Rocky River Chapter Two
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Sage jogged up the claustrophobic dorm staircase to Chloe’s room. She was somehow misplaced into the International and Foreign language floor, which was interesting, considering she was the only one on the floor who did not speak a foreign language. She lived in room 303, and each room on the floor was named for a specific foreign city. The irony was not lost on Chloe that as an English major, her room was dubbed lived in Stratford upon Avon, Shakespeare’s birthplace.
Sage knocked lightly on the door, and he could hear the faint strains of AC/DC filtering through the thick, decorated wood. Unlike most of the doors on the girls’ side of the co-ed floor, Chloe’s wood plank did not boast hearts, dry erase message boards scrawled with doodles, drunken pictures of friends, or paraphernalia pledging green and silver allegiance to Rocky River. Her door was shrouded in black crepe paper with bold, broad slashes of blood red paint. Little skulls with battery-powered flashing eyes dangled from the threshold, accompanied by decapitated Barbie dolls with pins stuck in every available peach plastic orifice. Stick figures adorned the crepe paper with vivid stick-figure murders, covering every gruesome scene from figures falling from windows and impaling themselves on picket fences, to Psycho-esque stabbings. Chloe’s door was the darkest, blackest, most satanic visual assault this side of Hell. Or at least, the top half was.
The bottom half of room 303 was a collage of blue, red, and white JESUS LOVES ME bumper stickers: twenty-seven of them to be exact. Colorful fliers advertising campus Bible study, youth group, and Christian Campus Leaders were thumb-tacked to the door in neat little folders, inviting foreign-speaking passersby to join Christ’s community at Rocky River. Little gold-plated cross pins hung in a plastic sandwich bag from the door handle, dangling the promise of redemption and salvation if one would only wear the pin. Where Chloe had stick figures using machetes to create fields of innocent amputees, her roommate had pictures of fields of holy palmers and Jerusalem. Whereas Chloe had chalk-drawn pentagrams and “Abandon all hope ye who enter here” scrawled across the top half the door, Chloe’s roommate had John 3:16 in gold script, accentuated with daisies and frolicking bunnies. It was like Lucifer and the Lord were duking it out Celebrity Death Match style on the door of room 303, and that was just how Chloe’s twisted sense of humor liked it.
Sage pushed open the door to find Chloe swaying her slender hips to the beat of “Hells Bells” while she finished applying some type of sparkling powder to her eyelids. Sage pulled a lock of her hair to let her know he was there, before taking his usual spot on her eight ball beanbag chair. He flopped down and the bag gave a pronounced wheeze as it adjusted to his weight. As Chloe finished doing whatever she was doing to her face, Sage took a long look at his best friend, and smirked.
Chloe was wearing a scarlet red long sleeved top that looked like it’d been slashed with razor blades down the sides. The shirt ended where a black miniskirt and fishnet stalkings began, complete with patent leather stilettos and a studded belt. Chloe slicked a shimmery, vermilion gloss over her lips before she caught Sage’s eye in the mirror.
“What?” she asked, running her tongue along her freshly glossed lips and fluffing her choppy blonde hair as she turned around. Sage thought she looked good, if not outrageously slutty-something that did not fit in with Chloe’s genetic composition. Then when he read the caption on her shirt, Sage burst out laughing.
On the front of Chloe’s razor shredded shirt read the caption, “Parody of the Modern Day Slut, Find Someone Else to Take Home.” Catching his eye, Chloe grinned and fastened ridiculously large hoop earrings into her small ears. While her clothing was a bit over the top, Sage had to admit she looked pretty in her own right. Her aqua eyes sparkled beneath a curtain of long dark lashes, accentuated by microscopic stars she managed to pattern on her brow bone. Her lips looked full and inviting with whatever goop she’d applied, and her athletic body truly did justice to the short skirt and clingy shirt. If Sage didn’t know any better, he could see himself hitting on her if they’d never met.
“Nice shirt,” Sage remarked. “Where’s the Jesus freak?”
Chloe shrugged. “Some Campus Crusade for Christ. Tonight she said she’s going to pray for me. I told her not to waste her time.” Sage was one of the few people who knew Chloe’s anti-Christ campaign was strictly to annoy her Bible thumping roommate. Chloe was a devout Christian and rarely missed Sunday mass at the campus chapel, but she’d break Sage’s arms if he ever told anyone the truth. In her opinion, it would ruin her reputation.
