I growl with frustration at my reflection in the mirror. Damn my hair – it’s fifty shades of fucked up. The situation I’m in is fifty shades of fucked up. I’m supposed to be studying for my finals; my roommate, Kathleen, should be the one fussing with her hair in front of the mirror right now. Instead, I’m trying to brush my hair into submission. Why is my hair so kinky? I need to stop sleeping with it wet, because it always ends up out of control. As I brush my long, brown hair, the girl in the mirror with blue eyes too big for her head stares back at me. Wait...I don’t have blue eyes! Then I realize I haven’t been looking into the mirror. I’ve been staring at a poster of Kristen Stewart for five minutes. My own hair is actually fine.
Kathleen has the flu. Today, of all days! What a b. She was supposed to be the one interviewing the mega-capitalist tycoon, Chris Gray, for our college student newspaper. Since she’s too busy throwing up buckets of puke into the toilet, I’ve been volunteered to do her dirty work. (The interview, not cleaning up her vomit.) I have an essay to finish writing and final exams to study for, but no – I’m driving 650 miles from Portland, Oregon to downtown Seattle to meet with the fabulously wealthy CEO of Gray Holdings. He’s a major benefactor of our school, and he’ll be giving a speech at the graduation ceremony in a few weeks. The interview can’t simply be rescheduled, Kathleen says, because Mr. Gray’s time is precious and oh-so-valuable. Like mine isn’t? As I said, Kathleen is such a total b sometimes.
Kathleen is on the couch in the living room watching 16 and Pregnant.
“I’m sorry, Anna. It took me months to get this interview. We can’t reschedule it, because by then we’ll be graduated. Please do this for me,” she begs me with her raspy Christian Bale-as-Batman voice. Somebody smoked too many cigarettes last night.
“Of course I’ll do it, Kathleen. You need to rest. Do you need any NyQuil?”
“Does it have alcohol in it?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Then pour a shot into a glass with some Red Bull,” she says. “And here – take my mini-disc recorder, and these questions. I’ll do the transcribing.”
I can’t believe I’m doing this for her! I take the mini-disc recorder and notebook from her and leave. It’s only after I’m on the road for a half hour that I remember her request for NyQuil and Red Bull. Oh, well. That b can get off her sick ass and get them herself.