The house was pretty dark. Some rooms were lit by candles, others had lava lamps, and the dance floor had these swirling disco lights and flashing strobes. It made being half-naked a lot less problematic than it otherwise would have been. In a funny way, you ended up paying more attention to people’s lanyards than their actual bodies. It was really interesting to see what people were ashamed of—MUFFIN TOP, UNIBROW, HUGE NOSE, MAN BOOBS, ASS ACNE—and then kind of casually try to check out whatever flaw they were talking about. Sometimes you could spot the problem right away, and other times you had to take their word for it.
Amber knew a lot of the people there, so mostly I just nodded and smiled while she introduced me to her friends—ECZEMA, TOENAIL FUNGUS, and RIGHT ONE WAY BIGGER, among others. Most of the people I met were nice enough, though a bunch of them seemed skeptical that my non-bulging calves qualified as a bona fide problem. The only person I’d met before was Cat from the Autism Awareness Network, who was alarmingly skinny with her clothes off—all ribs and elbows and hip bones—though, I had to admit, kind of sexy in her leopard-print bra and panties. She was also wearing blue flip-flops and white surgical gloves, all of which added up to an eye-catching package.
“Hey Brendan.” The sign around her neck read, FURRY ARM HAIR. “Good to see you again.”
“You too,” I said, squinting at her completely hairless forearms.
“I wax,” she explained. “A lot. Otherwise I’d look like an orangutan.”
“What’s with the gloves?”
She shrugged and drank some jungle juice from a solo cup.
“Too many bodies.” She gave a small shudder of revulsion. “Way too much skin and sweat and . . . ugh.”
We smiled at each other for a couple of seconds, stumped for conversation. She turned and looked at Amber, who was talking to a black girl who had amazing abs and suffered from ASHY SKIN. The black girl was wearing gym shorts and a bikini top, which seemed like cheating to me, since neither one qualified as actual underwear.
“Amber really likes you,” Cat told me.
“I like her, too.”
“You better not hurt her,” she said, poking her latex-covered finger into my sternum. “Otherwise you’ll have to answer to me.”
*
Amber’s room was on the sixth floor of Thoreau Hall. It was even smaller than her first-year double in Longfellow, but at least it wasn’t in the basement.
“We’re in luck,” she told Brendan. “Willa’s away for the weekend.”
“Cool.” He was busy checking out the posters on the pale green walls: Malala, the Dalai Lama, Andy Samberg. “Nice place.”
She hadn’t planned on bringing him home after the party. She’d meant to take it slow, maybe just make out a little, plant a seed for the future, but dancing with someone in your underwear turns out not to be the best strategy for taking it slow. They’d gotten into some pretty heavy grinding toward the end, and it had been an amazing feeling, to be that close to fucking with so many people around.
She dumped her coat on Willa’s bed and then took off her dress, because why not? She’d already undressed in front of him, and he’d clearly liked what he saw. The party had done wonders for her mood—totally turned the night around—and given a welcome boost to her self-esteem. It had been so moving to be part of that community, one imperfect human among many, all those people admitting to their vulnerabilities, making one another feel safe and loved and beautiful. She took her bra off, and tossed it to Brendan.
“Heads up!”
His reflexes were a little slow—it must have been the weed they’d smoked on the upstairs balcony, their bare skin steaming in the night air—but he managed to make a one-handed grab after it bounced off his chest. Then he just stood there for a second, staring at the bra like it was an object he’d never encountered before.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “Awesome.”
He was such a boy, she thought—sweet and clueless and weirdly passive. Amber was only a year older, but she was a woman, and had been one for a long time. She didn’t mind the imbalance. She liked being in charge, the only adult in the room.
“I have one question,” she said. “Why are your pants still on?”
*
It should be a big deal the first time you hook up with someone new. A momentous occasion. I remember it felt like that the first time I fucked Becca. My hands were literally shaking when I put on the condom.
What you don’t want is for your mind to be elsewhere, stuck on something stupid that has nothing to do with the girl you’re with, especially if she’s down on her knees, giving you a blowjob that you didn’t expect, and didn’t even have to ask for.
What you don’t want to be thinking about just then is your asshole roommate, and the way he’d dissed you at the party.
In a funny way it was Amber’s fault. She’d been grinding on me so hard on the dance floor, I thought I was gonna bust a nut right there. I told her I needed to pee, but she knew exactly what the problem was and thought it was pretty funny.
“You do what you have to do,” she told me. “I’ll be right here.”
To calm myself, I took a solo lap around the house, upstairs and down, with my hands crossed—casually, I hoped—in front of my crotch. It was a pretty big place, with a balcony on the second floor and a rickety deck off the kitchen. There was also a small sunporch off the living room, and that was where I found Zack, playing quarters with two people I didn’t know. One of them was a girl in a wheelchair.
“Yo, dude,” I said. “Didn’t know you were coming to this.”
“Oh, hey.” Judging from the look on his face, he didn’t expect to see me there, either. “Brendan, wow.”
He put his hand on the wheelchair girl’s arm—she was sitting right next to him—and whispered something in her ear. She turned to me, a funny little smile forming on her face.
“Holy shit.” She sounded pretty drunk. “The famous roommate.”
“That’s me,” I said. “The famous roommate.”
“I’m Lexa.” She had straight dark hair and a cute face, though one eye seemed kinda squinty or something, like it had frozen mid-wink. The sign around her neck read, LEGS DON’T WORK.
“I’m Brendan.”
“Riley,” said the other dude at the table. He was short and angry-looking, with ridiculously big biceps, pimply shoulders, and a tag that read, VERY SMALL BLADDER.
“Riley and I went to high school together,” Lexa explained. Her skin was golden-bronze all over, like she’d just gotten a spray tan. “Up in North Ledham.”
“Go Raiders,” said Riley, without much enthusiasm.
We all shook hands, and then I turned to Zack, whose nametag read, UNCONTROLLABLE FARTING.
“At least you’re honest,” I told him.
“Tell me about it,” said Lexa, who was wearing a shiny maroon bra and matching panties. She had a nice body—big boobs and a tiny waist—though I was distracted by the clear plastic tube that snaked out of her underwear and around her back. I couldn’t tell where it went and didn’t want to look too hard.
“You love it,” Zack told her.
“Yeah,” she said. “Your uncontrollable farting is a huge turn-on.”
“It’s a popular fetish,” he said. “You should google it sometime.”
“Already have,” she told him. “You take a nice picture.”
Zack high-fived her—Good one!—then looked at me. “Where’s Becca?”
“She couldn’t come. I’m here with that other girl, Amber?”
“The softball player?”
“Yeah, we went to a movie and—”
“We playing or bullshitting?” Riley grumbled.