Chloe went to grab her dorm key, student identification, and bomber jacket off of the Formica desk top before Sage said, “You might not want to bring your beloved jacket, it might get stolen at Weasel’s.”
“Sage, I’m practically naked and it’s twenty-two degrees outside and snowing.” But she could tell by the look on his face that he was serious, so she continued, “We’d better walk fast, then. Here, put my key and ID in your pocket. You smell woodsy, by they way.”
Sage sniffed his cologne and straightened his shirt and jeans as he stood up. With Sheila on his mind, Sage asked Chloe, “Do I look ultra cool to you?”
“More like ultra prep, Preppy.”
“Oh c’mon. Can’t you at least drool over me like a normal girl?”
“Okay, ultra-dork, maybe.”
“You’re an ultra-bitch.
“Good.”
“Fine.”
“Ready?”
“Yeah, let’s go.”
Sage led the way down the foul smelling stairs and out of the steel doors into the blistering wind. One look at Chloe’s face and he knew she was a Popsicle.
“How many blocks is it to Weasel’s?” she asked through chattering teeth, hugging close to Sage’s side.
“Eleven. Are you cold?” Sage asked.
“No, I’m in the midst of a fucking heat wave. I knew this was a bad idea. I knew I should’ve just stayed home in the warm haven of my bed and read a book. But noooo, I had to agree to go to some stupid party with Preppysaurus Rex to ‘have fun’ and meet-“
Chloe’s litany of complaints was cut short by Sage draping his sweater over her shoulders. “Happy now?” Sage asked, finally feeling the Pennsylvania winter sink its talons into his skin. At that moment, he nearly felt sorry for telling Chloe to leave her jacket in the dormitory.
“No, but I’m much less bitter when I’m warm.” She shot him a grateful smile.
They continued to walk in freezing silence, past the glowing pizzerias and neon signs of apartment complexes. Bars hosting live bands were beginning to open their doors to shivering patrons waiting in lines outside to see their favorite local musicians. Bouncers checked ID’s and stamped hands as Chloe and Sage walked briskly past the humming institutions of college debauchery.
“God, I love this town,” Sage breathed, taking in the college nightlife.
“God, I wish I’d have worn jeans,” Chloe hissed through what Sage assumed were frozen lips.
Watching her walk, Sage teased, “Well if it’s any consolation, you look pretty nice tonight. Who knows? You might get lucky.” He couldn’t resist winking at her while she looked at him in abject horror.
“And I might also stick hot pokers underneath my fingernails,” Chloe muttered.
“See? I said you look pretty nice. And then you had to go open your mouth and ruin the illusion.” Sage linked his arm through Chloe’s as the first snowflakes of the evening began to drift down from the overcast December sky. He slowed his pace as they neared the Commodore, Weasel’s apartment building. Already they could hear the thump of bass pound through the walls of the seedy apartment building, and the tinkle of laughter float down from overcrowded balconies. It was a typical party night in Rocky River.
Sage opened the door for Chloe and she stepped into the dim hallway that smelled faintly of urine and beer. The black and gray linoleum of the foyer was cracked and scuffed, a living testament attesting to its frat boy inhabitants. Sage pushed the elevator button and heard Chloe take a deep breath.
“Stop acting like you’re getting the death sentence,” Sage joked. “It’s just a party.”
“It’s Weasel’s party.”
“So?”
“So? The guy is the bane of my existence. He’s an amoeba. No, he’s the flagellate ON the amoeba-“
“I get it, I get it. Look, just tolerate him for one night, okay? I haven’t seen him in awhile.”
As Weasel opened the door wearing a beer bong around his neck, Sage realized that asking Chloe to tolerate Weasel was like asking the Pope to tolerate premarital sex. It just wasn’t going to happen.
“Hey, Pellington, my man! Looking good, looking good. Always styling, Sage.” Weasel looked past Sage to Chloe and gave a hoot.
“Holy Christ, Pellington, where’d you get Miss America? I didn’t know trailer parks had beauty queens anymore.”
Chloe tilted her chin up and shot Troy Weaselman a death glare. “Fuck off, Weasel.”
