Page 16 of When Javi Dumped Mari

Javi

Nine Years Before the Wedding

What possessed me to take a theater production class in my senior year? And why did I opt to submit an original costume design rather than write a paper for my final?

I. Am. Fucked.

And the person on the other side of this door is the only one who can help me. When I throw it open, Mari stumbles inside.

Her unfocused gaze roams over my (admittedly messy) dorm room. “You took down the Ciara posters.”

I place a hand on my heart and dip my head. “It was time.”

“Okay, but what are you doing? This is our last night before we cross the threshold of adulthood and become”—she hiccups—“boring. I brought libations. Well, cheap vodka, really, because that’s all I can afford without putting it on a credit card and tipping off my dad.

” She rattles her head around. “Wait. I’m twenty-one now.

What’s he gonna do?” She gives me a once-over, her lips pursed.

“Why aren’t you getting ready? Everyone’s lining up on Centennial Walk. ”

The night before graduation, seniors at Belmont take their final turn around campus in a parade in which ninety percent of the participants are wasted.

Think keg party meets Mardi Gras. Belmont’s administrators insist alcohol consumption has no place in this time-honored rite of passage, but the parade’s path is lined on both sides with plastic barrels spaced twenty feet or so apart—not that anyone needs a convenient place to retch or anything.

“I can’t go,” I tell Mari’s backside since its owner is now lying facedown on my bed. “Didn’t you get my SOS text?”

She flips over and bolts upright. “I did. Figured you needed help coming up with a halfway decent outfit. What do you mean you can’t go? It’s tradition.”

“No, tradition is actually graduating from college when you spend all four years taking your required classes. And if I don’t turn in this assignment by midnight”—I point at my laptop screen—“I won’t be doing that either.”

She gapes at me, her glassy eyes widening. “You’re not”—she lets out a ridiculously loud burp—“done?”

“Anna was supposed to help me finish it,” I say, dropping onto the bed beside her and hunching over, “but she bailed. Kept stringing me along for weeks and now she’s not answering my texts.”

Anna and I met at the school commissary, a tiny convenience store in the basement of our dorm where I was a cashier for my work-study job.

She was friendly and flirty, and we hooked up every once in a while.

At some point, though, I realized she would always show up when she needed something: snacks, index cards, energy drinks when she was cramming for an exam.

I had an employee discount; Anna treated it like her own personal expense account.

Mari’s eyes narrow. “I told you that girl was a schemer.”

“I know,” I say, nodding. “And I should have listened to you.”

She tilts her head and taps her chin. “So what have we learned from this experience, girls and boys?”

“That I should trust your gut?”

She jabs her pointer finger in the air. “ Exactly. ” With a heavy sigh, she lifts the vodka bottle off the floor and takes a swig. “I’m sorry Anna turned out to be a user.”

“I’ll survive,” I say, shrugging.

“You will,” she says with a firm nod. “Okay, so what do you need from me?”

It’s as simple as that. There isn’t any question in her mind that she’ll help me out of this mess. That’s Mari in a nutshell. Though she might flip out when she finds out what’s involved. “I need a model. For the video.”

She scrunches up her face. “Excuse me?”

“Hang on.” I jump to my feet and grab the sheet with the grading rubric off my desk.

“Here’s the description of the assignment: ‘Reimagine a costume from a select group of classic Broadway musicals using only items purchased from the Belmont Thrift Shop and/or a discount store. The budget is twenty dollars. You will be graded on (1) the success of your reference costume; (2) the creativity of your reimagining, which must be presented in a video; and (3) the effectiveness of your essay explaining your concept. Your video should be no more than five minutes in length, and your essay should not exceed one thousand words. Receipts itemizing the cost of all elements of the costume must also be provided.’?”

When I look up, she’s staring at me, her bewildered expression speaking volumes. “Why the hell did you take this class?”

I throw my head back and scrub a hand down my face. “I needed credits for my theater minor.”

“And you thought it would be an easy A.”

“That too,” I say, meeting her knowing gaze. “Anyway, Anna was supposed to model the costume, and since she’s gone MIA, I need you to take her place. Except…”

She narrows her eyes. “Except what?”

“Except I’m not sure your boozy ass can walk a straight line.”

“Bitch, this boozy ass is all you got.”

I smile. “I’ll take it, then.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say,” she replies, giving me a lopsided grin.

