The music blasting from the speakers makes it almost impossible for me to hear him ask, “Seriously though, you want my help or not?”
“God no!” I laugh again, slapping him on the back. “The last thing I need is your brand of help. Sorry Gunderson.”
“Come on man, think about it. I could be like your pimp, except without the exchange of money.”
Jesus Christ, that sounds horrifying.
“Do me a favor Rex.” He leans in with raised brows, interested, nice and close so he can hear me loud and clear. “Stay out of my personal business and stick to handing me clean towels.”
“Fuck you,” he sneers. “Besides, I don’t know if I can do that. I’m too deep in it.”
“Try harder.”
He emits a juvenile giggle. “You said harder.”
“What are you, five?”
“Sometimes.”
I prod the beer in his hand. “How many beers have you had tonight?”
He holds it in the air, squinting at it with one eye closed. “I don’t know, five? Six? Plus two Jägerbombs.”
“What the fuck, Gunderson? We have to be in the gym at five in the morning!”
“No, you have to be in the gym at five in the morning. I’m just there to hand you clean towels.” He holds up a palm to stop me from speaking. “Don’t worry about me, Dad. I’ve got it covered; I bought a gallon of chocolate milk to help the hangover, so I should be good to go.”
“Do me a favor and stay away from my room. I don’t need you puking outside my door.”
Again.
Rex did not make it to the weight room the next morning for practice.
I guess I could have yanked him out of bed when he failed to make an appearance in the kitchen for our morning run, but I’m still reeling from being stiffed at the restaurant—though after four, five, six beers last night, both roommates gladly agreed to split my share of the rent for the month.
The nice thing for me to do would have been to wake him up knowing he was going to miss practice and most likely, his first class.
But I didn’t.
I grin, cutting across a patch of freshly mowed grass to the sidewalk that’s a direct path to my study group. Bookbag slung over my left shoulder, I emit a soft, relaxed whistle, glancing into the windows of the university’s student union coffee shop as I meander toward it.
Kick a stone into the freshly cut lawn.
I’m on my way to spend a few frustrating hours with two girls from my Political Strategies class who know less about fair trade agreements than I do. Best course of action and a minor consolation for this pounding headache? Chugging down a cup of the free coffee offered in the student union to clear my foggy head.
Monica and Kristy do little to get rid of the lingering aftereffects of my late night, asking question after question about foreign policy instead of searching for the answers themselves. It’s two hours spent explaining and re-explaining the logistics of agreements between a manufacturer and retailer on products trademarked outside the country.
Giving them one example after another, I eventually drew Monica a damn diagram of how the whole system works.
They just weren’t getting it, and I left feeling more like their tutor than their classmate.
Pulling the hood of my black Louisiana sweatshirt over my head, I sling my bag down my bicep, preparing to pull back the door to the corner coffee shop—more free caffeine before heading home because the cup I had before wasn’t strong enough to cure this headache, these throbbing temples.
Not even close.
Not after the three weird texts messages I’ve gotten this morning, all within the past forty-five minutes that have my mind reeling.
Hey hottie. I hear you need to get laid. Call me.
You mite not be hot, but I’d do you anyway.
How do you feel about threesums? My rommates and I would pop your cherry
Two of the three are from people who can’t even spell—not even with autocorrect. I delete them, wondering why the fuck they were sent to me in the first place.
My eyes cast a cursory glance at the pile of newspapers by the register, the stainless-steel garbage can in the corner as my hand tugs on the door handle.
Above that? A giant corkboard full of advertisements. Student club signups. Meetings. Tickets to on-campus attractions. Campus ministries. Roommate ads. Furniture and textbooks for sale.
In the center?
A light green sheet of paper, flopping haphazardly, held up by one staple.
I squint, zeroing in on the black and green photocopied face staring back at me.
Me.
My face.
Mine.
My fucking face, photocopied onto a dull green sheet of paper with the words GET RETT LAID in a dark, bold scrawl across the top.
