Capture the Moment (Moments #1)

2. Cleo

two

Cleo

“Does this dress scream ‘dick me down’ in a hot way or a street worker way?” Georgia asks from in front of her full-body mirror, eyeing me through the glass. She’d been dressed in an all-black mini dress with cutouts all over, it was sexy in a whore-ish way but she could make it work. She always did.

“Which one would you rather?” I look up at her for a moment then back down at my computer. Classes start in a few days, and I still haven’t organized my computer or Notion. I’m so behind that it’s not even funny.

My head starts to hurt just at the thought of falling behind in school. I haven’t had a bad grade since eighth-grade Algebra when my teacher was a full-time substitute who only gave us busy work. I scratch the back of my neck at the thought of that time and wince as Georgia tosses a pillow at me.

“Cleo…you’ve got to stop stressing about school. Classes haven’t even started yet!” she exclaims, moving her blonde hair over her shoulder to get a better look at her backside. Georgia purses her lips at the sight of herself and changes her dress for the third time.

“All the more reason to stress about school… I need to get a good head start. Besides, I have you here with me this time around.” A smile dusts my cheeks as she turns to me brandishing one of her own.

“I know right, I don’t know how you survived two years of college in New York without me.”

I don’t know either, G, I want to say, but instead, I fix her with a tight smile and return my attention to my computer. The thought of Brighton University alone gives me hives. It’d been my dream to attend my mother’s alma mater to feel closer to her. That dream became a reality turned nightmare all within the span of a year. I’d been so close to accomplishing all my goals and quickly lost sight of everything all because of a crazy son of a bitch who owes me my dignity and four thousand dollars—but I digress.

The original plan for my life that I’d created at the ripe age of ten years old went as follows: Graduate high school as Valedictorian. Check . Get a car. Check . Quit Figure Skating. Double Check . Attend Brighton Full-Time as a Comms major. Triple Check . Graduate Brighton Summa Cum Laude. Error 404.

Because of the incident, I hightailed my ass out of New York and ended up here in Maryland two days ago, now attending my father’s alma mater, Summerfield University. Dad used to play hockey in the NHL for the Washington Eagles and won three Stanley Cups before retiring. He retired while I was in high school and took up coaching for the Summerfield Men’s Hockey team. I sometimes believe that Dad wanted me to be a boy so he could have another hockey player on his hands. But instead, he has a daughter who loves wearing pink, with a strong obsession for Hockey and Formula 1.

“Why aren’t you getting ready? I want to get there around 11.” Georgia pouts, taking a seat at the foot of the bed now dressed in a shimmery navy blue dress that stopped around her thighs. The dress highlighted her every curve and brought out the deep green hues of her eyes. She looked over my computer screen for a brief second before shutting it.

“Hey—”

“Don’t hey me. Ow! Don’t pinch me either! I’m trying to get you ready for your first party at SFU and you’re sitting here worried about a syllabus that doesn’t drop for another four days!” she whines, jutting out her plump bottom lip in a glossy pout.

“I’m not going, I have to help Dad tomorrow with training.” I half shrug, opening the screen back up only for it to be shut again. Helping my father with the first training of the season had been his first stipulation for me to attend Summerfield, I wasn’t going to disappoint him any further by not helping. Besides, what’s the worst that can happen by helping a few hockey players ?

“Oh, yes you are. I haven’t seen my best friend for more than a week in over two years! I don’t know what happened in New York and I won’t pressure you to tell me because you will when you’re ready,” she starts, turning her full body towards me. Her bright green eyes are sincere as she says, “Cleo, I know whatever it is has to do with that guy and fuck him! Well—don’t actually fuck him…you get the point.” Georgia waves a hand.

“I don’t think that I do…” I chuckle as she narrows her eyes at me.

“The point is…you’re young, talented, and smart. It’s okay to live life and be free and party and…I don't know where this is going but, come with me tonight, please . This is the first party of the semester and I have a feeling it’s going to be one of the best ones,” she says, smiling with a hopeful gleam in her eyes that I can’t refuse.

