Savannah's Chance

by D. A. Maddox

  “Twice a week, maybe? God.”

  ****

  I should have gotten her phone number, Scott scolded himself. Does she know yet?

  At the end of the third floor, he set down the white box and flipped the lid off again. He pulled the mouth of the garbage chute open.

  She has to know. You’re seeing her in an hour and a half. You can talk about it.

  He looked back over his shoulder. Confident he was alone, he drew out the jock strap, asking himself why he didn’t just tip over the whole box and dump everything at once. He hesitated.

  What if she wants this? What if you want it? You don’t even know what “it” is.

  “Damn,” he muttered, squinting his eyes shut, restraining himself from pounding the heel of his closed fist against the metal. “Damn it, damn it.”

  They can’t really hurt you. They won’t hurt her. It’ll be like a … frat hazing, or something.

  Talk to her.

  “Yo, Scott!”

  Led Zeppelin shirt, the Volume IV cover. Blue jeans and curly blond hair. It was Zeke, and he was jogging Scott’s way down the hall.

  Well, shit.

  “Scott, bro—don’t be so hasty. Wait a sec.”

  Before Scott could fully process those words, Zeke was at his side, easing his hand back to the box. Scott let the stupid jockstrap fall back into it. But then he turned, his right hand still balled into a fist. “If this is your idea of a joke—”

  “No, Scott, it isn’t,” Zeke said, uncharacteristically serious. “This is an intervention, way outside the norm. I’m one hundred percent not supposed to be doing this.”

  “All right, asshole,” Scott said, fuming. “Intervene. Talk.”

  Zeke put a hand on his shoulder. “If you ain’t into it, man, fine. Don’t go. I never thought this would be your thing.”

  “Then what the fuck are you doing, putting this shit in my room while I’m out?”

  “Scott, I didn’t. I don’t know who did—I’m not that high up. All you gotta do is blow it off. Stay home. Nothing changes, I promise. But do not throw that shit away. Bad move, okay? Just … think about it until Friday. Be sure. If it ain’t your jam, you give me the box. I’ll return it.”

  “You should have said something, Zeke. This is not cool.”

  “That’s just it, Scott. We don’t talk about it—so you can’t ask what it is. And if you don’t go, we never talk about it again, right?”

  After a moment, Scott nodded, and Zeke let him go.

  But I am going to talk, asshole, he thought. To Savannah.

  “No problem,” he said. But in his mind, he decided, And if she doesn’t know about this yet, I’m going to warn her.

  ****

  Still carrying her shoes, Savannah allowed Nurse Sustrick to lead her to Room 7 and close the door. There, right in front of her, was the examination table with the dreaded apparatus and the draw curtain. There was a closet, which was where Savannah guessed the gowns would be, but it was closed.

  “Breast exam, hon,” Nurse Sustrick said. “Go ahead and sit up straight on the table, just like normal. And relax.”

  Savannah did as she was told. She was glad Doctor Yannick wasn’t here yet. She was still fortifying herself.

  “Lots of women start these at age twenty, but you declined last year, as I recall.”

  Guilty as charged, Savannah thought. And it wasn’t like her. The importance of health had been driven into her by both of her parents from an early age. It’s just—something about Nurse Sustrick had made her reluctant. Had made her procrastinate, which also wasn’t like her.

  Something that I understand better now, she thought. The soft implacability of the nurse came too easily to her. She liked giving instructions that made people uncomfortable—and then being sympathetic to them.

  “Early detection is the best prevention, Savannah.”

  “You’re not going to put me into the … presser thing, are you?”

  Again, Nurse Sustrick laughed. “Not today. No ‘presser’ for you. Three more years, sweetheart, and then once every three years after that until you’re forty. Then you can look forward to having them annually. But no, today is just a manual exam, and a pamphlet for you to take with you so you can do them yourself, going forward.”

  Okay, she thought. Self-exam. That I can handle. I’m a good student. No problem.

  “I’m going to need you to remove your shirt and bra.”

  Resigned, Savannah peeled off her top, setting it behind her, and unhooked her bra.

