Starfish by Anne Eton Page B

few older men in suits wander around. They seem befuddled. Probably visiting professors, wondering what all the commotion is about on the quad and forgetting it’s graduation day.
    Jill approaches the reception desk. I halfway hope they have no rooms, and am halfway terrified they don’t.
    They do—someone canceled their reservation. Jill pulls out a credit card.
    I can pay half, I say.
    She gives me her trademark grin. Points to me, says: Peace Corps salary. Points to herself: Wall Street salary.
    I laugh. She pays. If the receptionist wonders why two college girls are renting a six-hundred-dollar-a-night room at the campus conference center on graduation day, she doesn’t show it. She’s probably seen more interesting stuff than this.
    We rise up the elevator in silence. I touch Jill’s hand; her fingers caress mine. The doors open and she walks out into the hall. My hand releases, and she doesn’t hold on; I hurry out after her before the doors close again.
    Room 662. I feel an incredible wave of relief that we are not in 666, an indicator that I would be going to hell for sure. Then I remember: no hotel has room 666, or room 13 for that matter. So if I am looking for a sign that my betrayal of Brad is going to send me to eternal damnation, I’m not going to find it in such a soap-opera overwritten way.
    Jill walks past the bed, pulls the curtains closed. She glances back over her shoulder.
    I’m still on the threshold.
    We stare at each other.
    Finally, I walk in and close the door.
    For a moment, I wonder if all Jill really wanted to do was watch HBO. The TV remote’s in her hand. Stations flip endlessly before she finds what she wants: smooth jazz. A screen saver glides around the television screen and soft saxophone music fills the room.
    You romantic you, I say. Only it doesn’t come out right. My voice is high and catches on the last word. I wonder if Jill will feel sorry for me and call the whole thing off. That’s all right, Ellie, we don’t have to do this. Why don’t we just lie on the bed, order some champagne, and relax? I see us laughing on the bed, fluted glasses in hand, reliving all the funny stories of the past four years.
    Jill sees my nervousness all right, but her reaction isn’t exactly what I was expecting. She begins popping the buttons on my blouse, one by one. Her eyes are on her work and you would think from her calm expression she was just helping a friend disrobe in a cabana at the beach.
    It hits me how determined, how ruthless, she is. The straight-A student. Ceaseless letters and phone calls to investment banks, asking for an internship. No wasted time. Guess that applies in this area of her life, too. Jill has always known exactly what she wanted, which I suppose is partly why she’s always fascinated me. I came to college with a vague idea of doing some sort of philanthropy work. Beyond that, I didn’t know. I guess I still don’t.
    My shirt’s off. Jill reaches for the belt. I don’t want to be undressed like a child so I beat her to it, opening the buckle carefully, watching the sharp spikes in the leather. The damn belt stabbed me once when I was rearranging my closet and I don’t want it to happen again. Stepping out of my heels, I unzip my jeans before stepping out of them also. After a split-second I scoot my panties off and beat her to that, too, because somehow I want to own the responsibility.
    But it doesn’t matter, because I freeze up anyway. So Jill takes the lead. Turning my shoulders gently, she faces me away from her. My head bows. I’m embarrassed, scared, pick an adjective. I’ve never felt so unsexy in my life.
    But Jill’s hands communicate with my body, rubbing my hunched shoulders. It’s okay, the hands tell me. It’s okay.
    Gradually, I feel some tension drain off. Now I just feel foolish. Jill’s soft lips kiss the back of my neck, as if to say: giving up so soon? You hippies always were quitters. Ha ha, kidding. Kiss, kiss…
    Her hands