“Tim Gunn has nothing on me,” Carroll says through our open door. “Except about forty years.”
I bang my imaginary cymbals for his little joke. “Buh-dum-dum!”
“You ready to go?” He eyes my sweatshirt and jeans. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
“What difference does it make what I wear to buy clothes?”
“At least put some decent shoes on. You have to wear heels to try on dresses. Otherwise your calves won’t be the right shape.”
I laugh, but Carroll is totally straight-faced.
“I don’t have any high heels,” I say.
“Then what are you wearing to the dance?” Samantha asks. “Flip-flops?”
I’ve never worn high heels in my life, and I’m not starting now. When I tell Samantha and Carroll that, they look aghast.
“Trust me,” Carroll says. “The missus will love you in heels.”
“Toni likes me to be comfortable,” I say.
Carroll makes a face at Sam. “Lesbos. So resistant to change.”
Sam laughs.
I give up, say goodbye to Sam and tow Carroll out of the building. He gets over his shoe-related huff and leads me to his favorite vintage shop. We stroll down sidewalks packed with people sipping out of coffee cups and chattering into hands-free phones. I love this time of year, when it’s cold enough for a sweater but not a coat, when the summer smell of sweat and fried food has faded into crisp, clean fall. The air buzzes with energy. Nothing in Maryland has ever felt like New York City in the fall.
The store Carroll brings me to is crowded and loud. It’s mainly other college students, plus the occasional middle-aged hipster giving us resentful looks. Before we’ve made it halfway in, Carroll has handed me four dresses and is combing the racks for more.
“How many of these am I supposed to try on?” I ask.
“As many as it takes! This is tough, because it’s a Halloween dance so it should look like a costume, but we don’t want to go too far because we need to make a good impression on all the stuck-up Harvard people. We’ll aim for a chic, Mad Men vibe but mix it up with some seventies glam.”
“Uh-huh,” I say. “Look, sweetie, I don’t have time to try on a hundred outfits. I have to finish my Met Studies reading and go over my notes for the debate team, and then tonight I have an alternative spring break meeting.”
Carroll throws another dress onto my pile. “Please tell me you’re not dragging me to one of those again.”
“Don’t you want to be more involved in the planning?”
“I trust you and the rest of the activities geeks. Just let me know how much sunscreen to bring. Besides, I have my own extracurriculars to worry about.”
“You do? That’s great!” Except for the times he’s tagged along with me, Carroll hasn’t joined any student groups or signed up for any volunteer programs. I’m always bugging him about it because everyone says you have to have good extracurriculars to get into a decent grad school. “What are you doing?”
“I think his name is Victor.” Carroll throws something pink and lacy at me. “Here, try this one, too.”
“I refuse to wear pink.” I hand the dress back. “Sorry. Anyway, seriously, what club did you join?”
“I was serious. Victor and I met up for the first time last night. Didn’t go all the way, but maybe next weekend. Come on, let’s hit the dressing room.”
I follow him to the back of the store, struggling under the weight of all the fabric. “How did you meet this guy? In class?”
“Nah. He doesn’t go here.”
“What, does he go to Columbia?”
“Uh-uh. Columbia’s for boring people.”
“So where does he go?”
“He’s, uh. He’s already out of school.”
I stop with my hand on the dressing room curtain. “Please tell me it’s not that sketchy guy from the club.”
“It’s not that guy.” Carroll shoves me inside the room and pushes the curtain closed. “Which isn’t to say Victor’s not sketchy.”
“You met him online, didn’t you?” I call through the curtain.
“Guilty,” he calls back. “I’m an internet skeezeball.”
“Why can’t you meet guys at school like everyone else? It’s not as if NYU has a shortage of attractive gay guys.”
“That may be, but I prefer to play at my own level. Okay, show me.”
I pull back the curtain and pose for him in the first dress. It’s blue and frumpy. Carroll shakes his head. “Next.”
The next dress is red and way too short. I don’t want to show him, but Carroll insists.
“I don’t trust your judgment,” he says. “You chose to put on that awful gray plaid hoodie the other day. I still have the PTSD.”
I open the curtain. Carroll’s eyebrows shoot sky-high when he sees the hemline.
“I see we’re leaving nothing to the imagination, eh?” he says. I yank the curtain closed, and he passes a black-and-purple dress to me through the gap.