“Where are they, Ro?”
“Umm, in the other… room,” she distractedly shouted back.
“Which room?” I asked her, growing a teensy bit frustrated.
“Ours.” I rushed into the tiny bedroom that we both shared, almost toppling over a pile of clothes, shoes, and a couple iPods in the process. No joke, this place was a sty. Robelle was probably one of the most disorganized, slovenly, and downright messy people I knew. Not saying that I was pitch perfect and anally cleanly myself, but absolutely no one could compete with Ro in the category of hot mess. Emphasis on the mess.
“Ro, where?!” I yelled, digging through her bed linens which had been lazily tossed off the bed earlier that morning. We had to be at Indochine in ten- make that seven- minutes and I was running horribly late. Thanks to Ro.
Robelle came and leaned against the door frame. “You know, even though you think this is my fault,” she said, reading my mind, “It’s actually yours.” I stopped frantically paddling through a heap of jackets to glare at her, “What?”
“Yep,” she said, pushing off from the frame and walking towards me to help search through our stuff, “If you didn’t lend me stuff, it would be impossible for me to lose it. You should know better by now.” I let out a chuckle as she dug into some clothes by the wall.
“Alright, Ro, hilarious. All joking aside, though, we have, like, no time! We’re supposed to meet Davey and Winston at-”
“FOUND THEM!” She emerged from the pile with a proud grin and my favorite indigo wash skinny jeans. “Thank God!” I rushed over and shoved my bare legs into them. I ran over to the mirror and stepped into my grey oxford booties. I buttoned up my crisp white shirt, which I wore over a white wife beater, then searched around the room to try and scrounge up a tangle of charm necklaces.
“C’mon, Leiland, weren’t you the one just yelling about how late we’re gonna be?” Ro blew a bubble with her gum.
“Hold your horses,” I glanced at her, “and do your hair.”
Robelle turned to the mirror, “No, thanks, mom.” She said, fluffing her just-rolled-out-of-bed-at-two-o-clock-cuz-I-have-a-super-hangover-from-being-a-druggie-party-chick-only-in-the-bad-way locks. “I’m going for the rocker chic look,” she said, shifting her gaze from her reflection to mine, “everyone loves a party girl.”
“Yeah, uh-huh,” I said sarcastically twisting my dark, curly hair into a big, loose braid. Robelle had decided sometime in her life that the only attractive woman was the one who said “I love you”, but not because she meant it. But, because this woman was so drunk or so high or so fucked up that she was just saying it to everyone, not so much “I adore you, darling” as “I love you, man”. So, Rosa Belle had dyed her hair a new color every two months and changed her name.
“I think that Robelle sounds so legit. It’s like rebel, only it’s my name,” she had once told me, “Well, sort of my name. It also kind of sounds like a robot, too. Like, dude, is she a robot or a chick? Omygosh, Leiland, I could make cyborg chicks hot!”
Who the hell knew what she was talking about, but the nickname managed to stick. Still, for my own satisfaction, I usually just called her Ro. It was something I did kind of to piss her off, but mostly just to show how close we were.
“Leiland, can we gooooo?” Ro whined from the entryway.
I grabbed my black purse with the copper studs on the sides and snatched a pair of black, rhinestone-covered shades on my way to the door. “Yes, drama queen, we’re going!” I kicked her in the butt, then ran past her out the door, “Don’t forget to lock the door because Camilla will be back before we are and she actually remembers her key!” Ro locked the door and we headed to the elevator.
