“Yeee-OUCH!” My Tusken Raider voice ululates, and my hands flit to my neck to wrest any ponytail I have left from Abby’s grasp. “What are you doing back there?”  

With a huff, she releases her hold on the brush she’s wrapped my curls around. “Trying to tame this rat’s nest.”   

“Well, brute force isn’t the answer,” I assure her, carefully unwinding single strands from the cylindrical bristles. “Hand me that detangling spray.”  

She steps aside and shuffles the bottles of product crowding the top shelf of the rolling cart stuffed between our desks. The purple pump appears at my elbow before I have the brush loose, and I knock it to the floor. She scoops it up, bobbling huge curlers precisely plaited with her sleek, blonde locks, and sets it on a notebook a reasonable distance from me.   

“But your hair’s so pretty when you fix it!” The compliment comes through her nose in a whine. She pulls her chair beside me and watches me spray and comb my frizz until copper ringlets appear.

“I’m not taking another shower for a stupid party.” I hit a bad snag. “Finals are next week; we should be studying.”  

She makes a sour expression that I only half-catch in the small mirror balanced against the screen of my open laptop. “Exactly! First semester’s almost over, and you’ve talked to three whole boys. And no one new has popped up on your feed.”  

All I can do is groan. On the fly, I don’t remember any guys she could’ve seen me seriously talking to. Greg and I mapped out a new D&D campaign at Quinn’s place after the homecoming game. But if she thinks a dozen people getting stoned on a random front porch qualifies as a party, they were smoking something stronger than I thought. Boys are just … not my thing.  

“There’s someone I want to introduce you to.” She drops the bomb from a safe distance, out of my striking range. This Barbie Doll would’ve whispered it into my ear if she didn’t know I’d smack the shit out of her.   

“Oh, hell no!” As I push my chair back in protest, my reflection catches me. Damnit, my hair already looks great.   

She gives me a British nanny tut, grabs my knees, and spins me toward her. Then, she dumps the contents of her gigantic makeup tote across my desk. Fuck! I’ll have fifteen shades of glitter sticking to my notes for weeks. That should help cement the battles of the Thirty Years’ War.  

“Come on, Sage!” She dabs foundation onto my cheeks, and her voice falls into a melodic pattern meant to soothe me despite the pokes. “In my Astro lab last month, I heard an argument about bags of holders break out at this table across the room.”  

“Bags of holding.” I have to growl as she swipes her blender under my jaw, but the correction must be made.  

“Whatever.” Heavily inked wings and vivid stripes of teal exaggerate her eye roll. “Point is, it could’ve been you, getting all heated over nonsense. You and what’s-his-name are always going on about plus-something-blah-blah-blah.” Okay, so she didn’t include Greg in the boy count. “I moved closer during the lectures and started listening to conversations. Apparently, you’re both into those Studio Jibari movies.”  

“Studio Ghibli.” Why must she say stupid shit while she has my face immobilized?  

Her goofy grin bobs as she reaches for the eyeliner. “Yeah, that!”  

I close my lids begrudgingly. “Don’t give me a big raccoon mask like yours. Allure does nothing for me.”  

“Not with your dark circles. Shut up and trust me.” She drags her marker across my eye, but she sticks to my lash line and doesn’t go crazy. I peek while she clacks through the palates, only to find the mirror missing. She must’ve hidden it. Guess trust isn’t a choice.  

We need muscle on the campaign. Kyle-the-asshole-DM thinks a fair encounter means throwing a dozen minions with long bows on top of a BBEG designed to kill the entire party. My Tabaxi wizard has high intellect stats, but the little bitch is aggressive and starts fights she can’t finish. Greg is a bard with abandonment issues, and Kian is an herbalist druid obsessed with impressing us with the advantages of shapeshifting into a squirrel. Spoiler alert: distracting the Owlbear was a fluke; squirrels aren’t worth dick against Illithids and Beholders.   

A badass barbarian would fit right in, and with the type of dudes Abby picks, he’ll have a musclebound character with an overpowered sword. Maybe that’ll satisfy Kyle’s bloodlust long enough for someone to cast a fucking spell.  

Abby’s glossing my lips, so I can’t laugh, although my evil mind juxtaposes an image of the last frat boy she brought home with a table of my friends. Damn, would we tear into that dumbass! He couldn’t string half a dozen words together sober, and he lit up in our room at 10 a.m. on a Wednesday, so I can’t imagine what he does at his own place.   

Let’s hope this nerf herder at least has a multisyllabic vocabulary. I have no desire to listen to some fuckwad grunt down a case of PBR tonight.   

Abby spritzes me with a gallon of setting spray and admires her work. She tips her head to scrutinize, ultimately giving a nod and fishing the mirror out from under her keyboard so I can see.  

It’s good enough. She didn’t cake a bunch of vibrant streaks on me, just a little violet eyeshadow and soft mascara. A touch of cherry-pink blush, the least glittery shade she owns. My eyes are big and brown, so wide they imply I haven’t been living on five hours of sleep all week. I look cute.  

She scoots to her side of the dorm and bends over her own desk, unwinding the curlers. Beach waves fall like she walked off the cover of a magazine. “Go get dressed. And no bands no one’s heard of.”  

