Unmistakable (8 page)

B
efore I make it through the doorway of our dorm room, Izzy pounces.

“Girl, you better spill. I’ve been sitting here for two hours, waiting for you, practically out of my mind with worry. The ice cream has melted, so we can cross that off our to-do list. Didn’t you get my messages?”

I crumble into the couch. I’m exhausted from fighting with Holden, with Dr. Allen, with myself. If it were anyone but Izzy, I might be able to fake some kind of normal. But Iz is the only person, besides my parents and Luke, who knows the whole story. And I have to tell someone.

She flops next to me and puts her hand over mine. “Stella, what’s wrong?”

“Apparently, there’s only one Luke Dixon in the world,” I mutter, my eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“What?” Slowly, the meaning dawns on her. “It can’t be. The same Luke Dixon? Where? How? What happened?”

“I ran into him in the hallway. Literally ran into him. And when I say literally, I mean literally. He didn’t recognize me. I couldn’t say anything. I just stood there like an enormous lump of human flesh. It was seriously embarrassing. I mean, really. I’m such an idiot.”

I sound manic. Insane. I take a long breath and force myself to speak slowly. “Iz...How could he not recognize me? Have I changed so much?”

Wisely, she doesn’t answer, but she does open her arms and I curl myself into them. Long minutes pass before she draws back, a pensive look on her face.

“What are you going to do?”

I straighten my spine and ram my head against the couch in frustration. “Avoid him at all costs, which in itself is kind of a problem, since it appears to be Luke Dixon or bust. I already tried to pick up another class, which was a total fail, and then I tried to talk Dr. Delicious into switching my lab section.”

“And...” she prompts.

I groan. “He was absolutely no help. And...” I hesitate. She’s going to think I’m crazy. “I think maybe he was flirting with me.”

“Who? Luke?”

“No. Luke thinks I’m some mute airhead who doesn’t know how to walk in a straight line.”
How is that even possible? How could he not recognize me?
“No, I think Dr. Evans was flirting with me. I mean Holden. His name is Holden.”

Iz is dubious, at best. “Are you sure? No offense, Stella, but you haven’t been on the dating wagon for a long, long, long time now. Maybe he was just trying to be friendly. You know, like maybe he wanted to make a good impression on the students so he doesn’t get slaughtered on the end-of-semester evaluations?”

“Maybe.”

“Did he take extra opportunities to touch you? Offer private tutoring? Ask you out?” She giggles, forcing her voice into a deep register. “I’ve taken a personal interest in your understanding of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Then it’s not flirting.”

She’s probably right. I’m out of practice. It’s totally normal for professors to make eye contact. A lot of eye contact.

Seeing my annoyance and mistaking it for injured pride, she says quickly, “He’s not even your type. You know that I love that sun-kissed, All-American, man-boy thing that he has going on, but your taste runs in a different direction. You have a thing for tortured bad boys with tattoos and motorcycles.”

She doesn’t say the last part—specifically, I have a thing for boys named Luke Dixon. I’m grateful for her restraint.

“You’re right. It’s not like it matters. He wasn’t flirting with me.”

“No, he probably was,” she adds, generously. “But we have bigger problems right now than a potential Dr. Delicious romance. What are you going to do about Luke?”

She’s right. Bigger problems. Enormous problems. I sigh. “Basically, I’m screwed. Either I drop the class or attend twice-weekly sessions with him. I’d rather claw my eyes out with a dull pencil than see his face twice a week. I don’t even own a pencil. Do people even use pencils anymore?”

She ignores my ramblings. It’s probably best. “You’ve busted your ass for the last three years to get a Rhodes scholarship. I’m the unemployed art history major. You’re supposed to be the one college graduate in the country who actually gets a job that pays enough to cover your student loans. That in itself is kind of ironic, since you don’t need a job. Or have any loans. Or need to work. Hell, I’m banking on your dad hiring me to curate the Granger art collection.”

“Good luck with that one. I think there might be a few crayon drawings in the basement. Masterpieces by a toddler without an ounce of talent. And I do need to work. My mom thinks trust funds are the root of all evil in the world, remember?”

