Anne had a way of letting you know she knew everything. Not quadratic formulaic-dactyllic-hexamatic-everything. Not know-it-all-Plan-II-I-have-to-talk-about-all-forms-of-oppression-to-impress-you-everything either. No, Anne knew all she needed to know about truth and beauty without any help from poets or critics or professors or chatterboxes like me. Anne’s wisdom was snuggled up in that swoop of a smile that seemed to slow down time. She was chill. She was so damn smart. Her hair was huge and she knew how to make it fro properly. I had the same hair, and it did not fro properly. And, I swear to God, on the day I was invited to be her friend, she was wearing skin tight Calvin Klein underwear with fishnets and those heels that made her like 6’2”. At school.
I remember trying to not wear a sorority T-shirt to philosophy class that day, but I got distracted by MTV Jams, and I put one on accidentally. In my mad tear through West Campus, I discovered from the Bible guy that it was National Coming Out day. I hustled past a pack of Lesbian Avengers swallowing fire on the West Mall. I wanted to stare, but I was afraid someone would talk to me. And, conveniently, I was tardy.
So, I hauled ass through that madness to get to Woodruff’s philosophy class for our discussion on freedom. Nietzsche was probably what we should have been drawing from, but I remember raising my hand and saying something that I thought would transcend Nietzsche, something clever, something along the lines of quoting Janis Joplin.
“Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose,” I offered.
My classmates actually took the time to muster groans. Like Dawn soap dribbled into a mess of dirty dish water, everyone leaned away from me in a protracted swoosh. Dr. Woodruff, who kindly saves everyone, struggled to recover. Tara later asked me if I had been high. Unfortunately, I wasn’t. My Joplin response was actually cultivated for about four minutes.
Then, thank the good Lord above, something changed. Anne arrived late and in that incredible get-up. She looked fantastic. And she sat next to me. She smiled. Even though she couldn’t have heard my ridiculous nonsense, her face said she did. She somehow knew.
Anne unearthed a pen from her knapsack. “Where are we?” Still traumatized and trembling, I stuttered, “Freedom. Good. Evil. Nietzsche.”
“Okay.” She giggled quietly. A very hot guy gazed at us. Anne never looked at him. She was a rules girl before we even knew the rules. Damn, she was powerful.
Class ended eventually and I realized that she was asking me more questions. We were going to walk and talk. She must have seen the Tri-Delta Spring Casual shirt by then, but she never let on that she did. We descended the stairs and strolled in the direction of the West Mall, easing into conversation. I took two steps for each of her long, elegant strides. My inner tumult subsided. My appetite grew. I even forgot what I was wearing until I heard the mantra, “We recruit! We recruit!”
The smell of kerosene followed. Given that there were only about ten Avengers at this rally, I had clearly entered their circle. Inadvertedly. But there’s no time for salutations among fire-breathing lesbians.
“We recruit sorority grrrrrrls!” A troop of women ripped apart a six-foot blue paper-mache penis, shouting in triumph. My heart rate returned to 150 beats per minute for the fourth time that morning. I felt faint. There are so many many ways to get back to West Campus. Why am I such an idiot? Why are we here? I stood there, dumbfounded, waiting for the fire girls to take me away. Surely Anne would not want to walk and talk with this fiasco anymore.
Much to my surprise, she did not chastise me, berate me, yell at me what the hell are you so afraid of? They’re just a bunch of fire-breathing dykes, you sorority chick!
Instead, Anne strolled right through the penis remnants, her heels twisting the paper apart, the blue tempera paint flaking in her wake. There were to be no interruptions in this conversation. It would not end.
I shook off my panic attack and caught up to her, trying to play it cool, like nothing was out of the ordinary. We walked through the less populated parts of the West Mall, past the architecture building, in silence. Then she turned to me and shared that incredible smile, her eyes saying there is no room for fear here. Wear four inch heels and skin tight underwear to class; do not be afraid of the penis; go swallow fire.
Casually, Anne asked, “so, have you ever been to the Casbah?”
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