“Are you okay with missing Senior Walk Night, though? You’ve been talking about it for weeks.”

“It’s no big deal,” she says, waving her hand dismissively. “Sash and Britt are going to be pissed, but making sure you get your degree is way more important.”

Maybe it’s the fact that we’re graduating tomorrow, and we’re heading our separate ways soon—Mari to California, where she’ll start USC Law in the fall, and me back to New York, where I’ll be doing who the hell knows what—but I’m feeling sentimental.

I can’t imagine what the last three years at Belmont would have been like without her.

Unfortunately, the real world is snapping at our heels, and I can no longer outrun it. If I could, I’d freeze this moment.

Mari rises from the bed and snatches the grading sheet from me. “What musical did you choose?”

I swallow before I answer. “ Cats. ”

“Oh hell no,” she says. “For the love of all that’s holy, Javi, why didn’t you choose West Side Story ? Or Grease ?”

“I was trying to challenge myself,” I grumble.

She snorts. “Well, congrats, you succeeded.”

“Okay, but don’t give me too much shit. It’s also the first musical I ever saw live on Broadway. My mom took me when I was a kid. For my sixth or seventh birthday or something.” I shrug. “I don’t know, it’s special to me.”

Her eyes soften in understanding. “Aw, that’s really sweet.”

“Now don’t get me wrong, I had no damn clue what was going on half the time. But I was fascinated by the music, the costumes, the fancy theater. And almost everyone was so skinny. I remember that for some reason.”

“Okay, fine, I’ll give you a pass on this one. If it’s special to you, then it’s special, period. Is the costume finished?”

“Mostly. I just need to add a few things here and there.”

“Let’s see it, then.”

I pull the costume, still on a hanger, from the back of my tiny closet and present it to her.

She studies it, her head tilting from side to side, and then her gaze darts back and forth between me and the costume. “First, let me preface this question by telling you it’s coming from a place of love and deep respect. Second, what the fuck is that?”

I grimace and hold it away from me so I can examine it through her eyes.

The full bodysuit’s white to accentuate the details.

And I chose the spandex fabric because it’ll shimmer under stage lights.

For the patches of fur, I dyed cotton balls orange and black, which I thought was genius.

Maybe I went overboard with the embellishments, but that’s what a reimagining is all about.

It probably isn’t going to win any design contests.

Still, I can easily picture a version of this in the musical. “Is it that bad?”

She bares her teeth as she considers it, her expression broadcasting her skepticism. “It’s a bedazzled Muppet at a burlesque show. Mad Max meets Where the Wild Things Are .”

I bark out a laugh and hold the costume in front of me. Well, shit. Now that she’s described my creation that way, I can’t unsee any of it.

Mari circles me, inspecting the piece from all angles. She steps closer and peers at the sleeves. “Is that…? Are those the little toe separator thingies you use when you’re getting a pedicure?”

“I think so,” I say, squinting. “I picked them up at the dollar store. I wasn’t sure why toes needed to be separated, but they fit the brief. The idea is that this cat has developed a protective shell to ensure no one strokes it.”

“Like, through evolution?”

“Maybe,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “But she also lays certain parts of her figure bare because that’s the one thing she’s comfortable sharing.”

Her gaze darts to mine and she holds it for a long moment.

“Or maybe it’s not that deep and she just likes to have a good time.

All those pesky alley cats trying to police what she does with her own body need to mind their own business.

Or maybe, just maybe, this cat should be a Puerto Rican boy from New York who’s always hiding himself from the world. ”

She raises an eyebrow, and my mouth falls open. What? Why am I in this? Is she pissed because she thinks I was talking about her? “Shit, Mari. This isn’t personification or anything. It’s a character I came up with.”

She blinks a few times. “Yeah, yeah, I get that. I’m just helping you flesh out the character .” She smiles. “And actually, it’s genius. Do you have a number in mind?”

“I do,” I say, nodding. “It’s called ‘Cantankerous, Coquettish Calico Cat.’?”

“I love it,” she says, clapping loudly. “Your professor’s the only person who’s going to see this video, right?”

“Yeah.”

Mari blows out a breath. “Okay, then let’s get this over with.” She puts out one hand, and with the other, makes a circling motion with her index finger.

“What?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes. “Turn around so I can put it on.”

“Here?” I ask, my voice rising.