The Culture of Hooking Up

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

*PLEASE be mindful of a slight TRIGGER WARNING for this chapter regarding a brief mention of sexual violence/assault*

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A dim white light spotlights my feet every few steps, but it does nothing to diminish the eerie night sky above my head, or the shadows that cover me in between. But I continue to walk along. My black sandals scrape and scuff against the cement as I go.

Two claps.

"Take back the night!"

Two stomps.

"Take back the night!"

My goal is to reach the two torches burning alongside the four large tables that are pushed together and block the entrance to the student center. The closer and closer I get the more people I see clustered around with green and purple glow-sticks wrapped around their heads, necks, and wrists.

Soon the tall, overarching white lamps aren't the only thing lining my path, but also two long clotheslines. My steps slow as a slight breeze rolls through all the items, billowing each one forward, one by one, the same way the peak of a tidal wave curves as it rolls around and around and gets smaller and smaller until it merges into the sand beneath.

There's a little, red satin dress with two spaghetti straps. There is a slit in the front hem, but it's not a fashion statement. It was torn. The large white poster board hanging beside it has words sprawled out in thick black sharpie. Girls Night out for my twenty-first birthday.

I take another step forward and find just a pair of light washed jeans and a white t-shirt. I told him I wasn't in the mood. He didn't care.

Beside that is a light blue bikini, but one of the ties on the bottoms looks torn out and frayed. My brother had a few friends over. He was cute. We were dancing. We were having fun. I got drunk. He got drunk. I woke up half naked in our pool house and never saw him again.

Beside that is a pair of pink and purple plaid pajama bottoms, and an oversized pajama t-shirt with our faded university logo on it. We were watching a movie in my dorm, and then next thing I knew my hands were behind my back and my face was pressed into my mattress.

I wrap my arms around my abdomen as I picture myself in all of them. The little red dress, the jeans, the bikini, and the pajamas. I see myself in all of them. My fingers dig into my sides, but a low whistle makes me turn my head to the right.

A brief smile graces my lips when I see Taryne headed my way in black jeans and a black t-shirt. She painted #TakeBackTheNight across the front in purple neon and splatter painted the rest of it with a mix of neon colors. Her lips curve up when I open my arms like a mama bear, but she stays silent, which speaks volumes.

Usually, her party time mood would make her fingers snap, her hips sway, and she'd say, "what's cookin' good looking?" or if she had a long day she'd just say, "hey, babe" before flopping down on her bed. Or even when we're bothering the hell out of each other, her face will scrunch up, especially her usually glossy nude colored lips, and she'd say, "you think too much."

I'd usually mimic her expression. "You talk too much."

"Big head."

"Big mouth."

She'd wiggles her eyebrows. "We could make magic."

"Get a room!" one of our roommates would sometimes even yell.

"Next to yours!" I'd sing back before we'd all burst out laughing.

But right now, we both remain silent as I wrap my arm around her shoulder and squeeze her in a side hug. Her braids feel soft as I lean my chin on them for a second before we both pull away. Taryne walks with me to the tables so I can take a sharpie and sign the pledge for more safe spaces on campus.

Two claps.

"Take back the night!"

Two stomps.

"Take back the night!"

****

"Thanks, lover," Taryne jokes after I help her fold up the last table and carry it inside the propped side doors of the student center.

"You're welcome, stud muffin," I joke back, but quickly reach back to block her hands from slapping my butt. We both end up grabbing each other's wrists, pushing and pulling, until she's satisfied with a light tap on my left butt cheek before she goes to convene with the rest of the BSU members for the last time before they call it a night.

Professor Berkley and the few other professors that showed up to sponsor and support the event help douse the metal burn bin of clothesline clothes, while other clothes were packed in boxes to be donated. I'm one of the few non-club members still straggling around.

With my cross body bag and a yawn, I turn on my heel, ready to collapse on my bed. My steps are slow in hopes that Taryne will catch up, but she usually walks slow, not in a bad way, but rather, whether she's running early or late, she always rightfully stays at her own pace.

I turn to my right at the sound of sniffling, that could easily be mistaken for leaves rustling, but my initial instinct is right when I find there's a girl pressing her hand into the rough brown bark of a tree. Her black band tee almost blends in with the night sky above us as it's tucked into her grey plaid skirt. It's her long white socks and white sneakers that catch my attention as well as the purple glow stick necklace lying at her feet. The first word that comes to mind is small. She looks so small all curled into herself with her toes turned in and her chest doubling over the grass. Her long black hair, at the very least, must reach her backside, but it looks light and thin as it sways and quakes with each stuttering heave of her chest.

I want to ask if she's okay, but it's futile. I know she's not.

I stomp through the distance between us, shrugging off my cardigan as I go, and wrap it around the girl's shoulders. I even go a step further, instinctively, hugging her into my side the same way I hugged Taryne earlier because she's Alessia.

She's Taryne.

She's my mom.

She's the petite blonde girl from the club.

She's me.

Not because we've experienced the same things, but because we've all at some point felt lost within our own bodies. We've all lost ownership of our bodies. Whether that ownership was wrongfully—abusively stolen right from underneath us, or we consciously let it slip through our own fingers because we felt this indescribable pressure to let it. We've all felt like an object, used and tossed aside. We've all had those once seen can't be unseen moments in life that have shriveled up the last bit of innocence left within us. Those no turning back, can't be who I was before, don't want to be who I was before, yet miss the before all the same, kind of moments.

No hug or favorite cardigan can change that, but I still keep the girl clamped into my side silently wishing it could.