“Fine. Then neither of us will use your family connections, and I’ll still be unemployed and you’ll still be the next self-made billionairess. When that happens, I’ll manage your art collection. Stella, you’re my only hope.”

I pick up the ball and run with it. “What are you talking about? You have plenty of job prospects. I hear there’s a huge demand for people who study 18
^th
century American silver-making.”

She flips her middle finger at me. “Stop dallying. What are you going to do about Luke?”

I groan. “If I drop the class, I’ll be right alongside you on the bread lines. If I don’t drop the class, I might have to spend some time in a sanatorium. It’s a pretty easy choice, really. I can’t take the class.”

“But...”

My pointed look makes it perfectly clear that I don’t want to discuss this any further.

“Okay. Well, if you’re going to end up on the bread lines after all, I can at least offer you a distraction.”

I have a sneaking suspicion that I know exactly what kind of distraction she’s talking about.

“Tell me, Iz. What kind of distraction do you have in mind?”

“The best kind. A party.”

There really wasn’t any point in asking. “I was at a party last night, and I can tell you that it wasn’t all that distracting, unless you count Reese’s poignant rendition of
Streetcar
.”

“That was a frat party. Let’s be real, Stella bella. We matured past frat parties about two years and eight months ago. But I heard that there’s another kind of party tonight. A Phillips party. Since we’re finally 21, I think it’s time to see what all the fuss is about.” She wiggles her eyebrows, anticipation written all over her face.

I owe Izzy one. Or two. Or two thousand. I can’t disappoint her, even if the first thing I want to do is to crawl under my covers and the last thing I want to do is to go to Phillips.

Which happens to be a club. A swanky, lavish, over-the-top club. First of all, the bouncers check ID, which in itself makes it stand out from every other freaking bar in the vicinity of campus. It’s also the holy grail of the party scene. It’s impossible to get in on a normal night, but forget about it on the night of one of their infamous parties. Those “soirees”—masquerades and black-tie murder mystery dinners and flawlessly themed balls—are invitation-only, over-the-top, and usually include a smattering of Atlanta’s nouveau rich and famous. Girls in their best slutwear start lining up four or five hours before the doors open to take a chance on being randomly picked from the crowd. 99% of them go home disappointed.

As freshmen, Izzy and I made a bet with Danny and some of his frat brothers that we would be able to get into a Phillips party by Christmas of our senior year. There’s a thousand bucks in it for each of us if we bring back photographic evidence. If we lose, we have to wash the car of every guy in the house. To music. In bikinis. It’s too humiliating to contemplate.

“A thousand dollars, Stella...” Iz taunts. “Do you know how many really bad emo music downloads that would buy you? You’ll be swimming in indie rock.”

I shoot her a dirty look. “My emo rock phase was two years ago. It’s jazz again.”

“Of course. Jazz. The rich woman’s emo indie rock.”

I throw a pillow at her. “There’s no way we’re getting in, Iz.”

“I have a surefire way of getting us in.”

“Bribery? Blackmail?”

“They’re calling it the Bootlegger Masquerade Ball.” She pats my arm affectionately and grabs the two plastic garment bags that are sitting on the chair in the corner. “It’s a stroke of incredibly good fortune,” she continues, pulling the first one out and grinning. “That my favorite roommate of all time happens to be a brilliant fashion designer and seamstress.”

“Your only roommate of all time happens to be a former, amateur fashion designer and seamstress,” I counter. “It was a rebellious phase. My mother hates fashion and I’m not tall enough or hot enough to be a model. It was part of my former life.”

“Clearly former. Look at your wardrobe. Black. Combat. Boots. I think that’s all I need to say. You claim that you used to be fashionable, but the only evidence of that I see is these two, absolutely opulent creations.”

She holds the ivory dress against her soft caramel-colored skin. “I think this one is mine, don’t you think?”

I take it from her hands and run my fingers over the smooth silk and beaded fringe.

“It’s beautiful, Stella,” she adds. “It deserves to be worn. By me, I think. Because the other one is your piéce de résistance.”

