's Jackie's. She supplies the shots, I supply the clothes. It works out pretty well for the both of us.

"You like?" she asks.

I come up behind her and scan her in the full-length mirror hanging on my wall. She's wearing my black drawstring super crop hoodie with my black spaghetti strap tank and black biker shorts. The (also black) combat boots are her own. The whole look complements her wavy black hair and thick eyeliner wing nicely.

"You look like a hot army bitch," I tell her.

"Good, because that's exactly what I was going for. Now let's see what we can do with you." She rifles through my closet and picks out a flap pocket camo green denim skirt and a drawstring ripped drop shoulder hoodie to match. "Hot army bitch number two, put this on."

I grin and change into the outfit she picked out for me, switching out the white Converse I'm wearing for my black ones. "Pass a shot," I tell her as I settle in to do my makeup.