  “Keep your arms by your side,” Nurse Sustrick said before she even had the straps down.

  Then, Here I am, she thought. Tits out. Like them?

  Personally, she thought them a bit on the small side. Alisha had declared them “cute and perky”, more than once—close quarters, over time, was the death of modesty—and they were being rather too perky just now. Keenly, she felt Sustrick’s empathetic-clinical gaze upon them, and she was tempted to cover.

  “Arms straight up,” she said. “Quick check for any unusual redness, dimpling, rashes…”

  Savannah complied, eyes straight ahead as Sustrick’s thumbs went under her breasts and eased them up. She pressed at a nipple, worked the protuberant nub between two fingers. Savannah started to protest.

  “Checking for discharge,” Nurse Sustrick calmly said. “And they’re both normal.”

  She made Savannah stand, hands on hips, then lean forward. Then lie flat on the table, first easing her shirt out of the way, then putting her hands behind her head. The pads of Nurse Sustrick’s fingers pressed into her left armpit—forcing an involuntary giggle and the defensive retreat of her arms back to her side.

  “Savannah,” the nurse then said, like a teacher whose patience has been sorely tested. “It’s okay. This is the important part—testing for lumps, cysts, anything that could develop into a problem.”

  “Sorry,” Savannah said, stifling the giggle, the blush high in her cheeks but burning lower now, too, suffusing her neck and the top of her chest. “Just kinda personal, you know?”

  “Honey, how many of these do you think I do every year? Every week?”

  Savannah returned her hands to the back of her head, letting Nurse Sustrick continue. In a matter of minutes, she stepped back and told Savannah she could sit up again. Gratefully, Savannah did.

  “You’re fine up there,” Nurse Sustrick said. “Perfectly normal.”

  “Good to know,” said Savannah, hands crossed safely over her breasts. She didn’t bother with her shirt. She knew what was coming.

  Nurse Sustrick went to the closet. “I’ll let Doctor Yannick know you’re ready,” she said, drawing a thin green gown from inside. “You’ll need to take off everything and sit tight for a minute. We’ll be done in no time.”

  ****

  “All right—what I’m doing now is a standard check for swelling, sores, any problem with the external genitalia. Totally routine. Do you need a break? Perfectly fine if you do.”

  Savannah shook her head. She kept her eyes mostly on the ceiling, bobbing her head “yes” or shaking it “no” at most of his questions.

  “Been feeling well?”

  Yes.

  “Any heavy bleeding?”

  No.

  “Accidental discharge? Any unusual pain or discomfort?”

  No.

  “Outside of intercourse, any sexual activity with men or women?”

  No.

  He was a kindly man, Dr. Yannick, safely in his fifties and apparently bored enough with the procedure that Savannah had almost been able to relax, even when he went finger-diving to measure the size and check the position of her uterus and ovaries. The part with the speculum, what Savannah learned was called a “pap smear,” had been a bit rough, though. Nothing painful, but cold.

  “There,” he said at the end of it, packing up. “All done. How do you feel now?”

  Savannah directed her gaze between her legs, still splayed wide in the stirrups wit
h a sheet thrown over her middle where Nurse Sustrick had turned her gown up. From this point of view, the top of the doctor’s head shone under the ceiling lights. “Like a Thanksgiving turkey,” she said.

  They laughed at that—and Savannah laughed, too, pressing her palms to her face.

  ****

  “Don’t get up, Savannah. Not yet. Relax, please. Last basic checks. Few minutes.”

  “What for now?” She was clearly frustrated. “Internal fungus? Aliens from the planet Fallopia?”

  Doctor Yannick had gone. Nurse Sustrick sat in his place. She patted Savannah’s knee. “For Friday, Savannah. This will only take a few minutes. Of course, if you’ve already decided not to go on Friday, we can be done right now.”

  It was a gamble, a bluff that Nurse Sustrick played to make sure Savannah was up for Friday. She didn’t want the young woman traumatized. And—selfishly, she supposed—she wanted a small, early sampling of the transitional young woman to herself.

  “What if I’m not sure yet?” Savannah asked, then gasped.

