Escapism (The Escapism Series) (2 page)

  Calliope’s track record with guys was messy—she was a total man-eater. Landon was the first university friend I’d made, I couldn’t let him fall victim to Calliope’s version of dating. As Calliope and Marla ogled Landon, I searched on my phone for the address of Styx Nightclub.

  After composing himself, Landon replied, “Actually, I think I should leave you girls to your tour. It was nice meeting you.” He gestured toward Calliope and Marla, searching for names.

  “That’s Calliope Karsten and Marla Holmes.”

  Marla was generally timid around new people, but she was extremely courteous.

  “Nice to meet you too, Landon,” Marla replied with a smile.

  “So will I see you tonight at my party?” he asked, pouting adorably.

  I looked at the girls and they were smiling and nodding a little too eagerly.

  “Umm, sure,” I said.

  Landon smiled and pressed his palms together. “Good. See you then.” He waved good-bye and flashed an animated smile.

  I walked toward the bench where Calliope and Marla were sitting. Calliope was ecstatic.

  “Way to go, Xenia.” Marla shook her fists in the air. “Yes! I can’t wait to go to a party with mature, sexy college boys.”

  Calliope laughed and slapped Marla’s thigh playfully. “Girl, I wouldn’t go that far. Maturity is still questionable, but you did get the second part right. Have you
seen
some of the guys wandering around campus today? Me-ow!” Calliope already had a private tour on her own, it seemed.

  Out of nowhere, a loud blast from an offending speaker stung our eardrums.

  “Attention, students. We’ll be shortly starting our tour. Please gather and pick up a complimentary T-shirt and map.”

  I turned to Calliope and hissed. “
Complimentary
? We paid for that in our orientation package.”

  Marla jumped in between us adding, “Overpaid to be correct.”

  She was right, and Calliope and I nodded in agreement.

  The instructor handed Calliope a XXL T-shirt.

  “I’m not wearing
that
. Do I look like a football player?” Calliope asked. She threw the T-shirt back at the lanky instructor.

  I scanned his name tag, and intervened. “Listen, Ivan. Do you have any small-mediums?”

  Ivan searched a big box behind the thin metallic table. He lifted his head and pushed up his plastic glasses that had slipped down the bridge of his nose.

  “I think we have a few here,” he replied.

  “Good, I’ll take three.” I smiled at him as he handed the shirts over. I tossed one to Marla—who smiled at Ivan—and Calliope, whose eyes were filled with contempt.

  After the tour ended, the girls and I walked around to become better acquainted with the big campus. Calliope found some entertainment along the way. He was tall, blond, and built like a football star.

  “Excuse me. Can you point me to
Vaneer
College?” She asked. He examined the map in Calliope’s hands.

  “You mean Vanier,” he scoffed. He pointed to the direction and we continued on our walk.

  “Thanks a mill,” Calliope replied, rolling her eyes.

  Marla and I stared in awe. Her impromptu pickup lines usually worked. Calliope was used to having all the attention in high school, but this episode demarcated a clear indication that we were no longer on familiar territory. Impressively, her feathers remained unruffled.

  “I didn’t expect him to know how to read,” she said. We giggled as the smug guy stood just a few feet away and had likely heard us.

  “It’s okay, Cal. He’s only the first guy to ever not flirt back with you. Maybe he’s gay,” Marla said.

  “Or maybe he has a girlfriend. Who knows and who cares,” I added, attuned to her ways. It was all a game to Calliope, anyhow. Calliope was definitely on a manhunt. She smiled and waved to another guy on a motorcycle.
He
definitely liked what he saw.

  “Excuse me, girls. It’s my turn to make a new friend.” Calliope winked as she walked toward her new target.

  “Call me! I need you to be my makeup artist tonight,” Marla shouted after Calliope, excitedly.

  Marla hardly ever wore makeup.  She was a natural beauty, with her big brown eyes and pinkish hue on the apples of her cheeks.  She relied on us—the ones who wore makeup on occasion—to fix her up a fancy face on special nights. Particularly, the final night of summer break, which marked the start of college life and its epic parties—who wouldn’t be excited?

  I drove Marla home conveniently down the street from me. I had a ton of laundry to do and Marla had her own errands to run before the party so we went on our separate ways.

  “Thanks for the lift. Call you later, Xeni,” Marla said, waving goodbye.

  “Later,” I responded, starting to feel the excitement boil under my skin. My parents called me Xeni, which had rubbed off on Calliope and Marla. In high school, they had nicknamed me “Z.”

  My last summer before university had been pretty uneventful—the days had whisked by. I decided to go for a run to clear my mind while the washing machine did its thing. Oddly enough, the more time I spent outdoors, the fewer people I would see. With so much available to us indoors—thanks to the Internet—virtually everything was within our grasp from the time we were children. Fewer youth occupied the streets; instead, they stayed indoors, neatly tucked away from the supposed dangers of the outside world, however blindly immersed in the inherent dangers of the world wide web.