She’s right… We haven’t seen each other for a while, it’d be good to let loose a little. But only a smidge, I don’t think I can ever be as open as I used to be.

“Fine…but you’re buying us more Strawberry Truffle donuts from that one place after,” I concede.

“Oh my God! Yes! Yes! Yes!” Georgia cheers, jumping for joy as she yanks me into a bone crushing hug.

She pulls away, ecstatic and beaming with life. “Now let me dress you. You can’t wear a vintage crop tweed set to a house party.”

It doesn’t take long for Georgia Adams to get her way and soon enough, I’m dressed in a baby pink satin dress with spaghetti straps that hug my curves in all the right places. The dress stopped around mid-thigh with light ruffles on a slant at the bottom, and on a normal day, I would never wear this. But since I can never say no to my best friend, I’ll wear it—just for tonight.

“This looks perfect on you! Do a spin.” She claps, green eyes gleaming as she twirls me. “I feel like there’s something missing… Oh! Your bow!” Georgia pats her head as if that was the most obvious revelation before dashing into my room across the hall.

I take a moment and breathe, looking myself over in the mirror. I haven’t worn anything like this in months. My fingers trail over the slanted ruffles and along the curves of my waist, tugging the skirt down a bit. When my eyes reach my hair, I realize that Georgia is in fact right. I’m missing my bow. She’d done my hair in a half up half down and left a long tendril out to frame my face. I’d done my makeup myself and matched my outfit with a pair of heels, all I need now is my bow and I’ll be unstoppable.

“You have way too many pink bows… Why are there six of the same color?” Georgia asks as she reenters the room with my favorite bow in hand; I wave her off with a sigh.

“G, a girl can never have too many bows.” I laugh, mimicking her mom’s catchphrase from our childhood.

Georgia rolls her eyes at me and puts the bow in my hair, watching me through the mirror before shaking her head with a large smile.

“Where’s Sienna?” she asked, looking around the room as if she just noticed that the pink haired girl was nowhere to be found.

My cousin Sienna was also our roommate. She’d originally gone to NYU but transferred to the dance program at SFU during the summer semester as there were more opportunities here.

“She said something about a babysitting gig…” I shrug, turning to face Georgia fully, she nods her head in understanding.

“Babysitting? I thought she was working at the studio for the semester…”

“You know that she changes jobs out like she does her shoes, she’ll probably work at the library next week.” I break into a laugh at the thought of Sienna Jones behind the counter of a library. She’d probably fall asleep as soon as she unlocks the front doors.

Growing up with Sienna, it felt like I was living with a real-life Barbie doll. Sienna, like myself, wanted pink everything. Only, unlike myself, she decided to go for pink hair. But, like Barbie, Sienna is a jack of all trades. She babysits, sings, dances. Hell, if she put her mind to it, there’s no doubt that she’d run for president too.

Georgia and I do a quick once-over in the mirror to make sure we look exactly how we want before heading to the kitchen to pregame. Back in high school, we’d pregame under my kitchen table and would jump when we heard the slightest sound throughout the house. Our pregames back then always ended with one of us rubbing our heads and the other dying of laughter. I make a mental note to remind Georgia of the past when she hands me a shot of a clear liquid which I presume to be tequila.

Our go-to.

“Take it to the dome,” she starts, lifting the small shot glass with a pink Las Vegas skyline printed on it, in the air.

Take it to the dome; I smile at the old saying my older cousin Zola taught us in high school. She was the very first person to slip us drinks. It was only a small miniature bottle of Patron, but I’ll never forget how much older we felt drinking with the big girls. Even though we can drink on our own now, we still credit Zola whenever we take shots.

“Or take it home!” I finish the saying, throwing back the shot with a grimace.

“Ubers outside, shall we?” Georgia sidles up to me, adjusting the straps of her dress. Her smile is bright as she looks down at me.

“We shall.”