Weasel put his hands up in mock surrender, “Just joking Calderna, just joking. Come on in. Eat, drink, be merry-but most of all, drink. ‘Specially you, Calderna. I’m sure you could walk in those heels a little better without that stick up your ass.”
Before Chloe could rip his face off, Sage interceded and handed Chloe a red plastic cup. “Relax, Chloe, relax. He’s harmless.”
Chloe glared in the direction Weasel retreated. “So’s battery acid until it’s poured on your skin,” she retorted.
“C’mon, let’s sign the pong list.” Sage moved across the sticky kitchen floor to put their names on the list, in lieu of at least a dozen guys clapping him on the back and exchanging greetings. Chloe watched an equally enthusiastic group of girls hug Sage and cling to him longer than necessary as he signed their names on the beer pong list. Chloe sipped her cheap beer and quietly observed Weasel’s place of residence-if you could call it that.
Troy Weaselman had been Chloe’s nemesis since they met through Sage freshman year of college. Chloe and Sage had just started talking, and Sage thought Weasel and Chloe just might get along; in fact, Sage thought Chloe and Weasel might actually make a nice couple. He grossly miscalculated.
Perhaps some of Sage’s folly was in assuming that since he and Weasel graduated from the same high school and had been friends for years, that any friend of Sage would be a friend of Weasel’s. Unfortunately, Sage forgot to take into account that not only did Weasel posses the unique ability to piss people off with his sheer social ineptitude, but also that Weasel is shadier than a lunar eclipse. The kid was the king of jerks, but he was so slick about it that he somehow was able to maintain a wide circle of friends-when it was convenient for him.
Chloe and Weasel seemed to like each other-at first. Then Chloe realized Weasel harbored zero respect for women, and she administered a tongue lashing so harsh Sage was sure Weasel’s skin would peel off his body in strips. Chloe truly sliced Weasel down with words, something Weasel couldn’t tolerate, nor appreciate. Since then every meeting between the two had been nothing short of a massacre, and Sage knew they only tolerated each other for his sake. Sage wished things could be different, but even he had to admit-his friend was a Class A Asshole.
Sage made his way back over to Chloe, who was quietly studying her surroundings. The neon Rolling Rock sign on the sliding glass doors adjoining the balcony shuddered and flickered, causing green tubes of light to ricochet off of a glossy life-size Anna Kournikova poster. A collection of liquor bottles of all shapes, sizes, and colors sat atop a pressed wood entertainment system, with said system blasting Outkast’s “Hey Ya.” Chloe wished the girls in front of her would ‘shake it like a Polaroid picture’ out of her personal space. People were smashed into the living room well over the apartment’s occupancy maximum, and cheers from the beer pong table could be heard in the other room. Christmas lights twinkled from the bedrooms, providing lighting to beds piled high with coats waiting to be stolen later, and once the coats were gone that meant there would be clear places to have sex equally as late. Computer screens glowed silently from the darkness of the bedrooms, their monitors filled with dialogue boxes inviting everyone they know to the “Party in 211 Commodore.” The line for the bathroom was increasing with the party patrons blood-alcohol content. Another typical Friday in Rocky River.
“You okay?” Sage asked as he handed Chloe another beer from the keg that was being quickly kicked.
“Huh?” Chloe snapped out of her reverie. “Yeah, I’m fine. When are we playing?”
“I don’t know. As soon as the Indian kids and Weasel’s team are done. You up for it?”
A grin flickered across Chloe’s face. “I may hate partying, but have I ever been one to let you down where beer pong is concerned?”
Sage returned her grin. “Nope. Let’s kick ass.”
The two bulldozed a path between writhing bodies to the kitchen where the Olympics of college sports were played: the beer pong table. If beer pong were actually an Olympic sport, Chloe would be a gold medallist. The girl didn’t lose. Sage, proud of his friends’ skills as they took the first five cups without blinking, was just about to shut out the other team when the door to Weasel’s apartment opened. Just as Sage was about to perfectly arc the feather-light orb of ping-pongy goodness into the last remaining cup, his concentration derailed as he saw who Weasel admitted.
The ping-pong ball careened erratically off of the table, bounced off the countertop, and firmly lodged itself in the cleavage of none other than Sheila Robinson.
