Page 58 of Spiral

I pull it away from my ear, wincing. It sounds like the phone is simultaneously in the back seat of his car and a centimeter away from his face.

“Sexy lady?” Eleanor mouths, wincing in disgust.

I wave her off frantically, walking into the living room for a chance at privacy.

“Listen, Georgia – I’m gonna be there a little late. I’ll pick you up at about 7:50. That work?”

“Sure, sounds perfect,” I whisper, elongating my words like I’ve seen every temptress do in the movies.

“What?” he shouts, the line growing more static with every passing second.

“Oh, um, I said sure!” I shout back, my normal cadence returning.

“See you then!”

He hangs up the phone before I can reply, and Eleanor ambles into the room with a look of disbelief on her face.

“Georgia, what was that voice?”

“I was trying to sound sexy!” I cry, throwing my face down into a throw pillow with a loud thud.

“You sounded like Jessica Rabbit got bronchitis.”

She grins, plopping herself down beside me on the couch.

“Whatever – at least I have a date.”

“Not wearing that, you don’t.”

She looks me up and down critically, examining my Texas University tank top, black leggings, and sneakers.

“What? This is what I always wear.”

She rolls her eyes as she grabs my hand, dragging me towards her room.

“Come with me.”

My nerves start to get the best of me as I stand outside Eleanor and I’s apartment, waiting for Todd to pick me up.

Am I doing the right thing?

I still haven’t gotten over what happened with Henry. How could I? He led me on for months, got me to tell him my deepest secrets and feelings, kissed me like his life depended on it – all while he was going home to another girl.

No, Georgia. You were the other girl.

I feel my eyes start to well with tears, an all-too-common occurrence this last week.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. You’ve got a drop-dead gorgeous, 6-foot-3 football player heading to your house right now to take you on a date. Woman up.

I shiver as a gust of wind blows over me, immediately prickling my exposed skin.

Why did I let Eleanor talk me into wearing this? I feel ridiculous.

I tried to argue that by dressing me in a tight, red mini dress and heeled boots, she was stripping me of my natural, charismatic, “girl-next-door” personality that men find so enticing. But she wasn’t having it.

“This’ll get his gears turning,” she’d muttered as she forcefully rearranged my cleavage to be as pronounced as possible.

“We’re just going as friends,” I’d pleaded. “Besides, if people from class see me waiting out there for him dressed like this, they’ll think I’m working the corner.”