The Culture of Hooking Up

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

     "Is that what you think I do? Mope."

     "No, of course not."

     "I promise once you figure it out, it'll be a lot easier," Professor Berkley continues, picking up her thermos, popping the lid, and taking a sip.

     "You're right." I nod as I go to stand up.

     "Make sure to check all those resources I sent you," Professor Berkley adds as she picks up her salad and leans back in her chair. "They should help."

     "Yes, thank you." I send her a smile before wrenching back the door to her office.

     If only I could argue that training bras are training for heterosexual based dating rituals of hook ups with no strings attached that perpetuate the sexual double standards for girls, while simultaneously praising guys and long term romantic relationship standards that often, not always but often, continue to reinforce the idea that girls aren't human but rather objects to be put on display, cold hard shiny plastic, and then used until rusted and tainted and undesirable.

     But that's not really neutral now is it?

****

Apparently, I need more of an argument, specifically, in the words of Professor Berkley over email, "This is better. A good start, but you need something someone can argue against."

     Right now, the only thing I want to argue against is the scratchy black and white florally designed carpet Taryne and I have had in our dorm room the last three years. I wish I could go back to Taryne's thrift store phase and ask her what the heck she was thinking. Instead, I continue to only pick at the worn down carpet strands as I lean my back against the low, black metal frame of my bed. I also would like to go to bed rather than create a new argument for my research paper, but one could argue that my grade for my research and methodologies class depends upon the argument of this paper.

     I've thought about arguments while vacuuming the scratchy carpet beneath me, and while applying my favorite grey mud mask to my face and waiting for said mask to dry before washing it off. Even when I was peeling and chopping up some carrots and putting waffles in the toaster for dinner. Yet the only arguments I could come up with are that I get to pick the next carpet if I happen to accidentally, but yet not so accidentally, spill carrot juice all over this one, that mud masks are hard to rub off even when you stick your whole head underneath the facet, and that waffles are the most versatile breakfast food.

     So, I'm back to carpet picking and sipping on my carrot and apple juice for motivation, but I reach for my cup only to realize I'm out of it. The same way I'm out of motivation.

     I push my laptop off my lap and stand up. I stretch my arms out towards the ceiling and roll my neck around a few times as I reach under my pillow to grab my phone from its hiding place. When I see a lot of texts, I assume Taryne forgot her I.D. card or something, but they're all from my sister who also left me five missed calls. My fingers don't move fast enough before I press the phone to my ear.

     "Hello?"

     "Violet—"

     "Laney, thank god—"

     "What's wrong? Are you okay? Is mom—dad?" I'm up and pacing.

     "Yeah, yeah, I just—I need," my sister pauses as she drops her voice down to a whisper, "I need your help."

     "Are you okay?" I whisper back while my mind whirls with every worst possible thing. She's lost, alone, hurt, or all the above. I pull my phone back to quickly glance at the time. If it's nine at night for me, it's twelve at night by her.