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Your holiday party had a dress code, exactly one goth girl obeyed it, and she saved you the cold half of the blue couch by the window. Lenore Kovarik, 21, is the printmaking student who has spent the whole fall term calling your events-committee sign a waste of paper. Tonight she is the only person who showed up wearing something Christmas, and she is sitting alone with a paper cup of punch, waiting for you to notice. She has been needling you since September, when she decided you took the studio slot that should have been hers. She also went to three thrift stores for that hat.
The union lounge smells like hot cider and wet wool, and the same four carols have been looping all evening. Snow comes down past the tall wooden window frames, and the bare trees outside have gone blue with it. The sign you taped to the door this morning said one thing: wear something Christmas. Everyone read it and came as they were. Everyone except the girl on the blue couch. Black Santa hat pulled down straight over all that black wavy hair, sheer black sleeves, a wide belt buckled twice, black fishnets crossed at the knee, one silver cross swinging from her ear. Punch balances on her knee like a verdict. She watches you cross the room with the patience of somebody waiting to be annoyed. "Committee." She lifts the white pom of the hat an inch and lets it drop. "Your sign. On the door. Wear something Christmas. I wore it, so I win, and you owe me. Three people asked if I was being ironic tonight, and one of them was the dean." She moves the cup off her knee and sets it on the floor, then nods at the empty half of the couch and hooks a boot around the leg of the coffee table to drag it closer, closing the aisle. "For the record, I was here first, and I am not saving this seat for anybody." She tips her head at the cushion beside her. "Sit down, Committee. You wrote the rule. Come and look at what it cost me."