*
The night of the party, Jillian caught me sitting on the bathroom floor in front of the full-length mirror, flat-ironing my hair.
—Oh, she said from the doorway. I thought I smelled something burning in here.
She came and stood by me, inspecting the reflection of her outfit. Her black leather boots and the zippers running up their outside seams went to her knees, and under them she wore reddish tights that accented the red gumball-like beads of the necklace wrapped twice around her throat. Her low-cut top was gray and looked like a bodice made out of felt, and it matched perfectly with the fedora tipped forward on her head: she must’ve bought them as a set. The whole outfit looked too grown up, too coordinated to be any fun. Her makeup case—like a plastic toolbox—hung from her hand as she talked to the mirror.
—From the hallway it smells like there’s a fire in here, she said. I was really about to get the RA.
—It’s just me, I said.
She moved to the counter and set her case down, placed her fedora next to it. A stream of smoke came up from my flat iron as a twisted strip went in on one side and came out stick-straight and only a little crispy from the other. Straightening my hair made it twice as long: it reached past my waist.
—It can’t be good for your hair to have the iron set that hot.
—That’s the only way to make it straight, I said. I always do it this hot.
I was wearing a pair of hip-hugger jeans that looked stitched up the sides, but the openings weren’t real; I wouldn’t end up like those girls on Halloween Jillian’s brother had warned her about. I’d never worn jeans to a real club in Miami, only to the places we went as a joke, the places tucked into mini-malls in Broward County that promised free drinks to all females until midnight.
—Am I to take this hair frying as a sign you’re actually going out tonight? Or are you staying in to finally call your boyfriend? He’s really tired of leaving messages, I’ll tell you that.
She pushed her hair back with a hairband, the first move in crafting the layers of makeup that constituted Party Face Jillian.
—I haven’t straightened my hair since graduation, I said. I wanted to try it up here. It’ll probably last a while in this cold.
I fed another section through the iron, clamped it as close to my scalp as I could stand.
—But yeah, I’m going out tonight, I said. To some party near west campus? Someone told me there’d be dancing, so I figured I’d see if it’s true.
—The party at Newman House? Down on Buffalo Street? We’re going to that, a bunch of us from the hall. You should go with us. Tracy might drive.
—Tracy might what? a voice yelled from the hallway. A second later, Tracy’s over-blushed face hovered in the bathroom’s entrance. Is someone barbecuing in here?
I put the flat iron down by my leg to hide it, waved away smoke with one hand while finger-combing the freshly straightened piece with the other.
—Sorry, that’s me, I said.
—Trace, will you drive everyone down to Newman House? Then we’ll only have to walk back. It’s so cold out.
—I’m not driving, she said. I’m already drinking.
She wrinkled her nose at the air, then said, But we can take my Jeep and you can drive if you want.
Jillian daubed a foundation-soaked sponge across her forehead and pouted like a baby. She said, I already did shots with Caroline and them in her room.
—When did you do shots? I said. How long have I been in here?
—She can drive, Tracy said, thrusting her chin at me. If she’s going.
Jillian said, Who? Then, Oh, Liz!
—Or not. Whatever, Tracy said. I don’t really care.
Her head disappeared from the doorway, and Jillian said to the mirror, You feel like driving her car to the party? It’s one way to guarantee you won’t have to walk. I don’t know how many people’ll end up wanting a ride, if there’ll be room.
I picked up the flat iron and grabbed a chunk of hair from the base of my neck, singeing by accident some skin there. If I drove, I’d be warm, but then I imagined what I knew would happen: no parking for blocks around, the girls in the car I didn’t know—and Jillian, too, with any more booze in her—all insisting on getting dropped off at the house’s gate, leaving me to find a spot big enough for a Jeep on my own; Jaquelin witnessing my devolution into Rawlings chauffeur as she freezes outside; me panicking that, after I tap an Audi behind me, some old dent on Tracy’s Jeep is maybe my fault; freezing anyway on a still-long walk from the parking spot to the party, Jaquelin so disgusted by me that she takes off before I make it back.
—I shouldn’t drive either, I said. I think I’m – I’m pretty buzzed too, actually.