SSS(SS) - Part 11

Taylor Swift and raised voices lure Sal out of the kitchen. CCL has a thousand mugs, and she took one with puppies on it. Carrying her steaming coffee, Sal ventures out to see what’s going on. The couches and stuff have been moved in the TV room and an instantly recognizable music video is playing. A group of six girls in various states of dress and undress are raggedly trying to do the dance.

The video ends and they pause it. Some sweat and pant. Others look annoyed. The vibe is not good.

They notice Sal standing there. Sal knows none of these girls.

“Um,” one of them says, pointing a finger. “Aren’t you the CGH prez?”

“I am,” Sal says.

The girls exchange looks. An awkward moment passes. It’s not as though CGH and CCL are two countries at war or anything, but the rivalry between them is slightly more than just performative nonsense done on principle. CCL are the rebels and CGH are the normal college girls. There’s always been a hint of genuine difference between them.

“So, uh,” the girl says, trying not to laugh. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’m homeless,” Sal replies. “Couch surfing.”

More seconds tick by. They realize she’s not kidding, and the vibes change.

“Oh,” the girl says. “Well, shit. Sorry.”

Sal takes a deep breath and forces a smile. “It’s my fault. Tell me this is not for the fair,” she says. Both sororities were going to put on a little show at the fair in two weeks. If this is what CCL is bringing, it’ll be a blowout. Except it won’t; there is a zero percent chance that CGH will be participating. CCL’s show will be the only show.

“Of course it is,” one of the girls says.

“And you’re doing this song? I’m not trying to be a bitch, but it’s looking a little rough.”

“Yeah, well. Turns out twerking for Tiktok is easier than doing like, real fucking choreography,” one of the girls says, casting an accusing glare at another.

“It’s still not that hard,” Sal says. She feels slightly territorial; she’s not a classically trained dancer or anything, but she doesn’t suck at it. “You.” She points with her mug. “You’re a good dancer. You should be out in the front so the others can watch you. And you aren’t doing any timing. And you haven’t practiced your movements. You’re like elementary kids doing a school play.”

“What are you, fucking Kenny Ortega?”

Sal takes a drink of coffee and shrugs. “No. I mean, do you want some help?”

“You’re gonna help us?” The skepticism is understandable.

Why not? Anything is better than sitting around feeling sorry for herself. And it’s not like there’s a competition to worry about now.