The Van Pact

15: Valerie

The third Saturday night in September, and it was chilly enough to wear my black suede military jacket. Yeah, I knew it would get hot inside the Secret Art Space. I've been there before. They have a coat check room. Okay, It's a glorified closet run on the honors system, but my black suede is synthetic. Plus it's already four years old and cracking at the collar. Who'd want to steal that? I wanted to wear my favorite leopard mini skirt and my favorite red pumps, and my favorite green canvas military jacket would be just too many favorite things all at once. So I went with black. I had bigger things to focus on. Stevie was the real project.

First things first, she needed something with cleavage, but nothing trashy. I'm thicker than she is, not that I'm lucky enough to be truly thick. I'm actually the "skinny" cousin at both the DiPaolo and Colón annual family reunions (my grandmas never cease to remind me of that). See, all alive humans (and probably a few dead skeletons, too) are thicker than Stevie. It was unlikely that anything in my wardrobe would be tight enough on her to create the illusion of hips. I considered running to the Target that afternoon and picking up something perfect for the occasion, but Jan asked Carla and me to do film another episode of How I Met Maz Kanata (I play Poe. Gah, so cool). By the time that was done, all I could fit into my schedule was dinner (My mom made pork chops! Oh happy day!).

I arrived at Stevie's house just before seven, empty-handed, but determined to find something in her closet. Stevie didn't answer the door, so I had to let myself in, as per usual anymore, what's the deal with that? I found her in her room. She was lying face down on her bed. All she had on was an off-white bath towel. Her hair was wet.

"Just give up," she moaned into her pillow when she heard my footsteps. "Let's not go."

"We're going, Stevie." I took off my jacket and hung it on the back of her desk chair. If I'd been wearing long sleeves, I would have rolled them up.

"I've changed my mind," Stevie tilted her head so that only the right side of her face was smushed against the pillow. She looked miserable at me. "I want to die."

"You don't really want to die," I slid open the collapsible doors of Stevie's closet, "and break Jesse's poor little uggo heart."

"He wouldn't even notice," Stevie moaned again.

"What are ya talking about? He snapped you last night to make sure you were coming," I examined a black lace dress I didn't know Stevie owned. It was too flowy and seventies-hippie. She'd look like Old Grim Bones.

"Yeah, but I checked my transits this morning," Stevie rolled onto her back, while clutching her bath towel in place, "there's absolutely nothing there. Venus, Mars, Jupiter, nothing."

"What?" I pulled out a pair of ripped blue jeans that looked like something even Kurt Cobain would throw away. "Are you talking about your horoscope again?"

"No," Stevie sat up, "horoscopes as you know them are cookie cutter garbage. I checked my transits. Those take in account your entire natal chart, not just the sun sign."

"Your devotion to this pseudoscience is endearing," I now sifted through Stevie's hangers one by one, "insane, but endearing."

"It's not a pseudoscience. It's esoteric," Stevie hopped up from her bed, "and I got no chance today." She took one of her closet door handles, and motioned for me to step away.

"We make our own chances," I said.

"We're wrong about Jesse, he doesn't like me." Stevie stepped in front of me and reached for the other door handle. "I know it." But before she could shut her closet, something red and sparkly caught my eye.