Playing the Part

6. game plan

Allie

Rahul is so going to kill me.

Secretly acting like you're on a first-name-basis with your film writing professor is probably sinful but my god, Professor Patel is such a pain in the ass. 

Out of the hundreds of professors at Elo U, I landed myself the only professor who gave a remote shit about attendance. He preached that being late is the equivalent to not showing up at all.  

I check my phone and curse at the fact that I'm already five minutes late and I've still gotta walk at least another eight minutes. 

Even though our apartment is literally right outside Elo U, virtually all my classes are directly diagonal in distance from ours. Which mathematically means I'm walking the longest distance possible. 

But despite being nicknamed 'bootleg Harvard' (I'll take it any day), Elo U's funding is nothing short of meeting the Ivy League's standards, which is both awesome and a curse because why the fuck am I still walking?  

I check my phone again as I arrive at the lecture room, praying that time had somehow shrunk or that Rahul miraculously came down with a deadly fungal infection. 

But none of those things happen.   

Instead, Rahul stares me down with an exasperated sigh as I (very surreptitiously) sneak into the back seat of the room and pauses Casablanca right when Ilsa walks into Rick's cafe. 

I still remember going over to my Aunt Sharon's when my parents needed a break from me and filing through her limitless shelves of DVDs then finally picking out Casablanca because the DVD cover looked so pretty. 

I've watched it thirteen times since. 

"You're late," Rahul crosses his arms as all six pairs of eyes (none of which I particularly know despite being in the same class as them for three years) in the room confront me, "again."

"I'm sorry." I squeak and subconsciously sink deeper into the worn-out cushion seat. 

Rahul decides to let it go this time and continues the movie but not before giving me the dirtiest side-eye that bore the severity of me insulting his whole family and spitting in his face. 

I let out a sigh of relief before contemplating, for the billionth time, whether or not I made the right decision majoring in film studies. 

The fact that I managed to land myself an Ivy League with literally no direction in life is enough proof that you can do just about anything through sheer force. By the end of high school, I graduated with a decent GPA and with the most burnout I'd ever felt. 

I tell myself all the time that it will all be worth it in the end when I revel in the fat bucks Hollywood has to offer but three years in, that dream is seemingly accelerating away from me. 

But at least I'll be doing something I love, even if it means renting a small studio in LA and getting paid borderline minimum wage for the rest of my life. 

By the time class ends, I've watched that one scene (Rick dropping the 'we'll always have Paris' line) maybe twenty more times and came out of the hall learning absolutely nothing new. 

I'm just glad it's fucking over. 

*

It's six in the afternoon and I'm saying goodbye to Alex for the first time since a year ago when she needed to attend the funeral of her uncle's wife's father in Hong Kong, her mother's hometown. 

Even if it's just for three days, Alex brings about her whole closet 'just in case' and all her study material for her upcoming test on Genetic Modification. 

"Are you sure you need all that stuff? You'll be at the wedding like sixty percent of the time." I'm sitting on her literal exploding suitcase as she tugs on the tiny zipper while simultaneously shoving pieces of clothing back into the suitcase. 

Alex huffs out a breath as she finally slumps onto the floor, blowing a piece of hair out of her sight. "Yes I do. Conor is scoring solid A-pluses so I need to up my game." 

I decide not to reiterate the fact that Conor is not even majoring in the same thing; he's literally in engineering. 

"Never change, Alex." Right as I say that, Alex pulls me in for a massive hug as if she was going off to war.

"I'm gonna miss you Allie-Boo. If anyone bullies you I'm only a couple thousand miles away. I'll fly back, I swear." I laugh at how dramatic she is but I know she'd really do it. And I would too. 

I hate using the word co-dependency but I think the amount of happiness I derive from Alex is slightly unhealthy. I mean it when I say I would die for this girl. 

The doorbell rings and Conor shows up at the door, dressed in all black with his headphones wrapped around his neck and his duffle bag slung over his shoulder. 

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." Conor lets out a groan as he catches sight of the massive suitcase Alex is dragging behind her. "It's three days!"

Alex rolls her eyes. "You wouldn't understand."

Conor grunts disapprovingly but still grabs her heavy ass suitcase and hauls it over the ledge of the door like it weighs nothing while Alex kisses my cheek and proceeds to trail behind Conor.

And just like that, I'm all alone. 

It's jarring when little things like soft jazz music that perpetually plays from Alex's room and the imperceptible hum of her pink electric fan disappears. 

Suddenly, the magnitude of the silence inflates and fills the room and I find myself turning on the TV just to slice through it. 

Just as I'm about to load the second season of Sex and the City, an unknown number lights up on my phone with a text that reads: is my fake girlfriend ready to hard launch?

I smile sheepishly and push my glasses up the bridge of my nose. 

Me: is someone about to catapult me into oblivion? 

I quickly add Everett to my contacts. 

Him: you have the sense of humour of a fourteen-year-old boy and I'm being generous. 

Me: I seriously have no idea what a hard launch is. 

The last time I dated anyone was Michael Henry, a nerdy kid who talked my ear off about amphibians, back in sophomore year of high school and there was no launch. We became official when I flashed him in the men's toilet at our local mall. 

And I'm not about to flash Everett. 

Him: it means we start executing The Game Plan. 

Me: what's The Game Plan

Him: meet me at ours in twenty. And wear something sexy. 

He ends the sentence with a winky-face emoji. 

Gag. 

I rummage through my closet and try to find anything that isn't a sweater or an off-shoulder tee and finally land on a mini pastel yellow bodycon dress with thin spaghetti straps that cuts off a couple inches above my knees. 

Alex got it for me last Christmas when she complained I only wore casual clothes and that I should be showing off my curves. 

The Allie four years ago wouldn't be caught dead wearing it but the Allie now has other things to give a shit about. 

I put on some makeup, my favourite strawberry-scented tinted lip gloss (that tastes exceptionally yummy) and some Air Forces. 

Before I know it, I'm out the door, shitting my pants and finally doing something exciting with my life.