  On my run, I felt as though I had the entire road to myself. There was little traffic on the otherwise deserted road and the summer air felt crisper in the afternoon—more like autumn weather. I strapped my Cyclopod to my arm and blasted some of my favorite alternative tunes while I jogged, peacefully clearing my mind. After twenty-minutes passed, I returned to check on the washing machine, which had nearly completed the spin cycle. In dire need of rehydration, I grabbed the first container within reach, chugging the orange juice and spilling a little on my T-shirt before I walked up to my room.

  Our monumental night began with the ring of my Cyclopod and me tripping over the cables to my laptop.

  “Z, what’re you wearing tonight?” Marla asked. She always called to ease her wardrobe dilemma.

  “I still haven’t showered, Marla.” I was anxiously preparing an outfit in my mind. “I’m leaning toward a black miniskirt, a gold sequenced tank top, and nude stilettos.”

  “That’ll look
so good
. I don’t know what to wear. I hate my clothes!” Already accustomed to Marla and her clothing paranoia, I refused to drag it out any further as it never seemed to help in the past.

  “Um...okay, listen. I have to get ready. Talk to you in about twenty minutes, Marla.”

  “Can I come over? You
need
to do my makeup.”

  “I thought you asked Calliope?”

  “Oh right—I was just being polite. You’re way better at it.
Pretty please
?”

  “Sure, let yourself in. I’ll leave the patio door unlocked.”

  We hung up and I rushed to unlock the door before showering. Fifteen minutes later, I was out and drying up.

  As I blow-dried my hair and scrunched it to enhance my natural wave, my Cyclopod rang and vibrated, nearly falling off the dresser. It was Calliope.

  “Hey, do you think we could subway it instead and cab it back? Parking will be insane downtown.”

  “For sure. I wasn’t planning on any of us driving tonight,” I replied while placing my makeup on the dresser in preparation. “Marla will be here soon. We’ll meet you at ten-thirtyish at Queen and John Street. Cool?”

  “You know where I’ll be,” Calliope replied, referring to our usual spot near a few coffee shops in case any of us was running late. “See your sexy butts there. Ciao.”

  As I looked in my closet for my favorite nude stilettos, I heard someone rustling about behind me.

  “Geez, Marla! Could you knock or something?” I asked, out of breath. “Really, anything to announce your presence would suffice. Knocking, for one, would be a good start. Then maybe a ring of the doorbell to shake things up.”

  She rolled her eyes, then unveiled a bottle of red wine from her bag and waved it in a tantalizing manner.

  “I so knocked!” she exclaimed, snickering quietly to herself while pouring two glasses of wine. “If someone wasn’t so self-involved, she’d take notice of her surroundings every now and then.”

  “You’re such a liar,” I replied.

  “I think you need a drink. Here, this should calm you right down.”

  I took the glass and stuck out my tongue, playfully.

  “Only because it’s my favorite red wine from your grandfather’s vineyard.” I smirked and Marla laughed.

  “
Our
favorite wine. Mmm-hmm.” Marla groaned, swishing the wine around in her mouth in full appreciation of the flavor.

  “Marla, choose your colors and I will make you look like a rock star, girlfriend,” I motioned to the dresser where the makeup bags rested. We toasted to the night ahead while we prepared our outfits, makeup, and accessories accordingly.

  Marla searched through my makeup bag while I critiqued my outfit on the hanger. As I ran a comb through my knotted hair—attributed to the shortage of leave-in conditioner, thanks to my mother—I decided that the outfit was perfect.

  Marla placed her selection of eye shadow on the bed. She sat cross-legged and eager to receive her makeover.

  “All done,” she proclaimed, walking over to my speaker system to link up her Cyclopod. She browsed her music folder and clicked on her favorite pop rock track. As the music blared, setting the tone for the night, we danced during our pre-club ritual of dress-up. Marla jumped on my bed, dancing and flailing her arms while lip-synching. I joined her and prayed to God that my bed wouldn’t collapse. We landed flat on our backs at the end of the song, out of breath from dancing and laughing.

  “Time for your maquillage Miss Marla,” I said playfully.

  “Yay. Shadow away,” she clapped her hands in excitement. She absolutely loved when others applied makeup for her. It relaxed her otherwise fidgety self.

  “Marla, hold still,” I instructed. She twitched in anticipation whenever I applied eye shadow. Once I finished, I touched up my own make up and dabbed some perfume at the hollows of my neck, wrists, and behind my knees. We took our final few sips of red wine and headed for the front door.

