Page 1 of Burn Bright
1
HARRIET FISHER
Itake my beer and my scowl to the wall. Me and the wall—great friends. My only current friend.
This party feels like an amalgamation of hipsters, jocks, beauty queens, and outcasts. A totalBreakfast Clubscenario. But instead of five people sharing detention there are a hundred-plus sharing a frat house.
My white crop top and red-and-black checkered, verylow-rise pants—which I love in all their early 2000s punk glory—shouldn’t cause me to stand out that much.I’m positive I saw a guy wearing a spiked collar five minutes ago.
I take a stiff sip of beer.
Alone.
Avoiding direct eye contact with others.
Maybe I thought things would be different at Manhattan Valley University.
New city, new college, new outcomes. But I might be part of the problem when it comes to making friends. I don’t know how to be warmand inviting. I can blame it on my scowl and permanent Resting Bitch Face, but the truth is I could try harder to be softer. More approachable. Yet, the thought ofbeing someone that people activelywantto approach makes me scowl even harder. Is it weird? To want friends but alsonotwant them?
Sure, the idea of friends sounds amazing. People to hang out with, laugh with, go to the movies and venture to the mall with. But friends also come with drama—like what if they judge me? Hate me? What if I do something wrong to mess it all up? Or worse, what if they’re amazing friends, and they start wanting more from me? So I’d have to start sharing about my lifeand get into my past, and all that sounds so incredibly taxing that I’d like to just fling myself into a dilapidated cabin in the South Pole where no one can find me.
Friends…sometimes the fantasy seems better than the reality.
And it’s not just girls that I struggle to connect with in that way. I’ve never had a friendship with a guy. I’ve never wanted to be adopted as one of thebros.I can’t wrap my head around what a guy’s girl even looks like. It sounds like phony fucking baloney.
I’m not even really attempting to make a friend tonight. Literally, my goals are on the floor. I just want to have a better-than-average time at this party.
When I go to the backyard for some fresh air, a thought slams at me.
I shouldn’t have come here.
Maybe I should’ve stayed inside and melted into the plaster. Kappa guys play beer pong on the grass while couples giggle-fight during a game of chicken in the pool, and I’mjusttrying to reach a corner of the fence.
“She’s so tiny,” a six-foot-something asshole with a humongous smile says. He wears an MVU Row Team shirt, and he elbows his preppy friend in the side. “Like a little Polly Pocket.” They snort together.
I try to walk around the jock for the second time.
He side-stepsagain. “Whoa, Polly, how tall are you?” He tries to pat my head, and I jerk backward.
“Leave me alone.” I raise my voice which contains rasp and grit.
But their glassy eyes say they’re four beers in and I’m as threatening as a Chihuahua. “Come on, you’re supposed to befun-sized.” He downs a big gulp. “Befun.”
His friend laughs, then leans into the jock to mutter, “Those are definitely party-sized, though.” Their heavy-lidded eyes drop to my chest.
Yeah, I have larger than average boobs. I’ve been told this super uninteresting fact since the tenth grade. Guys like to act as if it’s surprising to me. Like I don’t realize my tits are, I don’t know,attachedto my fucking body.
I can see them.
I know they’re big.
And I wish I didn’t finish off my beer in the house. I’d throw it at his face. Cup and all. Instead, I flip them off with two middle fingers. “How’s this for fun?”
They snicker, like I’m playing around. Like this is just a game and I should lighten up. It’s a party, right? We’re at a frat house on campus. People aren’t taking anything seriously here.
I’m the buzzkill.
But maybe I don’t want to be the five-foot-one party favor.
