Read Online (You) Set Me on Fire by Mariko Tamaki - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mariko Tamaki
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the greaser? I loooooove John Travolta.” Carly curled her lip and did some hunky shoulder moves. “But you guys can come and be pink ladies.”
“Nope!” Shar cut in, before I had a chance to respond. “We’ve got plans.”
“We do?”
“Yes, Allison, we do.”
I still have no idea where Shar found costumes. She skipped Enviro Geology and then somehow, by dinner, she returned with a set of faux Native American disco suits, which she laid out on her bed on top of a pile of dirty black laundry.
“Check it out! Sonny and Cher!”
They were polyester, bedazzled with sequins and trimmed with feathers. The back of the Cher outfit was covered with gold-stitched dreamcatchers and little horses.
“Holy shit that’s so cool.”
“Fuck PINK LADIES. Like we’re going as the fucking pink ladies.”
Shar smiled things I needed to be doingked me . The muscles in her face softened, relaxed.
“I’m going to dress you up and everything,” she said. “It’s going to be amazing.”
I’d never had anyone dress me up. It’s a strangely comforting sensation, having someone else be in charge of what you’re going to look like.
First Shar sent me into the bathroom with a tensor bandage and my smallest jogging bra so I could bind my boobs up. Then we fitted me into the jumpsuit, which required a bunch of safety pins and tape. Shar even borrowed some platform boots from Rattles—a stretch because Shar disliked Rattles—so that the cuffs wouldn’t drag too much on the ground. My wig scratched my burn scar a bit so we added a little red handkerchief that I went and grabbed from Carly. The consensus was that I looked like a discount Sonny Bono.
“It’s okay,” Shar said. “I’m going to look really good as Cher.”
By nine, the whole residence was like backstage at Radio City Music Hall, with girls running in and out of rooms borrowing makeup, jewellery, and fishnets. The tops of all the sinks were dusted with eye shadow and sticky with hairspray. Music bumped through the corridors as, cloistered in Shar’s room, I watched her apply a layer of thick eyeliner, her long black wig glistening unnaturally like an oil spill running down her back.
It’s not surprising that Shar looked really cool as Cher. So I won’t go into it. But she looked amazing. Like long and lean and sparkly and regal, the way Cher looks in all her videos except in the one where she’s wearing a weird leather bathing suit.
In the elevator down, after a few beers and a shot in her room, Shar/Cher hooked her arm around me and, with a slight, Cher-like drawl, crooned, “Sonny. Babe. What do you say you and me hit the town?” She smelled like hairspray, which was oddly intoxicating.
A set of Dreamgirls , in matching sparkly blue dresses, black gloves, and Afro wigs, pressed into the elevator, giggling.
“Cher. Honey,” I replied, with a fairly un–Sonny Bono somewhat British accent, “I’d, uh, love to get groovy with you tonight.”
“This is going to work better if you don’t talk so much, Allison.”
“Right.”
Surprisingly, college dances are not all that different from high school dances. The Student Union building was done up in typical Halloween paper cut-outs, and plastic jack-o’-lanterns and mummies had been Scotch-taped onto every surface, making it hard to find someplace to lean. The theme was sort of a “dance” type thing and so someone had somehow hung a whole bunch of disco balls from the ceiling. Little orange and green lights flickered around the room like cat toys as the space started to fill up with costumes. There were zombies and Goths (who probably weren’t even really dressed up) scattered everywhere. The engineers who came (including Hope) were all woodland animals (which seemed to entail a lot of humping demonstrations). A couple drag queens circled the room in glittery dresses and tall patent-leather boots, looking like glamorous storm troopers. A bunch of guys came dressed as condoms (not really
“Nope!” Shar cut in, before I had a chance to respond. “We’ve got plans.”
“We do?”
“Yes, Allison, we do.”
I still have no idea where Shar found costumes. She skipped Enviro Geology and then somehow, by dinner, she returned with a set of faux Native American disco suits, which she laid out on her bed on top of a pile of dirty black laundry.
“Check it out! Sonny and Cher!”
They were polyester, bedazzled with sequins and trimmed with feathers. The back of the Cher outfit was covered with gold-stitched dreamcatchers and little horses.
“Holy shit that’s so cool.”
“Fuck PINK LADIES. Like we’re going as the fucking pink ladies.”
Shar smiled things I needed to be doingked me . The muscles in her face softened, relaxed.
“I’m going to dress you up and everything,” she said. “It’s going to be amazing.”
I’d never had anyone dress me up. It’s a strangely comforting sensation, having someone else be in charge of what you’re going to look like.
First Shar sent me into the bathroom with a tensor bandage and my smallest jogging bra so I could bind my boobs up. Then we fitted me into the jumpsuit, which required a bunch of safety pins and tape. Shar even borrowed some platform boots from Rattles—a stretch because Shar disliked Rattles—so that the cuffs wouldn’t drag too much on the ground. My wig scratched my burn scar a bit so we added a little red handkerchief that I went and grabbed from Carly. The consensus was that I looked like a discount Sonny Bono.
“It’s okay,” Shar said. “I’m going to look really good as Cher.”
By nine, the whole residence was like backstage at Radio City Music Hall, with girls running in and out of rooms borrowing makeup, jewellery, and fishnets. The tops of all the sinks were dusted with eye shadow and sticky with hairspray. Music bumped through the corridors as, cloistered in Shar’s room, I watched her apply a layer of thick eyeliner, her long black wig glistening unnaturally like an oil spill running down her back.
It’s not surprising that Shar looked really cool as Cher. So I won’t go into it. But she looked amazing. Like long and lean and sparkly and regal, the way Cher looks in all her videos except in the one where she’s wearing a weird leather bathing suit.
In the elevator down, after a few beers and a shot in her room, Shar/Cher hooked her arm around me and, with a slight, Cher-like drawl, crooned, “Sonny. Babe. What do you say you and me hit the town?” She smelled like hairspray, which was oddly intoxicating.
A set of Dreamgirls , in matching sparkly blue dresses, black gloves, and Afro wigs, pressed into the elevator, giggling.
“Cher. Honey,” I replied, with a fairly un–Sonny Bono somewhat British accent, “I’d, uh, love to get groovy with you tonight.”
“This is going to work better if you don’t talk so much, Allison.”
“Right.”
Surprisingly, college dances are not all that different from high school dances. The Student Union building was done up in typical Halloween paper cut-outs, and plastic jack-o’-lanterns and mummies had been Scotch-taped onto every surface, making it hard to find someplace to lean. The theme was sort of a “dance” type thing and so someone had somehow hung a whole bunch of disco balls from the ceiling. Little orange and green lights flickered around the room like cat toys as the space started to fill up with costumes. There were zombies and Goths (who probably weren’t even really dressed up) scattered everywhere. The engineers who came (including Hope) were all woodland animals (which seemed to entail a lot of humping demonstrations). A couple drag queens circled the room in glittery dresses and tall patent-leather boots, looking like glamorous storm troopers. A bunch of guys came dressed as condoms (not really
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