To New Beginnings

On our way to Landon’s birthday party at Styx Nightclub, we were slightly behind schedule and failed to meet Calliope within the thirty minutes originally decided upon.

  The subway was atypically busy for a Sunday night, with teenagers heading downtown instead of home in preparation for school the following morning. It was always hilarious observing these guys—the one’s that thought they were cool by drinking on the subway—trying to pick up girls. Naturally, the barbaric attempts failed miserably because they were mostly howls and sounds that a human being would make to grab the attention of a cat i.e.:“pshhhhhh tsssssssssst!”

  Osgoode Station was only a five-minute walk to the main entertainment district. My favorite theater, cafes, restaurants, bars, and the clubbing district were all within walking distance.

  While in the subway, we checked out our surroundings and each other.

  “Sick outfit, Z. You look so hot!” Marla complimented.

  “Look who’s talking.” I grabbed her hand and twirled her around. “I wish I had your legs.”

  Marla batted her eyelashes dramatically while giving her hair a tussle. “I try.”

  Calliope graced us with her presence after ten minutes of waiting during which Marla and I drank some herbal tea in a coffee shop. It’s just in Calliope’s nature to be late. Ever since junior high, she had always been late for everything—even social outings with the girls. Calliope and Marla were like the sisters I never had. We grew up together, went to the same schools, and attended the same university.

  With a quick stop to the bank, we withdrew some drink money and cab fare—an absolute must before clubbing. You do not want to be short of cash and left in a sticky situation, especially after you have had a few drinks. The girls and I generally had a drink or two, but tonight marked a special occasion. For that reason, we planned to celebrate with many toasts.

  Just walking downtown in Toronto’s entertainment district felt like a party in itself with people dressed to impress walking to different venues. In the event that we ended up in a total dive, we could conveniently relocate within five minutes.

   The official club district mode commenced with promoters handing out fliers and the occasional group of mesmerized guys hollering at us.

  When we arrived at the club, we quickly got in, thanks to guest list and Calliope’s assertiveness—she hated waiting in line.  It was surprisingly quite full. It looked more like the one o’clock than the usual eleven o’clock crowd.

  “Landon has a lot of friends,” Marla said, overwhelmed by the chaos.

  “A lot of
hot
friends.” Calliope was on the prowl as soon as we stepped through the entrance. She winked and smiled flirtatiously at an exceptionally wide and muscular looking guy by the door, likely a bouncer. I spotted the birthday boy, and he waved us over. I pulled Calliope away from the guy before she dug her claws into him.

  “Aw, he looked fun—his tongue was pierced,” she wined, dramatically.

  “I’m sure there are plenty of guys with piercings here,” I assured Calliope.

  Landon smiled once he saw me approaching through the crowd. He waved with open arms, and held our hug for several seconds longer than was customary.  He reeked of alcohol and musky cologne lingered on his shiny skin. He mumbled something indiscernible in the noisy environment, and I smiled feigning interest.

  “Happy birthday!” I shouted. “I’m buying us a round of shots. What are you having, birthday boy?”

  He shook his head side to side. “No, no, no. You girls are my guests.” He pulled out a few hundred-dollar bills and ordered a bottle of dark rum.

  “Landon!” I protested. “It’s
your
birthday, therefore we should buy you drinks—it’s customary. Besides, I’m your guest so you have to do as I say.”

  For a moment, Landon smiled in awe. “Does she always have her way?” he asked. Marla and Calliope both nodded in agreement.

  “Only if I can buy you a drink,” he proposed, grinning in anticipation.

  “You’ve got yourself a deal,” I replied.

  He ordered a shot of rum, sliding it across the wet bar in front of me.

  “And a bottle of rum for the ladies.” Landon pointed to the empty booth directly behind us, while he ordered bottle service.

  I scowled at Landon—he was breaking our drink policy.

  “Hey, you never mentioned buying your friends drinks,” he replied.

  “The makings of a great future politician,” I replied playfully.

  “Hmm,” Landon murmured, “Something I shall consider in another mindset perhaps.”

  “You sure know how to party,” Marla said, nudging Landon.

  “Ladies, the party has only just begun.”

  “Promise you’ll save me a dance?” Calliope asked.

  “It would be my honor,” he said, placing his hand over his heart.

  Three shots later, I stopped Landon from pouring yet another round.

  “Landon!” A short guy shouted, waving him over through the ever-growing crowd.

  “Can you excuse me? I have to greet my guests. The duties of a host never cease,” he hiccupped as he took off and we giggled in unison.

  “Now it’s time for some
real
shots.” Calliope quickly insisted on rounds of Sambuca, lit on fire. On the count of three, we each blew out the flame and downed the shot, which had a smooth warm tingly sensation as it passed down my throat. It was a nasty shot, but Calliope loved the combination of fire and liquor.