Despite everything that was happening behind the scenes, it was coming together. We were actually making a production.
Thank God I had that to hang on to. Without it, I would have probably just stayed in bed for two weeks, because figuring out my sexuality had unearthed a new kind of self-hatred I hadn’t been ready for. I’d thought figuring that out was supposed to make you feel proud, or something. Clearly not.
Something was up with Rooney too. Something had changed in her after that night we’d walked in to find her crying. She’d stopped going out in the evenings, instead spending them watching YouTube videos or TV shows, or just sleeping. I’d got used to the clacking of her frantic typing next to me in our English lectures, but it had stopped, and I often caught her just sitting very still, staring into the distance, not listening to the lecturers at all.
Sometimes she seemed fine. Sometimes she was ‘normal’ Rooney, directing the play with an iron fist, being the shiniest person in the room, chatting to twelve different people at dinnertime in the college cafeteria. She was at her best when Pip was around – exchanging banter and jokes with her, lighting up in a way she didn’t with anyone else – but even with her, I sometimes noticed Rooney turn away, put physical distance between them, like she didn’t want Pip to even see her. Like she was scared what would happen if they got too close.
I could have checked if she was OK, but I was too wrapped up in my own feelings, and she didn’t check if I was OK either, because she was too wrapped up in hers. I didn’t blame her, and I hoped she didn’t blame me.
We were just two roommates dealing with things that were difficult to talk about.
‘If you send me the photos of you in your dress,’ said Mum on Skype the afternoon of the Bailey Ball, ‘I’ll get them printed out and sent to all the grandparents!’
I sighed. ‘It’s not the same as prom. I don’t think there will be official photography.’
‘Well, just make sure you get at least one full-length pic of you in your dress. I bought it so I need to see it in action.’
Mum had bought me my Bailey Ball dress, though it had been my choice. I hadn’t actually planned on getting it because it was too expensive, but when I was sending links of potential dresses to her while we chatted on Messenger, she offered to pay for it. It was really nice of her, and honestly, it made me feel a pang of homesickness more intense than I’d experienced so far at uni.
‘Did any boys ask you to be their date to the ball?’
‘Mum. British universities don’t do that. That’s American schools who do that.’
‘Well, it would have been nice, wouldn’t it?’
‘Everyone just goes with their friends, Mum.’
Mum sighed. ‘You’re going to look so beautiful,’ she cooed. ‘Make sure you do your hair nicely.’
‘I will,’ I said. Rooney had already offered to do it for me.
‘You never know – you might meet your future husband tonight!’
I laughed before I could stop myself. Two months ago, I would have been dreaming of a perfect, magical meet-cute at my first university ball.
But now? Now I dressed for myself.
‘Yeah,’ I said, clearing my throat. ‘You never know.’
Rooney was silent while she did my hair with some thick curling tongs, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration. She knew how to do those big loose waves that you always see on American TV shows, but I found absolutely impossible to replicate by myself.
Rooney had already done her own hair. It was swept back from her forehead and perfectly straightened. Her dress was blood red and tight with a long slit up one leg. She looked like a Bond girl who later turned out to be the villain.
She insisted on doing my make-up too – she had always been a fan of makeovers, she explained – and I let her, seeing as she was way better at make-up than me. She blended golds and browns on my eyes, chose a muted pink lipstick, filled my eyebrows with a tiny brush, and drew neater winged eyeliner than I had ever been able to achieve alone.
‘There,’ she said, after what felt like hours but was probably more like twenty minutes. ‘All done.’
I checked myself out in Rooney’s pedestal mirror. I actually looked excellent. ‘Wow. That’s – wow.’
‘Go look in the big mirror! You need to see the full effect with your dress. You look like a princess.’
I did as she said. The dress was straight out of a fairy tale – floor-length, rose-coloured chiffon with a sequinned bodice. It wasn’t super comfortable – I was wearing a lot of tit tape – but with my wavy hair and shimmery make-up, I did look and feel like a princess.