She looked ridiculous. Like some beached whale, wrapped in a tarp while the humans attempted to save it. She was fat. Fat and disgusting. She had been for as long as she could remember. Though she tried, desperately, but too often in vain, not to remember. Not to think about the past. About the pain.
Cathy stared in the mirror. This was a bad idea. She should know better by now. She was just setting herself up to be ridiculed. Girls like that were never really friends with girls like her. Didn't she learn that lesson when she had tried out for the cheerleading squad in high school?
She did not belong. She never had. And she never would. Books were her only real friends. Her escape. Her solace. Knowledge. Fantasy. Sci-fi. Even the romance of which she would never be a heroine. It did not matter. Words resonated. They sang in her mind and heart. They were the refuge and the only reality worth knowing.
That was it. She would get out of this ludicrous outfit. She would grab the historical romance that she had borrowed from the library and crawl into bed. That was a far better way to spend Halloween than some party hosted by the most prestigious sorority on campus.
A girl like her was lucky to have come this far. Foster children did not attend Ivy League universities. They ended up pregnant, alone, and repeating the mistakes of their childhood. But not Cathy. Her books had saved her from that Fate. Through them, she had learned that she could be anything she wanted.
The only thing she wanted to be was an archeologist. But even then, it was words, writing that drew her — the idea of reading ancient languages. Discovering lost mysteries in the hieroglyphics of some unknown Egyptian tomb or deciphering cuneiform texts on Sumerian tablets, these were her dreams.
So, what was she doing wrapped in a sheet, with so much eye make-up that she could barely see, her long, wavy, red hair piled atop her head and held in place with some metal circlet that resembled a crown? This was not her.
Cathy reached a trembling hand towards the golden-colored broach that secured the sheet at her shoulder.
"What are you doing?"
Cathy turned to face her RA. Stacy was a senior. She was also a member of Omega Tau Pi. Cathy had never understood why the girl, whose father was a corporate lawyer, would choose to be a lowly resident adviser. Or why she would have taken such an interest in someone like her. But from fresher week, the girl had gone out of her way to help her.
Stacy was everything that Cathy was not. Blond. Tall. Beautiful. And of course, thin. Her family's wealth meant she wore the 'right' clothes. She had her own car. And was friends with the 'right' people.
Still, the girl had been kind to her. That in itself made Cathy nervous. She kept waiting, felt as if she were merely biding her time until 'the other shoe dropped' as her first foster mother had said. No matter how hard she tried, Cathy could not help but wonder -- why.
"I'm sorry, Stacy. But this is a bad idea. I don't belong at a party like this. I'm just going..."
Before she could unclasp the metal broach, the young woman had crossed the room. Her hands grasped Cathy's, stayed her actions. "No, Cathy. You have to go tonight. It's important." Stacy's blue eyes seemed to glow in the dim light of her desk lamp. "Please. For me?"
Cathy wanted to refuse. Everything inside her screamed that this was a misjudgment. Hadn't she learned anything from high school? The overly friendly head cheerleader, who had encouraged her to try-out for the squad, had on the first day humiliated her in front of all the others — calling her fat, clumsy, and other things that she had long since blocked out.
What if this party was like that? Could she survive another indignity like that? Then she had a loving foster mother to turn to for advice. Now, she was on her own. Alone in this world. No one to run to. And in this small, privileged world, nowhere to hide.
"Please..." The other girl pleaded.
Cathy was not sure why, in the years to come, in quiet moments, she would ponder whatever had led her to accede. To nod her head and drop her hand. To take those first tentative steps out of her dorm room and into her future. Her destiny and Fate. That had begun at that moment, on that most hallowed of nights.
The party was in full swing when they arrived. Cathy was relieved to see that her costume was not as absurd as it seemed. It was, in fact, sedate for this gathering. In keeping with the theme 'gathering of the gods', the room was aflood with Roman, Greek, Norse, even the random Incan, Mayan, Hindu, and other ancient gods and goddesses milling about with paper cups of 'ambrosia' in their hands.
Stacy pressed a cup of blood-red punch into Cathy's shaky hand. "Here; drink this. It will help."
She shook her head and tried to pass it back, "I don't drink." Cathy had over a lifetime in foster care seen too much of the excesses and carnage of alcohol.
"There's no alcohol in it. I promise. Only a few harmless herbs."
Once again, Cathy would contemplate that moment in the lifetime to come. What had emboldened her? What had inspired her to overcome her fears of being drugged? What had roused her to bring the cup to her ruby-red painted lips and drink?
It was sweet. Over-poweringly so. But there was also a touch of bitterness. Grainy flecks of powder at the bottom of the cup winked at her conspiratorially. But she did feel calmer. A bit distanced. Though that was not entirely accurate.
She was alive. Everything around her was alive. Alight with some hitherto hidden energy, life-force, and power. Cathy felt it strumming through her whole body. But primarily, it seemed those parts of her that she had shunned. Her breasts tingled. Her nipples hardened as they brushed against the fine Egyptian cotton of the sheet that Stacy had loaned her for the night. And the fires that raged between her thighs did not bare consideration.
Cathy was a virgin. In all ways. Of course, she knew the basics. She had stumbled through health class in high school. Those lessons had even enlivened her to attempt masturbation. But after a few moments of increasing stimulation with no results to speak of, she had stopped touching herself, picked up the flashlight, and returned to the romance novel that had fueled the experiment. But this? This was more even than that paltry endeavor.
But the feeling was not uncomfortable. Not like her only sexual experience. She had been eleven. Her body was just beginning to undergo the changes of puberty. The older son of her most recent foster family had snuck into her room late at night. She had woken to utter terror as his hand covered her mouth. Tears had run down her cheeks as the fingers of his other hand twisted and pinched her budding breasts.