I plod to the closet and flip through my clothes. “Your shitty taste is not my fault. Or my problem.”  

“You’re welcome to borrow my pink dress and silver heels.”   

A slinky number sparkles from her side of the bar with a skirt too short to keep me warm in July, let alone November. Fuck that.   

I snag a soft blue T-shirt and spin it around. “How’s Shaak Ti? Star Wars may be a classic with wide appeal, but she’s a niche character. Separates the posers from the true fans.”  

She doesn’t even glance at me. “That’s your problem right there, True Fan.”  

I should twist my shit up into space buns, just to piss her off. Nah; it’s curling too well to mess up solely for spite. I settle for a couple of plain clips to hold the front and back, and my Kyber Crystal necklace, in case Abby’s paying attention. She nods her approval, probably ignorant of what the chunk of quartz symbolizes.   

While she’s distracted with her final primps, I slip on my Sketchers. Is she letting me go out in jeans and practical shoes? Last time she found an excuse to drag me to a spot where she thought there’d be boys, the only acceptable outfits required Spanx. Apparently, hot guys love seeing girdles scattered on their bedroom floors.  

That night was a fiasco. She wandered away with some jerk-off, and I was stuck with assholes pawing at me for hours.  

She doesn’t bitch when I grab my tattered hoodie from the hook, though her own coat stays put. Whatever. I can’t explain her sudden acceptance streak, but I’ll take it.   

The blustery wind swirling leaves down the brick paths makes me even gladder. I snuggle into my warm layers while she shivers and rubs her bare arms. Lucky for her, we have a short hike to the dump her friends rent a few blocks from campus.   

Chaos greets us as we’re walking down Palmer. Nothing interesting; the usual “go Bobcats” and “more beer”. Inside, it’s somehow worse. The scent of keg foam and smoke fills the air, with a sour undertone that suggests stomach acid has already infused the carpet. Bodies pack every square inch of the kitchen and dining area, gyrating as if Bluto’d screamed, “Toga!” Although the living room’s no quieter, a group of twenty or so spilling out from the couch in a vague circle engages in several fractured conversations as a two-foot bong passes among them.  

Abby drags me by the wrist as though I need her to point out viable routes to the bathroom, poking her head into every door we pass. She snags a pair of Solo cups from a suspiciously prefilled arrangement and shoves one into my other hand. I let it hang, a prop, not a beverage.   

We reach the enclosed porch before she gasps and walks all the way across a doorjamb. There’s giddy excitement in her goofy-ass wiggle. Oh god, she’s been looking for the dude for me all along? It can’t be good if it means this much to her.  

She pulls me to the far wall between a pair of plant stands, offering dappled cover, and leans in, Cassian-sneaky. “Okay, that’s Jamie.”  

I pick faces out of the twinkle-light glow. A couple of band kids circle in the corner, miming trombone slides. The green-mohawked skater boy from my English section, who wrote the coolest villanelle, is gazing longingly at a guy I recognize from the time I made it to an Anime Club meeting. Twenty bucks says they disappear upstairs before the playlist loops. And on the couch, there’s a woman wearing a fabulous Aayla Secura/Quinlan Vos V-neck with a bob such a perfect shade of lavender, I need her stylist. Or wigmaker; it looks awesome on her, and I’m jealous whichever direction she goes.  

There are no ripped sleeves, studded collars, or assholes wearing sunglasses in sight. Who is Abby so interested in?   

“Where?”  

She pretends to take a sip of beer. It must be the best excuse she can come up with to stare straight ahead. “There, on the gray sofa, playing on her phone.”  

Wait, the chick with the impressive Dark Horse knowledge? “The girl with purple hair?”  

“Yeah! Check out her shirt! Lightswordies, to match yours.” Her red-cup gestures are nowhere near subtle.   

My breath catches. She’s beautiful. The three things I know make her infinitely more interesting than the dudes Abby usually shoves at me. 

“You date girls, right?”   

“Well….” I don’t date anyone. I stayed to myself in high school and kept a low profile. My cousin took me to prom; some douchebag football player asked me to dance and grabbed my tits within the first four measures, so we left early.   

I gotta admit, Aayla tugs harder than Anakin. She and Shaak Ti would’ve made a cute couple. But I’ve never met a human who’s given me reason to find out.  

“Come on; I’ll introduce you.” Abby’s five steps are out of reach.   

Maybe she has found someone with more potential than a new D&D player. And there’s nowhere to hide, so I tag along.  

“Jamie?” She raises her arms for a hug like they’ve been besties since birth.   

The woman on the sofa peers at her with striated green eyes that make me bite my lip.  

“Abby! Astronomy 137.” A little awkwardness won’t deter her. “This is Sage.”  

She nods politely. Then she notices Shaak Ti, and her whole face lights up. “Hey, nice shirt!”  

“Thanks,” I manage. “You too.”  

“I was playing Galaxy of Heroes.” She waves her phone at me, and her screen flashes a D20 background.  

“Sweet. I have an account, but I haven’t played in months.”  

Her lips twist into another smile, cute and mischievous. “Yeah, I never seem to have time. Except at boring-ass parties.”  

We laugh out loud, and I sink down beside her. Abby fades into the crowd, and I can’t bring myself to care. 

Editor: Lucy Cafiero