Sage jogged up the claustrophobic dorm staircase to Chloe’s room. She was somehow misplaced into the International and Foreign language floor, which was interesting, considering she was the only one on the floor who did not speak a foreign language. She lived in room 303, and each room on the floor was named for a specific foreign city. The irony was not lost on Chloe that as an English major, her room was dubbed lived in Stratford upon Avon, Shakespeare’s birthplace.
Sage knocked lightly on the door, and he could hear the faint strains of AC/DC filtering through the thick, decorated wood. Unlike most of the doors on the girls’ side of the co-ed floor, Chloe’s wood plank did not boast hearts, dry erase message boards scrawled with doodles, drunken pictures of friends, or paraphernalia pledging green and silver allegiance to Rocky River. Her door was shrouded in black crepe paper with bold, broad slashes of blood red paint. Little skulls with battery-powered flashing eyes dangled from the threshold, accompanied by decapitated Barbie dolls with pins stuck in every available peach plastic orifice. Stick figures adorned the crepe paper with vivid stick-figure murders, covering every gruesome scene from figures falling from windows and impaling themselves on picket fences, to Psycho-esque stabbings. Chloe’s door was the darkest, blackest, most satanic visual assault this side of Hell. Or at least, the top half was.
The bottom half of room 303 was a collage of blue, red, and white JESUS LOVES ME bumper stickers: twenty-seven of them to be exact. Colorful fliers advertising campus Bible study, youth group, and Christian Campus Leaders were thumb-tacked to the door in neat little folders, inviting foreign-speaking passersby to join Christ’s community at Rocky River. Little gold-plated cross pins hung in a plastic sandwich bag from the door handle, dangling the promise of redemption and salvation if one would only wear the pin. Where Chloe had stick figures using machetes to create fields of innocent amputees, her roommate had pictures of fields of holy palmers and Jerusalem. Whereas Chloe had chalk-drawn pentagrams and “Abandon all hope ye who enter here” scrawled across the top half the door, Chloe’s roommate had John 3:16 in gold script, accentuated with daisies and frolicking bunnies. It was like Lucifer and the Lord were duking it out Celebrity Death Match style on the door of room 303, and that was just how Chloe’s twisted sense of humor liked it.
Sage pushed open the door to find Chloe swaying her slender hips to the beat of “Hells Bells” while she finished applying some type of sparkling powder to her eyelids. Sage pulled a lock of her hair to let her know he was there, before taking his usual spot on her eight ball beanbag chair. He flopped down and the bag gave a pronounced wheeze as it adjusted to his weight. As Chloe finished doing whatever she was doing to her face, Sage took a long look at his best friend, and smirked.
Chloe was wearing a scarlet red long sleeved top that looked like it’d been slashed with razor blades down the sides. The shirt ended where a black miniskirt and fishnet stalkings began, complete with patent leather stilettos and a studded belt. Chloe slicked a shimmery, vermilion gloss over her lips before she caught Sage’s eye in the mirror.
“What?” she asked, running her tongue along her freshly glossed lips and fluffing her choppy blonde hair as she turned around. Sage thought she looked good, if not outrageously slutty-something that did not fit in with Chloe’s genetic composition. Then when he read the caption on her shirt, Sage burst out laughing.
On the front of Chloe’s razor shredded shirt read the caption, “Parody of the Modern Day Slut, Find Someone Else to Take Home.” Catching his eye, Chloe grinned and fastened ridiculously large hoop earrings into her small ears. While her clothing was a bit over the top, Sage had to admit she looked pretty in her own right. Her aqua eyes sparkled beneath a curtain of long dark lashes, accentuated by microscopic stars she managed to pattern on her brow bone. Her lips looked full and inviting with whatever goop she’d applied, and her athletic body truly did justice to the short skirt and clingy shirt. If Sage didn’t know any better, he could see himself hitting on her if they’d never met.
“Nice shirt,” Sage remarked. “Where’s the Jesus freak?”
Chloe shrugged. “Some Campus Crusade for Christ. Tonight she said she’s going to pray for me. I told her not to waste her time.” Sage was one of the few people who knew Chloe’s anti-Christ campaign was strictly to annoy her Bible thumping roommate. Chloe was a devout Christian and rarely missed Sunday mass at the campus chapel, but she’d break Sage’s arms if he ever told anyone the truth. In her opinion, it would ruin her reputation.
