The Hole in the Middle by Kate Hilton Page B

like a charm. It reminds me that Zoe isn’t an entirely satisfactory roommate; she rarely comes home alone on the weekend, if she comes home at all. But I’ve adjusted to her, and it’s a small price to share, however peripherally, in her sparkle. She gets me out of the house and out of my head.
    â€œOh, no,” she says. “I fooled around with him in high school, lucky me; it was like getting vaccinated. He’s trouble. I’ve got my eye on a couple of his engineering buddies.”
    â€œTell me again who Will is.” Zoe has a gigantic social circle: high school friends, camp friends, skiing friends, family friends. It’s dizzying to try to keep track of them all. I’ve never moved in packs; I’m more curatorial in my approach to collecting friends. And if I’m honest, I’ve never felt comfortable in Zoe’s pack. I recognize their ilk from my waitress days at the golf club near my parents’ house up in cottage country—all streaked hair and diamond studs and high-quality fake IDs. Having collected Zoe, I try to hold up my end among the various PSR&Bs (Pretty, Skinny, Rich, and Blonds) in her orbit, but I still feel like I’m supposed to be bringing them cheeseburgers and Tom Collins cocktails.
    The first time I met Zoe was in my college dorm, in the first week of school. I was in my room, but with the door open, which was a compromise with my shy self: I wouldn’t venture forth into potentially awkward human contact, but would, by way of the open door, indicatebasic sociability. No one had taken up my admittedly obscure invitation to come in and befriend me until Zoe showed up. I had noticed her, of course; she was absolutely gorgeous and seemed to have acquired an entourage in the short time since she had arrived.
    â€œAre you squeamish?” she asked.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œGreat. Then you can help me.” She came in and held out her hand. “I’m Zoe Hennessy.”
    â€œSophie Whelan.”
    Zoe held out a diamond stud. “My piercing closed up.” She laughed at the expression on my face. “Don’t worry—the one in my ear. Can you push this through?”
    I was fairly sick with loneliness by this point and prepared to take friendship in whatever form it was offered. “Sure,” I said. “Have a seat.”
    Zoe sat down and I got to work. She barely winced. “Hey,” she said, pointing to the
Thelma & Louise
poster on my wall. “My English teacher liked that movie too. We had to write an essay on female empowerment. I always wondered: am I the only one who noticed that they drive off a fucking
cliff
at the end? What’s empowering about that? Ouch.”
    â€œSorry. But it’s in. You’re done.”
    â€œAwesome,” she said, standing up. “I knew the girl in black would know how to do a piercing.”
    â€œThe girl in black?”
    â€œYeah. You’re the mysterious, artsy one on the floor. Aren’t you?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I said, too surprised to be anything other than honest. I’d always wanted to be mysterious and artsy, and I had chosen my back-to-school wardrobe accordingly with a heavy emphasis on long black skirts, black flowing blouses, and dangling earrings. If my new floor-mates found me mysterious, though, it was more likely because I was scared to come out of my room.
    â€œYou are,” she said, definitively, and I felt a rush of gratitude that I’d been given an identity in this strange new world. “What are you doing right now?”
    â€œNothing. Just hanging out,” I said, by which I meant that I planned to spend the evening alone, listening to the Indigo Girls and hoping that someone would come by to invite me to do something more interesting.
    â€œI’m going to a party at the res next door. Do you want to come?”
    It was a lifeline, and I grabbed on with both hands. Then at the end of first