Her Name is Sorrel

I

1

I hate house parties more than Holden Caulfield hates phonies.

“I bet her parents smoke pot.”

Frown in place, plastic red cup in hand, my eyes wafted towards the corner of the room. The girl conversing near the mantle kept tilting her head back whenever she laughed.

“Who? Shelby?”

“Squirrel,” someone fixed me, “Squirrel.”

“She’s goes by her middle name - ‘Sorrel,’” I offered, “I think it means river.” I remember her saying something about that in first grade.

“Who cares? I heard her sister’s pretty hot though.”

“Really now?”

The stereotypical, “Boy’s don’t gossip” preconceived notion would be shattered for all eternity if you ever met my friends. We were Blair Waldorf on steroids. 

“I’m serious.” I think that was Brennan - maybe Michael. “Her sister is iconic.”

“Well what happened to her?” I immediately regretted the string of words escaping my mouth, earning an enthusiastic “ohhh” from the brethren of guys.

“She’d be pretty if she wore makeup,” someone suggested.

“No, I kind of like it,” I prodded, “Au naturale.”

“She’s a bonafide hippie sent from the 70’s if you ask me.”

God, guys could be so cruel.

“We probably won’t even have class with her,” someone quipped, (my memory’s still hazy from the vodka consumed that night), “She’s too smart for us.”

“Maybe.”

And we stopped. 

We analyzed Jenny Spalding instead, checking out her ass from across the living room.

That was that. End of discussion. Topic disclosed. Moving on.

We were already bitching about a different girl - our one track minds already done conversing about the hippie. But my mind backtracked.

I tried not to think about Shelby “Sorrel” Solby. 

It was stupid to become fixated on her - I didn’t have to - we had another month of summer left.