Chloe went to grab her dorm key, student identification, and bomber jacket off of the Formica desk top before Sage said, “You might not want to bring your beloved jacket, it might get stolen at Weasel’s.”
“Sage, I’m practically naked and it’s twenty-two degrees outside and snowing.” But she could tell by the look on his face that he was serious, so she continued, “We’d better walk fast, then. Here, put my key and ID in your pocket. You smell woodsy, by they way.”
Sage sniffed his cologne and straightened his shirt and jeans as he stood up. With Sheila on his mind, Sage asked Chloe, “Do I look ultra cool to you?”
“More like ultra prep, Preppy.”
“Oh c’mon. Can’t you at least drool over me like a normal girl?”
“Okay, ultra-dork, maybe.”
“You’re an ultra-bitch.
“Good.”
“Fine.”
“Ready?”
“Yeah, let’s go.”
Sage led the way down the foul smelling stairs and out of the steel doors into the blistering wind. One look at Chloe’s face and he knew she was a Popsicle.
“How many blocks is it to Weasel’s?” she asked through chattering teeth, hugging close to Sage’s side.
“Eleven. Are you cold?” Sage asked.
“No, I’m in the midst of a fucking heat wave. I knew this was a bad idea. I knew I should’ve just stayed home in the warm haven of my bed and read a book. But noooo, I had to agree to go to some stupid party with Preppysaurus Rex to ‘have fun’ and meet-“
Chloe’s litany of complaints was cut short by Sage draping his sweater over her shoulders. “Happy now?” Sage asked, finally feeling the Pennsylvania winter sink its talons into his skin. At that moment, he nearly felt sorry for telling Chloe to leave her jacket in the dormitory.
“No, but I’m much less bitter when I’m warm.” She shot him a grateful smile.
They continued to walk in freezing silence, past the glowing pizzerias and neon signs of apartment complexes. Bars hosting live bands were beginning to open their doors to shivering patrons waiting in lines outside to see their favorite local musicians. Bouncers checked ID’s and stamped hands as Chloe and Sage walked briskly past the humming institutions of college debauchery.
“God, I love this town,” Sage breathed, taking in the college nightlife.
“God, I wish I’d have worn jeans,” Chloe hissed through what Sage assumed were frozen lips.
Watching her walk, Sage teased, “Well if it’s any consolation, you look pretty nice tonight. Who knows? You might get lucky.” He couldn’t resist winking at her while she looked at him in abject horror.
“And I might also stick hot pokers underneath my fingernails,” Chloe muttered.
“See? I said you look pretty nice. And then you had to go open your mouth and ruin the illusion.” Sage linked his arm through Chloe’s as the first snowflakes of the evening began to drift down from the overcast December sky. He slowed his pace as they neared the Commodore, Weasel’s apartment building. Already they could hear the thump of bass pound through the walls of the seedy apartment building, and the tinkle of laughter float down from overcrowded balconies. It was a typical party night in Rocky River.
Sage opened the door for Chloe and she stepped into the dim hallway that smelled faintly of urine and beer. The black and gray linoleum of the foyer was cracked and scuffed, a living testament attesting to its frat boy inhabitants. Sage pushed the elevator button and heard Chloe take a deep breath.
“Stop acting like you’re getting the death sentence,” Sage joked. “It’s just a party.”
“It’s Weasel’s party.”
“So?”
“So? The guy is the bane of my existence. He’s an amoeba. No, he’s the flagellate ON the amoeba-“
“I get it, I get it. Look, just tolerate him for one night, okay? I haven’t seen him in awhile.”
As Weasel opened the door wearing a beer bong around his neck, Sage realized that asking Chloe to tolerate Weasel was like asking the Pope to tolerate premarital sex. It just wasn’t going to happen.
“Hey, Pellington, my man! Looking good, looking good. Always styling, Sage.” Weasel looked past Sage to Chloe and gave a hoot.
“Holy Christ, Pellington, where’d you get Miss America? I didn’t know trailer parks had beauty queens anymore.”
Chloe tilted her chin up and shot Troy Weaselman a death glare. “Fuck off, Weasel.”
