Chapter 7: Stubborn Pigment
Jane adjusted the shower's temperature until it was suitable for a lobster boil and stepped in. Okay, where do I start? With Alison—the tattooed girl who made me debate my sexuality for the first time at art camp? I never did unravel that whole mess. Just shoveled it into the Viking ship at the back of my mind for a burning send-off. Jane squeezed some of her mom's special-order Japanese shampoo into her hand and examined the bottle as though she could decipher the characters on it by sheer force of will. Guess I'll never know why this stuff is black. It smells really nice, though. Not as nice as Daria smelled at Trent's wedding…what was that, sandalwood? Oh God, moving on. So, I banished Alison from my mind and never spoke to her after camp. Daria and I went off to our respective colleges, and I apparently tried to set a record for how many dopey musicians and pretentious art-snobs I could date without forming a real attachment to any of them. I do sort of wonder about that girl in my pastels class, though. I was always seeking her out in the halls while assuring myself I coveted only her punky hairdo and Thrift Shop for the Clinically Insane style. Being the expert bull-shitter I am, I excused any fluttery feelings as the after-effects of questionable cafeteria tacos. The agitated painter scrubbed at some stubborn pigment below her left knee with a vigor signifying deep internal struggle. These last two months without Daria have been…pure hell. Like I've been on an alien planet where I don't speak the language and there's no pizza or snark. I don't think she knows what it was like for me to go without hearing her voice for two months. I don't think she knows how incredible she looked in her satin gown at Trent and Tom's wedding. And right now she's probably lying on my bed, feeling completely terrified at the prospect of ruining our friendship—just like I am. Jane slowly twisted the shower handle to its off position and reached for her threadbare, tie-dyed beach towel. The thing is, I think we owe it to ourselves to figure this one out. I've never met someone like Daria, and I never will again. Our friendship is probably strong enough to withstand anything at this point.
Jane finished toweling off and slipped into her gray boxers and red t-shirt. On beholding her frightened face in the mirror, she forced a half-hearted smirk and a wink. The brave young woman who was now questioning many of the premises upon which she'd built her life took a deep breath, gathered her dress clothes from the countertop, and opened the bathroom door.