Elliot ditched his jock reputation after high school. He happily traded his cleats and shoulder pads for college cafeteria food and seminars notes. Now, without the distraction of football, he has managed to find success at the University of Minneso...
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Elliot had just walked into the party when he heard, "Your hair matches your vodka."
He turned to see his classmate Rory. "Too predictable?"
Rory shook his head, declaring, "No. Tastefully avant-garde."
"Good." Elliot took a sip from his recycled water bottle. The biggest misconception about college was that the host of a party always supplied alcohol - no, everyone had to buy and bring their own. He had learned that very quickly during his first year, always keeping a bottle of blue-raspberry vodka under his bed for the weekends.
Rory and Elliot stepped to the side of the crammed room, trying to avoid the traffic coming through the front door. Outside, there was a line of freshmen with their Venmo apps open, ready to send cash to the Vice President of Sigma Chi. Some of the fraternity residents shuffled a few pretty girls inside, but made sure they were showing enough skin. Elliot would probably see them crying in the backyard later.
There was nothing memorable about frat parties, other than the sour stench of sweaty bodies, cheap liquor, piss-soaked furniture, and the gross mixture of E-juices and herb-scented smoke. The basement was usually too dark to see properly, the main floor was too noisy to hear anything other than ear-riddling music, and the upper floors weren't for anyone who didn't want to swallow rainbow pills - specifically 3,4-methylenedioxy-methamphetamine. Elliot could draw the structure by memory. It was on his last organic chemistry exam.
From every direction, however, there was always someone with a phone. Tonight was no exception, with a dozen glowing screens illuminating the room - indiscreetly taking photos of the blue-hair persona. The flashes were so constant that Elliot started to wonder if he would get an artificial sunburn.
Rory surveyed their surroundings, oblivious to the new fame that had fallen upon Elliot. He asked, "Are you a frat boy's new side piece or something?" Everyone was acting like they knew him.
"Not yet," Elliot joked.
"It's not as glamorous as it seems," Rory warned.
Elliot released a brief laugh. "Speaking from experience?"
"Maybe." Rory brought a cup to his mouth, smirking against its ridge. Elliot couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or mysterious or both.
"ELLIOT," Nicki yelled, descending the stairs and walking into the noisy entryway of the house.
"Ah, Jesus," Elliot cursed.
She elbowed her way through the crowd, phone in hand, imploring, "Try to look happy. I'm livestreaming."
"Really, Nic? Right now?"
She shushed him. "You're getting questions," she enthused, reading her feed. "Look. User daddy-blue-two-two wants to know - "
"I'm not answering any questions."
"Come on," Nicki said. "It'll be fun. User daddy-blue-two-two wants to know if you and Pierce plan to do another video." She scrolled, answering for him, "Yes. They do."
"No. We don't - "
"User elli-underscore-pie-underscore-shipper is asking - "
"Stop - "
"Elli-pie?" Rory wondered.
"Let's go find Pierce," Nicki said. "Everyone wants to know where he is."
"Probably by the beer."
"You're right," Nicki nodded. "I bet he's in the kitchen." She turned to search, narrating her actions to her followers.
A couple girls followed her like little ducklings, eager to be in the video.
"I should go hide before she comes back," Elliot said to Rory.
"Right. Don't blame you," he agreed.
They parted ways and Elliot watched him walk up the stairs without hesitation, like he knew where he was going. He wondered if Rory was friends with someone who lived in the house.
Beyond the crowded front section, there was a narrow hallway leading toward the back. Elliot followed the path of gum-dotted linoleum in hopes of finding somewhere to sit, purposely avoiding the couch that looked like it had been witness to some scary shit.
Underneath the staircase, there was a shoe-scuffed bathroom door. Elliot wiggled the knob until it popped open, careful not to touch it too long. He cursed himself for not bringing sanitizing wipes.
"Hey," Quinn greeted. She was sitting on the floor, back pressed against the bathtub. Grime, grime, grime. Elliot cringed at the thought of what kind of germs were living on the tiles. Her black dress would be forever infested.
Hayden had her head rested in her lap, letting Quinn braid one section of her hair. She looked greener than pistachio ice cream, with the freckles on her lips resembling a crunchy topping. Quinn peered down at her with slack mouth, as if she was on a diet.
Hayden seemed to visibly appreciate every stroke against her scalp. Her mouth twitched whenever Quinn caught a new strand, as if the sensation was familiar. Quinn was often known to be a hardcore football player, but she seemed to be extra gentle when touching Hayden's skin. Elliot noted the nice gesture, unaware that they were friends.
"That toilet has probably seen, like, eight STDs. At least," Elliot said, trying not to stare. He felt like he was intruding. "Nicki is livestreaming."
"Are you surprised?" Quinn questioned. Her rose-gold hoop earrings and shimmery eyeshadow glittered in the dingy lighting. Elliot couldn't remember the last time she had worn makeup. Was that Dior perfume he smelled?
"No," Elliot answered. "What're you doing in here?"
"Hayden puked," Quinn explained. "I'm braiding her hair before the next wave of vomit hits. And some guys are paying me to guard their booze." She gestured toward the bathtub full of ice, liters of soda, and lots of beer cans. There were half-used candles on the shower caddy, right next to seven dull razors, an extra large bottle of three-in-one shampoo, and yes, a lot of beard clippings.
Elliot would've replied if he wasn't withholding a gag.
The parties, the drinking, and everything else that made life spin - he was dizzy from revolving inauthenticity.