Weasel put his hands up in mock surrender, “Just joking Calderna, just joking. Come on in. Eat, drink, be merry-but most of all, drink. ‘Specially you, Calderna. I’m sure you could walk in those heels a little better without that stick up your ass.”
Before Chloe could rip his face off, Sage interceded and handed Chloe a red plastic cup. “Relax, Chloe, relax. He’s harmless.”
Chloe glared in the direction Weasel retreated. “So’s battery acid until it’s poured on your skin,” she retorted.
“C’mon, let’s sign the pong list.” Sage moved across the sticky kitchen floor to put their names on the list, in lieu of at least a dozen guys clapping him on the back and exchanging greetings. Chloe watched an equally enthusiastic group of girls hug Sage and cling to him longer than necessary as he signed their names on the beer pong list. Chloe sipped her cheap beer and quietly observed Weasel’s place of residence-if you could call it that.
Troy Weaselman had been Chloe’s nemesis since they met through Sage freshman year of college. Chloe and Sage had just started talking, and Sage thought Weasel and Chloe just might get along; in fact, Sage thought Chloe and Weasel might actually make a nice couple. He grossly miscalculated.
Perhaps some of Sage’s folly was in assuming that since he and Weasel graduated from the same high school and had been friends for years, that any friend of Sage would be a friend of Weasel’s. Unfortunately, Sage forgot to take into account that not only did Weasel posses the unique ability to piss people off with his sheer social ineptitude, but also that Weasel is shadier than a lunar eclipse. The kid was the king of jerks, but he was so slick about it that he somehow was able to maintain a wide circle of friends-when it was convenient for him.
Chloe and Weasel seemed to like each other-at first. Then Chloe realized Weasel harbored zero respect for women, and she administered a tongue lashing so harsh Sage was sure Weasel’s skin would peel off his body in strips. Chloe truly sliced Weasel down with words, something Weasel couldn’t tolerate, nor appreciate. Since then every meeting between the two had been nothing short of a massacre, and Sage knew they only tolerated each other for his sake. Sage wished things could be different, but even he had to admit-his friend was a Class A Asshole.
Sage made his way back over to Chloe, who was quietly studying her surroundings. The neon Rolling Rock sign on the sliding glass doors adjoining the balcony shuddered and flickered, causing green tubes of light to ricochet off of a glossy life-size Anna Kournikova poster. A collection of liquor bottles of all shapes, sizes, and colors sat atop a pressed wood entertainment system, with said system blasting Outkast’s “Hey Ya.” Chloe wished the girls in front of her would ‘shake it like a Polaroid picture’ out of her personal space. People were smashed into the living room well over the apartment’s occupancy maximum, and cheers from the beer pong table could be heard in the other room. Christmas lights twinkled from the bedrooms, providing lighting to beds piled high with coats waiting to be stolen later, and once the coats were gone that meant there would be clear places to have sex equally as late. Computer screens glowed silently from the darkness of the bedrooms, their monitors filled with dialogue boxes inviting everyone they know to the “Party in 211 Commodore.” The line for the bathroom was increasing with the party patrons blood-alcohol content. Another typical Friday in Rocky River.
“You okay?” Sage asked as he handed Chloe another beer from the keg that was being quickly kicked.
“Huh?” Chloe snapped out of her reverie. “Yeah, I’m fine. When are we playing?”
“I don’t know. As soon as the Indian kids and Weasel’s team are done. You up for it?”
A grin flickered across Chloe’s face. “I may hate partying, but have I ever been one to let you down where beer pong is concerned?”
Sage returned her grin. “Nope. Let’s kick ass.”
The two bulldozed a path between writhing bodies to the kitchen where the Olympics of college sports were played: the beer pong table. If beer pong were actually an Olympic sport, Chloe would be a gold medallist. The girl didn’t lose. Sage, proud of his friends’ skills as they took the first five cups without blinking, was just about to shut out the other team when the door to Weasel’s apartment opened. Just as Sage was about to perfectly arc the feather-light orb of ping-pongy goodness into the last remaining cup, his concentration derailed as he saw who Weasel admitted.
The ping-pong ball careened erratically off of the table, bounced off the countertop, and firmly lodged itself in the cleavage of none other than Sheila Robinson.