  Nurse Sustrick gently ran her finger the length of Savannah’s vagina. Made little circles over her clit. “Tell me if you want me to stop, hon. I’ll stop if you want me to.”

  Savannah didn’t answer at first, but her breathing quickened, and her fist tightened around the pendant between her breasts. Nurse Sustrick made as though to withdraw her finger. Savannah shook her head, and then Nurse Sustrick resumed her ministrations.

  It didn’t take her long to get what she’d been hoping for. Savannah’s nipples had been so responsive during a perfectly ordinary breast examination. Her vaginal response, under skilled fingers, was no surprise at all.

  ****

  Five minutes later, after she was dressed, Savannah said, “I was so scared. I thought he was going to … break me when he went in with that … speculum thing.”

  Nurse Sustrick shook her head. “The doctor knows what he’s doing, Savannah. Anyway, there’s nothing down there to break.”

  Savannah stopped on her last button. “But—but I told you…”

  “Yes, and because you told me, I believe you,” Nurse Sustrick assured her. She explained, “You’re a physically active young woman, Savannah. You did gymnastics all through middle and high school. That little membrane isn’t made of steel. It could have happened anytime. A lot of young women go to bed for the first time without a hymen, or with a partial hymen. I did. It’s only tissue. It doesn’t define virginity.”

  Savannah’s face was reddening all over again. “Then what does?”

  “Experience, hon,” Nurse Sustrick answered simply. “Only experience.”

  ****

  Savannah took the pamphlet, the website references, and the box—and left.

  “Once you’re there,” Nurse Sustrick had said, “you’ll be blindfolded. When the blindfold goes on, that’s your last chance to back out. All you have to do is say the word—any word to make it clear you’ve changed your mind. You’ll have ten seconds. You’ll hear them count it down. At the end of that countdown, you’re committed. No way out after that. Do you understand?”

  Just outside the front entrance, she caught sight of a tall man with caramel skin, dreadlocks, and sunglasses looking right in her direction. He had a squarish face and a firm chin, pouty lips—which he now pursed to blow her a kiss.

  “What will they do to me?” she’d asked Nurse Sustrick.

  “You cannot know. Not now, not then. Not until they do it. It is an absolute surrender, Savannah—if you have the guts for it. You have two days to decide not to make that surrender. For two days, it’s up to you. If, after that time, you choose to surrender, well … that’s on you, isn’t it?

  Savannah ran, even though it was only twelve o’clock—plenty of time to get back to her dorm, set down her things, and still be at Finney’s well before one.

  If she still wanted to go. She had so much to think about. Scott would understand. She’d explain next time she saw him at the gym. She’d tell him … something.

  “I don’t know if I’m ready for this,” she’d said.

  “Then you’re not,” Nurse Sustrick had told her. “If you’re still in doubt on Friday, stay home.”

  Talk to me, Mom, she prayed as she ran. Tell me what to do.

  Chapter Three:

  Curious

  Little bit of hair gel, not much. There wasn’t all that much to work with, especially around the back. But Scott had just enough for a slight retro-cool flattop up front.

  Whatever you do, he told himself, don’t scare her off. You’ve been waiting for this chance for weeks. Focus on her. Don’t even bring “it” up until she knows for sure you’re one of the good guys.

  The timing of that email—that package—couldn’t have been any worse if they had planned it that way. Scott did not want to be thinking about The Select today, nor about what it might mean for him and Savannah if one (or both) of them blindly delivered themselves into their collective clutch. He tried to think about the date he was getting ready for.

  It’s just a beer. Conversation. Maybe an appetizer.

  Half-date, then.

  Don’t play like you’re anything you’re not. If she doesn’t like you as you, it won’t work anyway.

  He decided against slap-on cologne, opting for standard Old Spice deodorant instead. Scott wasn’t generally a cologne-wearer, and the bottle his mom had sent up as part of the last care package—which made him smell like his dad, he’d observed—went largely unused. He lifted an arm, sniffed an armpit.

  Nothing fancy, just don’t stink.

