Part 2.
I'd always found Circe refreshing, and today was no exception. That detachable penis bit was funny AF. God, I love her. What a freaking card. As I fired up the Beemer, crawling through campus's insane stop and go towards Chipotle, I reminisced, remembering when I'd first met that wacko.
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It was Fenton's freshman year, I was a senior, and she was a Resident Advisor for his dorm, two years older than him. On his second weekend on campus, Fenton asked me to buy a beer ball of Bud, and I obliged, bringing along a killer beer-bong. After sharing a few cold ones with his buddies, I suggested we shoot some brews. The frosh wanted in, so we strung the half-inch tubing from the fourth floor to the ground floor, and let her rip. Between the funnel and tubing, I think the damned thing held four, maybe six beers.
I became an instant hero gulping down a bong. 100%. No spillage.
And then became a superhero when, after moshing to a chorus of the Beastie Boys, I bonged a second. Again, 100%. Again, no spillage.
And they have the nerve to say you learn nothing useful in college?
Next, the frosh tried. It was hilarious. Amateurs. They would bong about half down, and beer would foam out their noses and shoot out their mouths. Every one of them spit out the tube, sending beer spraying everywhere, dousing both the fools and the stairwells with beer. I'd swear my side was splitting I laughed so hard. A freaking riot. A bunch of rowdy eighteen or nineteen-year-olds whooping it up sopping wet, an inch or two of beer on the floor, and me, the cool older brother, instigating. Classic college hijinks.
And then some pinhead complained.
So Circe, Advisor on Duty, showed up harshing the vibe.
She had electric green hair extensions back then and was wearing flannel My Little Pony pajama bottoms and a black tee that barely concealed her rock-hard nips. I read the shirt, rolling my eyes: 'IF IT INVOLVES CATS, COFFEE, AND CRYSTALS, COUNT ME IN!'
She was a Wicca, it seems.
Which I'd decided freshman year was shorthand for awkward, hyper-sensitive emo girls shaped like potatoes who owned tarot cards, burned sage incense, and loved torturing their evangelical parents by wearing pentagrams. And at first glance, that was Circe. But I don't know what it was, I couldn't stop staring. I just liked her.
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"Come on guys," she said, bobbing her head, her gaze moving from face to face, "knock it off. This ain't cool. It's a common area and someone can slip and get hurt."
We all stood, self-conscious and mischievous. But I mean, it wasn't but hijinks, right? And Circe made it seem that, though she understood, she wasn't budging an inch.
She breathed out, slumping her shoulders. "Now, I'm gonna grab a Shop-Vac and some mop buckets from the janitor closet. Who's gonna clean?"
No one volunteered, so Circe's face clouded. "Who here's twenty-one, old enough to buy beer?"
They sniggered, and I gulped. Because that year, the university board changed dorm rules. They threatened to expel anyone caught with booze under age twenty-one. It's a stupid rule — I mean, who's fooling who, because college kids are gonna drink, right? But I didn't want to send them to disciplinary court for some old-fashioned fun, or worse, get them booted on my account. So I raised my hand.
But Circe proved herself cool, capable, and as competent a manipulator as Machiavelli himself when she said, "You're okay," nodding to me on the fourth floor, "but the rest of you are freshmen. Look, anyone who helps clean doesn't get reported. I'm not your mama and I don't want to get you guys in trouble, I just don't want anyone slipping and hurting themselves. Now come on, who's gonna help?"
And I'll be damned. They all jumped as if touched by magic and volunteered.
I'd never seen a dorm hall cleaned as fast. And stranger still, they had fun as they cleaned. Almost as much fun as we'd had bonging beers. Circe had us in stitches sharing her own freshman year hijinks, which included many nights worshiping the "porcelain goddess." I can't remember the content, just my side splitting.
But I remained on the fourth floor, looking down and sipping my beers, impressed. She beguiled me. I had an evident crush on her. which confused me. Because compared to my classic blond-haired, blue-eyed goddess Kelsey, whom I'd been dating since my sophomore and her freshman year, Circe was a Plain-Jane.
But there was something about her. She intrigued me.
Sure, I wanted to bone her. But I also wanted to hang out, to compare playlists, discuss movies, and whatnot. Because, I don't know, she just seemed cool. Together. Like a cat with a crystal sipping coffee.
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Back in the present, I nodded, content as I eased my car into a parking spot. She still intrigued me, that one. She's still freaky, still sorta emo, still way less fashion-mag material than Kelsey, but....
As Circes tee-shirt said back then, "count me in."
I kicked open the door, thinking hot sauce and the porky goodness of carnitas.