She hands over the other garment bag, and I touch the dress with the kind of reverence customarily reserved for cathedrals and palaces. For two months, I spent every waking second (when I wasn’t thinking about Luke Dixon) agonizing over every detail. It’s definitely the most beautiful thing I ever created—my own little Mona Lisa. The dark green silk is cut low in the front, and the overlaid gold and silver beading radiates out from the core, forming a corset-like bodice that ultimately tapers out into a flouncy skirt. It’s a bit more risqué than most of the pieces from the period, but that’s due to its intended function—it’s a dress meant for dancing, for drinking, for merriment.

Izzy touches the rows of beads with deft fingers. “You’re really talented, Stella.”

I don’t dispute it. I’ve always been hopelessly vain about my dresses. I can’t sing, I can’t play the piano, I can’t dunk a basketball, and I certainly won’t ever be an Olympic sprinter. But once upon a time, I could make dresses. And I was good at it.

The green and gold one had been meant the last charity ball of the summer before I left for my freshman year of college—a ball that I never attended.

“They’re begging us,” Izzy says. “Wear me, Stella, it says. Wear me.”

“You’re right,” I admit. “They do deserve to be worn.”

She claps her hands and squeals. “When you add my makeover skills to the mix, we’re golden. We are so going to a Phillips party. Danny and all of his little friends can eat their own shit.”

“What did you say?”

“Oh, you know what I mean. They are going to open their pocketbooks and pay us each a thousand bucks. We’ll live off the stories from this one for the entire year.”

“You said makeover skills?”

“Yes, my dear, darling, favorite roommate ever...”

“Only roommate ever,” I correct.

“Makeover time. You made the dresses, and now it’s my turn. Your dress was meant for blond hair, and you don’t have blond hair anymore, so we need to create an illusion.”

She studies me with her artist’s eye. I would normally put up of more of a protest, but I know that under Izzy’s effervescent exterior, there’s a steel core. When she makes her mind up about something, it’s a done deal. Plus, there is a truly dizzying array of brushes and powders and pots in her hands. I’m starting to feel nauseated.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” she says gleefully.

“Oh, I have some idea. You only tell me about a million times a day. I want our own apartment, you want a makeover day. It’s an old, sad refrain. I was never going to get my dream of an apartment, and you...”

“Finally get to fulfill my lifelong dream of making you look like a human being. Hush. The artisté is at work.”

I sulk. She plucks and prods and tweaks and brushes me into another new version of myself. After what feels like hours in her chair, she sighs dramatically and spins my chair around.

“You’re a goddess. There’s nothing I can do. I’m going to be frumpy next to you.”

I don’t dignify that with a response, even if it does go against best friend code. Iz is gorgeous—caramel skin, enormous brown eyes, and deeply tanned, flawless skin. The skin and curves come from her mother, who held the title of Miss Puerto Rico back in the eighties, and her perfect bone structure and full lips come from her father, who is old-school handsome, like Cary Grant or Clark Gable. On my best day as a blond, I wouldn’t hold a candle to her.

“Just wait until you see yourself,” she says, pushing me into my room. “Get your dress on. I’m going to get my face ready, but be warned—you peek in the mirror, and there’s a seriously awful death waiting for you. You can’t take the big reveal away from me.”

“You don’t need to worry about that.”

It’s true—I’ve already looked in the mirror once today. I’d rather not do it again.

Once the dress is arranged to my satisfaction, I flip through my iPod, since Iz is certainly going to be awhile. My eye catches on
Nina Simone Sings the Blues
. Click. Her dusky voice, filled with power and pain and hurt and vengeance, fills my head until there’s no room for anything else, not even a glimmer of totally clueless, and endlessly beautiful, blue eyes.

Nina helps. Bob Marley helps. It all helps. I’ve listened to half of my playlists before Izzy’s yelling forces me to remove the earbuds.

“Get your ass out here!”

“Took you long enough,” I grumble, smoothing my dress down.

I intend to give her more grief, but I can’t help but smile when I see her. The ivory dress was intended to fit loosely, but instead, it hugs each and every one of Izzy’s curves. It’s perfect.

Iz claps in delight, hands me a mask, and says, in her best fairy godmother voice, “Close your eyes, Cinderella.”

I slide the mask over my face as Izzy angles my body before a mirror.

“Okay. Open.”

I’m curious. It’s only natural.

I blink three times. If I click my heels together, I have no doubt that I will be transported into a magical land complete with singing munchkins.