Beneath my picture, in Rex’s sloppy chicken scratch—the same sloppy writing he uses to sign his rent checks—are the words:
Are you the lucky lady who is going to
break our roommate’s cherry?
Him: socially awkward man with
average-sized penis
looking for willing sexual partner.
You: must have a pulse.
He will reciprakate with oral sex.
Text him at: 555-254-5551
I read the caption, then read it four more times, eyes frantically scanning the page, barely registering what they’re fucking seeing.
Socially awkward man with average-sized penis…
You: must have a pulse…
“What the actual fuckkk?” I utter in a horrified whisper, grabbing it with trembling fingers and ripping it from the bulletin board.
Jesus. The idiots didn’t even spell my damn name right.
“I am gonna kill those assholes,” I say as I exhale harshly. “Fuckin’ kill them all.”
My gaze scans the perimeter of the board for more sheets of green paper, and when I don’t find any, I backtrack away from the building, eyes searching for any and all within walking distance.
I stalk down the narrow sidewalk in the direction of our house, halt when I hit the corner crosswalk, smashing the walk button with a closed first.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
“Come the fuck on,” I growl. “Hurry up.”
After two endless seconds, I can’t stand waiting anymore.
“Fuck it.”
I look left, look right. Bolt into the street, jaywalking, barely dodging a gray minivan full of teenagers. Flip them the bird when they honk.
Little pricks.
Easing into a light jog, I pant in and out to control my breathing.
Calm myself.
Four minutes later, I dump my backpack on the kitchen table and storm to the living room, knowing I’m about to find them both lying casually like cockroaches on our huge couches.
I fill the doorway, clenching my fists, clenching the wadded-up sheet of green paper in my hand, staring down at them both.
“What the hell is this?” I hold up the flyer. “Have y’all gone bat-shit crazy?”
Rex yawns loudly, stretching to his full length, arms above his head. His eyes stay glued to the TV. “Dude, why didn’t you wake us up? We missed conditioning this morning.”
I ignore him. “First tell me what the fuck this is.” I toss the ball of paper onto his chest.
Rex smirks, snuggling deeper into a black, fuzzy Iowa blanket. “Only the best idea we’ve ever had.”
In my pocket, my phone vibrates with one notification, then another—no doubt more girls wanting to fuck me.
“When did you have time to do this?” My teeth are clenched and my jaw feels like it’s about to crack.
“Last night?” He coughs then sighs. “Man, we were so shitfaced.”
“Dude,” Johnson agrees.
“You did this last night? We were together all night—when the fuck did you do this?”
“After you passed out. Remember how we got to talking about how you could use a good fuck? You’ve been really edgy lately.”
“I didn’t fuckin’ say that.”
“Yes you did. You were telling us it’s been so long since you’ve gotten laid that you can’t remember how a pussy feels.”
“Shut up, Gunderson.”
“I’m not making it up.” He nuzzles the blanket. “You said you’ve only had sex once.”
Shit. Maybe I did tell them that, ’cause how the fuck else would they know I’ve only done it once?
“I’ve only lived here for three months.” I unclench my fist and point to the unfurled piece of paper in the palm of Rex’s hand. “How could you have been sober enough to use a copy machine?”
“Man, it was hilarious. Johnson went all idiot savant. We went to the dorms and he bribed the RA at the desk to let us use the copier—you know the one with the big rack?”
I do.
“What time was it?”
“I don’t know man, one-thirty, maybe?”
Eric rolls over on the couch to point the remote at the TV, flipping through all the goddamn channels while I stand there, outraged. He turns the volume up three octaves while prattling on with the story.
“Fucking Gunderson sits on the printer when the RA walks out and made a print of his ass. I thought the whole machine was going to bust in half. Hilarious, man. You should have seen it.”
Rex yawns again. “You were the one tripping over your pants on the south lawn when you stopped to take a piss. I had to help you up.”
Jesus Christ, these two.
“Did anyone see you?”
“No.” Eric scrolls through the channels absentmindedly. “Well, yeah. Some drunk chicks saw us hanging up a black and white of Gunderson’s balls and wanted a copy.”