Page 3 of The New Girl

Not so at St. Swithins College where the student body knewJane Eyrechapter and verse and the whole Brontë canon.

Imogene said: “It’s a bit whimsical, isn’t it? I’m sure your mother meant well, but it’s not going to do you any favors in academic circles. What’s your middle name?”

“That is my middle name. My full name is Charlotte Jane Aire.”

Imogene frowned as she sponged heavy makeup from her face. “Fuck me, that’s worse. ‘Jane’ it will have to be then–unless I can call you Charlie?”

“No.”

“Your funeral.”

She shook out her hair and fluffed it up. The transformation from Shakespearean whore to fresh-faced college girl was complete.

I examined my reflection in the dressing room mirror. I wasn’t bad-looking, but my past boyfriends said I lacked sex appeal. Next to Imogene, I took sexlessness to the next level.

My clothes didn’t help but at least I fit in at St. Swithins with my plaid schoolgirl skirts, brown tights and Oxford shoes. When selecting my college wardrobe, I went for ‘inoffensive academic.’

Most of the girls wore knee-length skirts, white gabardine blouses, school ties from schools I’d never heard of, leather lace-up shoes with thick tights or knee-high socks. Outerwear was berets, handknit scarves, duffle coats or houndstooth double-breasted, belted around the middle with the collars pulled up against the autumn chill.

The only difference between us was that their clothes were purchased from exclusive boutiques. Mine came from thrift stores and rummage sales in my hometown.

Imogene frowned again and shook her head. “You can’t wear that to the bar. You won’t get laid in that outfit and getting laid is the whole purpose of this evening.”

“I thought it was to relax with an overpriced beverage and scintillating conversation.” I looked at my blue sweater vest, gray blouse and pleated skirt. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“It’s positively virginal. Here–take off your blouse. Just unbutton it and pull it out from under the vest. That’s it. Now take off your tights–oh my god, you’ll get them back, Jane! Roll up the waistband of your skirt.”

Imogene picked up a pair of shears and chopped the legs off my tights over my howls of protest.

“Relax. I’m turning them into stockings. Here, try them on.”

I rolled each one up to my upper thigh, stopping just below the hem of my skirt, exposing a section of skin. “That’s as high as it will go. You cut them too short.”

“That’s the whole idea. Leave them where they are. Use these elastics to keep them in place.”

She teased my hair into a messy, wild cloud, then reached for a red lipstick and followed that with black eyeliner.

When she was finished, I scrutinized the effect. My arms were bare and the V-neck sweater vest clung to the curves of mybreasts. The exposed thigh skin above the stocking was sexy. “I look like a streetwalker.”

“Better than looking like an Amish refugee. Grab your blouse on and let’s get going before all the good men are taken.”

I slipped the blouse on for marginal coverage. My beret covered my hair and ears and fortunately, the duffle coat I was wearing was long enough to cover the salacious patch of thigh.

We left the theater on foot, walking to the bar with our hands stuffed in our pockets and the stars snapping with cold.

“Is Lysander seeing anyone?” I tried to sound only mildly interested, but Imogene was an actress. Her ear was trained to pick up subtle inflections in tone.

“Jane, don’t waste your time on Lysander Stark. He’s everything I said he was, but he’s not relationship material. He’s positively broken. Lots of girls have tried to fix him and failed. I like him–we all love Sander–but we don’t know him. He doesn’t let anyone in. He’s damaged, Jane. It’s not his fault he’s damaged, but getting involved with him will only damage you too.”

My face was hot. “I wasn’t planning on getting involved with him or any guy at Swithins. I don’t have time for a relationship between my job and my studies. I was just curious after Alexis Bancroft’s comment.”

Imogene wasn’t fooled. She slipped her arm in mine. “The last time I heard, he’s not seeing anyone, but I’m not in his secret club so my information could be faulty. I’m going to get you laid tonight and that’ll drive whatever voodoo Lysander has you under right out of your head.”

The voodoo was a rock hard cock that was the size of a bat, pressing against my belly. I couldn’t get his body out of my mind. His mouth … his eyes … his strong hands pinning my wrists over my head….

The response he excited in me that night cried out to be released. Maybe the solution was another man.

I wanted to ask her what secret club she was referring to but I didn’t dare. Lysander Stark was damaged and if Imogene Franklin, who grew up with him, was warning me off, I was willing to pay attention.

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