  The shirt, currently spread out on the bathroom sink countertop, was a standard red polo. Business casual, he figured, but show off the guns.

  And when you do bring it up, have an alternative ready. Something you can do together. Think, Scott.

  He was a groomer, was Scott Lachance. He set his phone to camera mode and turned, making sure he hadn’t gotten too hairy back there. Up front was fine—it wasn’t like they were going to get naked after a beer and an appetizer, anyway—but …

  He faced the mirror again, dropped his boxers, let himself hang out. He put his hands on his hips, considering total deforestation, which was what Rusty said he did. Then he decided against it.

  “Hey, baby,” he said, affecting a voice an octave and a half lower than his norm.

  His cock stirred, lifting its drooping head half an inch or so like a hopeful panhandler.

  Down, boy. We’re just going for a brew. And we’re going to be a gentleman.

  It obeyed.

  He told himself it was a good-sized unit. Better than average, according to Online Omnipresence. Bit of a swing to it.

  Perfect condition, too. Never been used.

  Well…

  “Oh, shut up,” he said aloud, drawing his boxers back up, pulling the shirt on.

  His phone blinked out of camera mode. Incoming video call, and—damn it all—it was Rusty. The pre-recorded 3-D Holo-I.D. tag showed his friend making a megaphone of his hands, as though crying out to be heard. Rusty was fond of hyperbole.

  “Son of a bitch,” Scott grumbled, thumb-brushing the screen away. He didn’t know for sure whether or not Rusty was a member of the Student Council Select, but if Zeke was, the chances were better than average.

  He switched to messaging. He texted, Are you one of them?

  He didn’t have to wait long. Within two minutes, Rusty texted back, If I am, they must be awesome AF. Scotty, you all right?

  That was all Scott needed to read. He responded, You and I are not talking right now. About anything. Then, finding that a bit harsh, he sent a third message: Maybe in a few days. Not before then. Kinda pissed right now. You know why.

  And blocked him.

  On the home screen, the time read 12:55.

  “Shit on sourdough,” Scott breathed, and hurried out of the bathroom to get his goddamned pants on. They were on his bed, laid out on top of the white cardboard box that he had not sent down
the garbage chute. But in that moment, he hardly saw the box. The only thing he could think about, lumbering for the door, cinching his belt, were the seconds ticking closer to one o’ clock.

  A minute and a half later, he remembered to come back for his shoes.

  ****

  “And what’ll it be for ye, lassie?”

  The bar, Savannah thought, was Irish enough, with shepherd’s pie and colcannon and traditional soda bread on the menu, Murphy’s Stout and Guinness and Harp Lager on tap. A poster at the entrance promised a return of their classic Mumford and Sons cover band next weekend, and they were having Riverdance lessons tomorrow night. There was enough green, white, and red in the décor to throw a Christmas party. But as for the accent of the plump, bearded barrel of a bartender with the name “Steve-O” on his shirt, it was an imitation at best—and in reality, more of an accidental parody.

  “Thanks. I’m waiting for someone. Is that okay?”

  “Oh, sure, sure. I’ll come back for ye, then.”

  The place was half-empty. It wasn’t like she was taking up the space of a paying customer. But, after dithering a short while as to whether or not she would come at all, she’d arrived at the establishment, quite typically, fifteen minutes early. The waitress who had come to her first—“Lorna”—hadn’t faked an accent.

  She looked college-age, too, with twin rivers of straight, saffron hair spilling over her shoulders and soft eyes that matched her tan capris—although Savannah couldn’t recall seeing her anywhere on campus. She was chatting it up quite familiarly with a customer at the bar. Savannah couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it was obvious they were friends. Or maybe coworkers, with the one on the customer side of the bar just dropping in off-shift.

  Savannah had taken a booth instead of the bar. She glanced out the window. Nothing.

  It was 1:05.

  Lorna leaned over the bar, took the other woman’s hands, and kissed her. It was a lingering kiss, thick with affection and excitement. Real love, for all Savannah knew. When they caught her looking, Savannah quickly redirected her gaze to the drink menu, holding one hand over the side of her face.

  Tullamore Dew, Jameson…