“I don’t know, Ron,” I sigh, tired of the anvil of sadness weighing me down. “I think it’s time for me to go back home. Maybe take the university up on its offer to take satellite courses until my senior year? I don’t think I’m ready for college life.”
“Ah, no, Sweetie. Don’t let a few twatballs send you running home. Home isn’t that great for you right now either. This is where you belong.” Taking both my hands, she meets my eyes. “Give it a little longer. Please? I have an idea. Let’s go out tonight,” she exclaims. “There’s this little store downtown I want to check out. We’ll go out to eat, do a little shopping. Come on let’s have some fun.”
“I don’t know,” I reply.
“Yes, yes,” she sings, dropping one hand and dragging me with the other, my legs struggle to keep up with her long strides. “We’ll get all dolled up and go check out that new Italian place, Marco’s. Then we’ll check out the little store. It’ll be great. You’ll forget everything and have fun.”
“Yeah, great,” I deadpan.
Reaching the room, Ronnie skips off to the bathroom to get ready. Tilting my head to the side, I look at the contents of my closet. Dressed up, I think, looking at my clothes. I own one dress. A denim jumper that goes all the way to my feet. Oh well, I think, sliding a pink blouse over my head, draping the potato sack style dress over my head letting it drop to my feet and slipping my feet into my black Chucks. Straightening my messy bun. Checking my look in the mirror thinking a tent, I’m wearing a tent made from blue-jean material. Fuck it, this is as good as it’s going to get. Thinking about Ronnie’s dolled up idea, I decided to go with it, grabbing her mascara, I make my first attempt at wearing makeup.
My mom is such a natural beauty, she never needed makeup. I was always too interested in books to ever show interest in wearing anything on my face so taking off my glasses, squinting in the mirror at my fuzzy reflection, I bring the wand to my lashes and stab myself in the eye. Through the burning pain and tears, I wish I would have asked before I tried to use it. I’m blind without my glasses and now I’m even blinder through the irritation.
Carefully putting my glasses back on, Ronnie steps back in the room. She looks me over all the way down to my black shoes. Tilting her head with a look of concern when she notices my swollen, red eye with black streaks running down my face from the tears caused by her evil mascara wand.
“What the hell happened and what are you wearing?” she asks, her lips pulled tight trying to contain her laughter.
Waving the offending wand, I reply, “This happened. I had a bit of an argument with your mascara.” Looking down at my clothes and back up to her, I ask, “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
Grabbing a makeup wipe, she gently cleans the black streaks off my face. “Nothing, there is absolutely nothing wrong with what you are wearing. Except for the red, angry eye, this outfit is one hundred percent you,” she says, a smile lighting her eyes. “Now, let’s go. I’m starving and I heard this place has the greatest Portobello Ravioli and garlic butter breadsticks.”
My stomach grumbles at the anticipation of yummy food. Oh, who am I kidding? My stomach is always grumbling.
Walking single file out the door, I take in Veronica. She’s spectacular in a pleated, flirty knee length pink skirt and white silk blouse with her blond hair falling in perfect waving curls. High heeled Louboutin’s making her even more statuesque and leaving me feeling, even more, frumpier and round.
I’m what most would call the designated ugly fat friend, or DUFF, in this duo. I know Ronnie would never think of me that way and she would kick my ass for thinking it but my poor self-esteem is wreaking havoc on my mind while we make our way out of the building to the waiting Uber. She’s the beauty and I’m the beast.
Telling the driver to take us to Marco’s on Main Street, Ronnie and I chat about classes and her upcoming Sorority events. Some of the stress from the last week eases the farther we stray from campus. The valet opening the door alerts us to our arrival. We thank the driver, link arms and walk to the door of the restaurant.
Marco’s opened a few months ago, around the beginning of the school year. They are usually packed bringing in customers from larger surrounding towns with their famous Italian food but being the middle of the week, they don’t appear to be too busy. We should have made a reservation but we’re going to try our luck anyway.
Outside the restaurant, there is a long green and red canopy covering the sidewalk leading to the door with a man in a nice suit holding it open. He smiles to Ronnie with warm eyes but I could swear when he looks to me he sneers as he takes in my attire; surely, it’s my imagination.
Inside, the foyer is stunning. Deep mahogany wood covers the walls with red padded benches leading around the edge of the room for waiting for patrons to have a seat. An opening next to the hostess station leads to a bar where a few customers sit having an evening cocktail. Stepping up to the hostess with hopeful looks on our faces, inhaling the thick wonderful smell of oregano and basil, my mouth waters. I can taste the savory scent of the air.
“Hello, welcome to Marco’s. Do you have a reservation?” the hostess greets with a warm smile to Ronnie.
“No, Ma’am, we
