Camryn Quinn is finally getting what she wants...sort of. Moving into a dorm and away from her not so supportive father is a good first step, but like everything with him-it comes with strings. She must attend the college of his choosing for at leas...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I somehow found myself talked into attending yet another game with Alyssa. This time, taking advantage of the club seats my father keeps reserved for me to avoid the awful humidity that is September in Ohio. I keep telling myself my sudden willingness to not put up a huge fight to attend a game had nothing at all to do with the fact that Taylor asked me at our session on Thursday what my favorite part about going to games was. A new tactic of his, no longer finding ways to make me spaz on him, instead, begging me to share information about myself. I'm usually a cold front, impenetrable. But something in the air shifted me, I thawed just a little. I engaged him in a little guessing game.
"Let me guess," He said with a finger to his lip, "Watching the band perform at halftime?"
I hate that he knew it wouldn't be anything related to the actual game of football. I hadn't shared much with him in our short time working together, he had at least respected that rule set in place. But I hadn't exactly shied away from my dislike of people who voluntarily wear pads and tights, and tackle each other for fun.
Talking about my favorite part of a game also reminded me of my least favorite part. Specifically about an article that was printed a couple of seasons ago to celebrate my dad's fifth season with the Bulldogs. The reporter faked a quote, saying that Cal's and my favorite part came after every win. The moment my dad runs to mid field, stopping, planting himself at the fifty yard line, ignoring the chaos ensuing around him. He then points to our family's box. Acknowledging that we were in there. "Because everything I do and am is because of them" my dad was quoted when asked why he started the tradition so many fans have come to wait for before celebrating themselves. Forever portraying the devoted family man that just so happens to have a football problem.
I didn't share that with Taylor though, instead I cursed under my breath at the fact that watching the best damn band in the land is my favorite part. But I couldn't let him have the satisfaction of being correct so I told him my second favorite was my first, "Actually it's watching the band run on the field at the very beginning, performing the fight song before kick off. When the whole stadium is singing along." I said, picturing the harmonizing sound of one hundred thousand fans uniting in pride. You have to be some sort of satan worshiper to not like hearing an orchestra of instruments playing something that brings audible joy to others.
I also denied his request to give him a sample of what I meant, instead settling for an agreement to take a video of it from the stands, to show it from a fan's perspective. He's only ever witnessed it from field level.
I'm not in the business of letting anyone not named Ryan Quinn down. So it was essential that I followed through on the promise. Inviting Alyssa along to enjoy the perks of Club East.
🏈🏈🏈
I was so tired after the game that I don't even remember falling asleep. But here I am, face down on my mattress, the team sticker acting as an adhesive, somehow holding my face onto the mattress instead of sticking only to my face like its intended purpose. I refused to wear any of Alyssa's barely there school gear. The top she tried to force on me had more holes than it did material, and was so cropped, my boobs threatened to hang out the bottom. Her outfit choices aren't eccentric for the environment, however, most of our fellow females take football games as a chance to dress up into outfits that draw more attention to themselves, and less to the fact that there is an actual football game going on. I instead agreed to pair my normal clothes, a t- shirt and jean shorts, with one of those facial stickers in the shape of the school logo.
It's only a few weeks into the semester, but Alyssa and I have worked out a sort of system. She doesn't bother me during the week, leaving me to study and do the things I enjoy, and in return I agree to go to one party a weekend. I made sure to create strict stipulations, meaning I get to leave the party whenever I choose, and if she doesn't come with me, it is her own fault. I would never tell her, but after our first encounter, I slyly shared her location with myself from her phone, so I can at least track her. I, in good conscience, don't want anything to happen to her.
I have even made progress on the whole 'why don't you drink question?' with simply telling her that I am allergic, my go to move when I don't like or want something. All throughout my childhood I had convinced my family and friends that I was allergic to peaches, but only because I didn't like them. What kind of sociopath eats a fruit that has a furry skin on it AND is super mushy on the inside?
It may not be the truth, but as far as Alyssa is concerned it is close. A fake allergy to alcohol is the only thing giving me some semblance of control in this situation, although the idiots that we encounter at these parties are enough to really test the waters. I usually end up having at least two drinks, but not allowing myself to get carried away.
I move my arms out from under me and plant my palms into the mattress, peeling my face from it, leaving the sticker stuck firmly in place as I do. I shimmy my way down the bed, stalking across the room to the mini fridge. Out of the corner of my eye I see Alyssa roll over and begin scrolling on her phone.
"Good morning sunshine!" she says with a smile.
"Evening." I reply, reaching into the fridge and grabbing a can of coke.
"So I just got a text that the theme of tonight's party is GI Joes and Army Hoes" she says climbing down from her own bed, wasting no time in her pregame ritual. Sitting criss crossed on the floor in front of the mirror, her makeup bag in her lap.
"Wasn't that the theme of the party you went to last weekend?"
My one party a week agreement is only a fourth of the average socializing Alyssa does, and each party seems to have some ridiculous theme. Part of me feels like she's fucking with me. I don't understand why college parties have themes. All of which rhyme with bros and hoes. Why can't we enjoy the loud music, kegs, and beer pong in normal clothes? I can already picture all of the half-naked girls covered in camouflage and boys in wife beaters, just asking for me to make fun of them.
"No, that was Gym Bros and Yoga Hoes." Alyssa says nonchalantly as if that theme is as natural for her as putting on her eyeliner. I watch as she uses the pencil to carefully and skillfully draw a wing away from the corner of her eye. Always making it look effortless no matter how many times I watch her do it.
"Who's birthday is it again? And why do we care to celebrate them?" I question. Needing as much information as possible to predetermine just how awful the night will be.
"Do you remember Chris? You met him when we walked to get coffee the other day. He's dating my friend Laura from high school." she explains. I have no idea who she is talking about, Chris is like the most common name in the world. Well I think it's actually James but I bet Chris is a close second.
Along with her extensive socializing schedule comes a million and one new people she has introduced me to. None of which I even try to remember. The only friend from her high school I remember meeting was Amanda, but I'm guessing she and Laura don't happen to be the same person.
"How big of a party should I expect?" I say while staring at my closet. "And what does one wear to achieve Army Hoe status?" I ask with full curiosity.
"Are you done with the questions? Just wear anything camouflage, I am planning on wearing black shorts and a camo tank top. Ooh! I have the perfect top for you too! It will look so cute with your black jeans and my camo headband!" Alyssa squeals, satisfied with her ability to play into this strange version of role play. I roll my eyes, taking the things she hands to me, knowing that if I attempt to argue with her I will spend more energy than just putting on the clothes. And somehow like always, when I have the outfit on, it does look good on me, in a way I would have never attempted on my own.
She motions for me to sit on the floor in front of the mirror, the spot still warm from her sitting here moments ago. She begins working her hands through my waves, adding an oil to them, placing the headband in flawless fashion. I hate her for it, her ability to perfectly manicure everything appearance related. But I would be lying if I said I hated this, the idea that we may actually be bonding, albeit over a hidden college rule that states I have to humiliate myself in the form of a character every weekend, but it's a marathon, not a sprint. And Alyssa and I may just possibly still be standing at the finish line.
