Miss Naughtie Two-Shoes and the Rebel

And the wolf thought to himself, What a tender little creature, What a nice plump mouthful. - The Brothers Grimm The walls throb to the blaring music and the dance floor comes alive. The purple beams cast by the strobe light puts the hall in slow motion. Infusing the air with fever. The frenzy rages on as the young neophytes dance the night away. Too eager for grownup things, but too lazy to grow up. Forever trapped in those hypnotic seconds. Between slits of darkness and illumination, the short and sinful high comes to an end. A heartbeat of blackness. But no, it's not an end. It's just an interlude. Because then, the low thudding of a drum kicks in. The LED lights start flashing a flood of bright colors - red and blue and yellow in a concentric pattern. Everyone goes wild. Wilder. It's a freaking jungle. Everything's back to normal speed, but the madness is just gaining momentum. Rave, baby, rave. It is Robertson Valley State College's acquaintance party, campus-sponsored and alcohol-free. Sadly. Celebrated annually early in the first semester, every incoming student gets red carpet treatment, literally and figuratively. Tonight, they take their first official bite of independence. They're shown the way with a big arrowhead symbol that says: This way to self-discovery. Free of labels and cliques. From the perspective of a cynic, one might argue that pigs are fattened first before they're sent to the slaughterhouse. Party first, suffer later. That remains to be seen. First things first. The function hall was completely transformed into a club with all the bells and whistles. The party committee has everything covered: from food, to music, to lighting effects. On a steel mezzanine in the right wing of the hall, a senior student mans the DJ booth, having a blast mixing dance music from a digital device. The crowd is all hyped up and having a good time, despite the absence of booze. Talking is impossible without screaming. The music is deafening, yet Andy can hear her heart beating. She puts an unsteady foot forward, as if testing the waters. What she finds is that the dance floor is not liquid but electricity. Shivering, she feels it travel from her toes to every bone in her body. Her nerves are fired up by the rhythmic pulsing of the bass drums. She has never been exposed to this genre of music before, but she likes it. It gives her a rush. In her mind, she is already dancing - bobbing her head, snapping her fingers, tapping her feet. She thinks she's ready as the last traces of shyness escape her. Taking steady steps forward, her heart pounds in her ribs. She isn't nervous; she is excited. For the first time in her life, she knows how it feels to be young and carefree. But before she can twitch another muscle, the emcee says something into the microphone. The microphone doesn't seem to like what he said, because it screeches angrily a long, grating response. And the audience burst into a chorus of boos in agreement. But he isn't the master of ceremony for nothing. The music needs to go. Presence of mind, people. Everyone comes to a standstill. Begrudgingly. Blah, blah, blah. Then: "Who could be this year's Miss Robertson-Valley Freshman?" The emcee asks zealously. Too zealous because his voice bubbles, as if a ball of phlegm is lodged in his throat, inspiring a mass of throat-clearing from the overly suggestive crowd. The spotlight begins its search. A shroud of anticipation hangs in the air. Eager faces stare longingly, following the bright light as it combs through the throng of glammed-up dolls in their glittery gowns. Hushed excitement spreads like wildfire. Everyone is holding her breath. They wait and wait and wait. Then the drum roll - hammering patiently, patiently, before skidding to an abrupt halt. Finally! Andy feels her heart skip a beat as she finds herself in the dead center of the spotlight. She swings her eyes around. The girls glare at her enviously. The boys throw her approving glances. Everyone looks at her like it's the very first time they've seen her, although she's been on this campus for as long as everyone else. Amid the chattering, she hears someone ask, "Who is she?" What's going on? Confused, she seeks the audience for a friendly face. But no one seems friendly enough or even vaguely familiar. They all just... stare. And then it hits her. She is the spotlight. The magic mirror has spoken. The fairest lady of them all is none other than... than HER! And why the hell not? She looks perfect tonight. Her midnight blue cocktail gown, with its lace appliques and beads, wonderfully complements her creamy complexion. The off-shoulder neckline gathers to a dip at the middle of her chest, showcasing delicate collar bone and toned arms. Puckered tightly around her slim waist, the layered chiffon of her skirt flare elegantly just an inch above her knees. She wears her hair in a French braid with a messy low bun, with wisps of twirling hair beautifully framing the soft angles of her face. Strangely enough, she feels like a different person in her ash brown hair. She has never dyed her jet-black hair before and her thick straight strands won't just willingly bend to the whims of any hair styler, not without a fight. The subdued makeup playfully highlights her best features: flawless skin, strong brows, light brown eyes, slim nose, and full, upturned lips. Tonight, she is simply exquisite. From her spot, the overhead light trails a clean path towards the front of the dance hall. And where it ends, there stands a man - a stranger, dashing in his three-piece suit, wearing the same color as her dress. He smiles at her and her stomach flutters. Their eyes lock, oblivious of the world around them. She walks toward him - following an invisible thread that spools in itself the closer she gets to him - until she's standing in front of him. She looks at his offered hand and takes it with a curtsy. Curtsy, like what princes and princesses do. Something glints as it catches light in his wrist. A letter. Specifically, the letter T dangling from his bracelet. Why does it feel like I've seen this piece of jewelry before? Strange. He lifts her hand and bows his head lightly. But before he can even plant a kiss on her knuckles, something seizes the stranger's eyes. Andy senses his hesitation and searches what is it he saw in her hand. And she finds out almost instantly. Her fingernails! Lined with gross, greasy gunk. Like cute, little eyebrows underneath all ten of them. F**king dirty fingernails! Panic engulfs her body. It is hard to miss the look of disgust in the stranger's handsome face. Curious onlookers begin to surround them. And when they discover where the stranger's gaze is focused on, they break into uncontrollable laughter. Growing louder and louder. The stranger snickers as she slowly backs away like a cornered rat. She needs to get out. Fast. Humiliated, she darts off toward the door, leaving a crystal shoe behind. Really? She's wearing crystal shoes all this time and she hasn't noticed. Huh! It's getting weirder every minute. She runs and runs but finds herself still running. The floor just never ends. And she doesn't get anywhere. At last, EXIT. Out of nowhere. A large vintage marquee sign with lightbulbs stringing the letters. Which seems off. Has it been there the whole time? It doesn't matter. It means freedom. And she sprints toward freedom. But then, she sees herself running toward her, too. No! Reflection! Why am I seeing my reflection? Too late to realize that freedom is a solid hunk of glass wall. What kind of sick f**k puts an Exit sign right on - SLAM! Glass - 1. Face - 0. Just like a first-edition Brothers Grimm fairy tale. Brutal and twisted.