Mr. Brandolini's Assignment

vi. columbusing

Trigger warning: drugs. Mild drugs, but still. 

-------------------------------

vi. columbusing

 Omar texted me to tell me that the thingy at his house would start at seven-ish, so Jürgen and I decided that the appropriate time to show up would be eight. We were doing this not to be fashionably late but just to avoid the start-up awkwardness at any get-together, especially a small one. Apparently it was only going to be Omar, two of his friends, me, and Jürgen. So at seven, by when we should’ve technically been there already, I was flinging open my wardrobe and declaring loudly, ‘I have nothing to wear.’

 ‘Leena, pretend-we’re-in-a-movie hour ended at six,’ Jurgen mumbled, coming over to stand behind me.

 ‘I’m serious,’ I said. ‘I really have nothing to wear.’

 ‘You have everything to wear,’ he said, gesturing at the jumble of mostly useless apparel that constituted my wardrobe. Then he randomly plucked out a hanger, from which was hung a slinky peach chiffon top I hadn’t the faintest memory of ever purchasing. ‘Here, wear this and wear jeans. You’re done. And you’re welcome.’

 ‘It’s sleeveless,’ I said, spouting a trope common in our land of oily male oglers and inefficient depilatory devices.

 ‘So?’

 ‘My pits are like the Black Forest right now, Jurgen.’

 He made a faintly grossed-out expression and I held back a retort and a few seventies-era sociopolitical references. I grabbed the top and hung it back up, where it promptly slunk back into its previous hiding place, where it would remain forever. We stood looking at my clothes for a few seconds.

 ‘Um,’ Jurgen said. ‘So nothing sleeveless.’

 I shook my head.

 ‘Why are you even dressing up for this?’ he asked, turning to me. ‘Like, it’s not a party or anything. You look fine as you are.’

 I was wearing a boring, grey Marvel t-shirt with this overwashed crinkly Hawkeye print on it and skinny jeans and flip-flops. I didn’t look as ‘fine’ as I looked ‘I really don’t give a shit’. Which, actually, wasn’t so bad.

 I shrugged and closed my wardrobe. ‘Guess you’re right.’

 So that was done. We went back to what we’d been doing pre-seven ‘o’ clock: lying on opposite ends of my bed and reading our respective books, playing bicycle with our feet and testing Newton’s third law of motion. At seven-thirty, we departed, not before I carefully swiped on eyeliner so it wouldn’t look like I didn’t put in any effort at all. So ultimately my grunge was as soft as a baby’s butt, and Jurgen was just…Jurgen, in his ubiquitous sweatpants and t-shirt, on which there was an illustration from Go Fly a Kite, which was the cheesiest of cheesy Bing Crosby songs, but described Jurgen very well. If the world went my way, I’d have Jurgen wearing that t-shirt like all the time.

 But the world didn’t go my way, in fact, it went aggressively un-my-way, which was why he sometimes wore muscle tees and glossy basketball shorts.

 The security guards at Omar’s gate buzzed us in without too many questions, probably because they saw me in the morning. As we walked up the short easement to the house, leaves crunching under our flip-flops, Jurgen mumbled, ‘Not just an STO, but a rich STO. Well picked, darling, well picked.’