by Lauren Rowe
Misadventures of a College Girl
Lauren Rowe
This book is an original publication of Waterhouse Press.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2018 Waterhouse Press, LLC
Cover Design by Waterhouse Press
Cover photographs: Shutterstock
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All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
To Sophie. Both of them. I love you.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Don’t miss any Misadventures!
Excerpt from Misadventures with My Roommate
More Misadventures
A Note From Lauren
Music Playlist
About Lauren Rowe
Prologue
My stomach is doing somersaults. I stare at my computer screen, reading the words of my admissions essay to NYU one final time.
Dear Sir or Madam,
The first time I read Romeo and Juliet, it made me ponder the role of fate versus free will in my own life. Is my fate written in the stars as it was for Romeo and Juliet, or do I have the power to forge my own path, paved with my deepest desires? Juliet declares, “O Fortune, Fortune! All men call thee fickle. If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him. That is renowned for faith?” I’m paraphrasing here, but Juliet then goes on to beg fickle Fortune to keep its grubby paws off Romeo because, well, he’s a great guy and she loves him. Obviously, fickle Fortune didn’t wind up heeding Juliet’s plea. But, hey, points for trying.
I’m not sure why Romeo and Juliet has always resonated with me so much. Maybe it’s because my own parents were star-crossed lovers. My mother died in a car accident when I was two, and I truly believe my father would have followed his young wife into the grave were it not for the toddler she left behind for him to raise. A little girl with blue eyes and a dark mop of curly hair who was the singing-and-dancing spitting image of his ill-fated Juliet. Or perhaps I was so fascinated by Romeo and Juliet because, by all accounts, my mother loved me more than life itself. And yet, when it came down to it, her love wasn’t enough to persuade fickle Fate to keep its grubby paws off her.
I take a deep breath at those last words. But I press on.
I’m honestly not sure what I’ve concluded about the role of fate versus free will in my life. But I’m convinced that, whether everything is predetermined or not, I belong at NYU. I’ve believed NYU to be my future alma mater since my grandparents took me to visit New York City at age ten and told me that attending your fine university had once been their ill-fated daughter’s dream. But even if my attendance at my dream school isn’t written in the stars, then I implore you to take me anyway, if only to settle the fate-versus-free-will debate, once and for all. What better way to show fickle Fate who’s boss, right?
I know I’m a small-town girl from Nebraska, and you have the entire world of talented applicants to choose from. Indeed, the smallness of my life sometimes feels like an immutable gravity, weighing down my very soul. But I’m writing this application because I know in my molecules I’m meant to defy gravity. Not just for myself, but for my mother, too.
In another part of this application, I’ve submitted my grades and test scores for your review, and I think you’ll conclude based on those numbers, I’ve got the brains and work ethic to excel at NYU. With this essay, I’m hoping to convince you of something far more important: I’ve got the heart and soul, too.
Thank you for your consideration,
Zooey Cartwright
I stare at my computer screen for a long moment, holding my breath, and finally press Submit. Instantly, the enormity of what I’ve just done slams into me. I throw my hands over my face. “O, I am Fortune’s fool!” I blurt, quoting Romeo.
“Huh?” my dad says from the couch. He’s watching a football game on TV. Eating Doritos. Drinking a beer. “What’d you say, Zo?”
I clear my throat. “Nothing. I’m just being a dork, Dad. Carry on.”
Dad returns to his game and Doritos, completely unfazed. I don’t blame him. I act like a dork quite frequently.
When I’m sure my dad’s attention is focused on the TV again, I steeple my hands under my chin, close my eyes, and whisper in the tiniest voice possible so my sweet father, a Nebraska man through and through who’s never understood his daughter’s obsession with all things New York City, won’t overhear me. “Please, God,” I whisper. “Let me get into my dream school. And then, please, if you’re feeling particularly magnanimous, help me figure out a way to pay for it, too.”
Chapter One
“I don’t know how you’ve held out this long, Zooey,” my new roommate in the dorms, Clarissa, says. “If I were still a virgin at this point, I think my clit would explode like a rocket at lift-off every time I so much as looked at a hot guy.”
“That’s quite a visual.”
We both giggle.
It’s a warm September evening, two days before the start of classes at UCLA, and I’m sitting in my new dorm room at Hendrick Hall with my randomly assigned roommate, telling her things I’ve never told anyone, not even my best friends back home. Why am I divulging my most intimate secrets and fantasies to a girl I’ve known for two days? I have no idea. All I can figure is Clarissa Michaelson must be some kind of witch, because I simply can’t resist opening up to her.
“Is being an eighteen-year-old virgin that weird out here in California?” I ask. “Back home it’s not that weird.”
“It’s probably about fifty-fifty, I’d guess. I’m just saying if it were me, I’d be losing my mind. But that’s just ’cause I’ve always been insanely boy-crazy.”
“Oh, so have I,” I say. “I just haven’t been able to act on my boy-craziness because my dad’s always been super strict with me. But now that I’m finally away from home, I’m going to let my boy-crazy run amok, come hell or high water.”
“What Daddy doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
“Amen. So how did you lose your virginity?”
“Exactly the way a ‘nice girl’ is supposed to do it—with
my high school boyfriend who loved and respected me.” She snickers. “And, oh my God, it was such a letdown! He was insanely hot, too, so I figured he’d rock my world. But nope. He was a total dud.”
My heart is racing. I’ve never had such a frank and open conversation about sex in my life. “What made him such a dud?”
Clarissa makes a comical face. “Well, first off, the boy wouldn’t have known a clitoris if it bit him on the ass.”
“Yet another interesting visual.”
We both giggle again.
“And second off…” She holds up her pinky suggestively, making me laugh for the hundredth time. “I mean, from my own experience and what my friends have told me, the first time pretty much sucks for most girls. It’s just too big a freak-out to have a dick inside you for the first time. So I guess I can’t blame my boyfriend too much for that first time not being spectacular. But it never got much better, even after two months. And you want to know the most aggravating part? My boyfriend kept going on and on about how ‘amaaaaazing’ sex was with me.” She rolls her eyes. “So glad he enjoyed it. Would have been nice if he’d noticed I was lying there counting the ceiling tiles. So, anyway, I eventually lost interest in him and we broke up.” Her face lights up. “And that’s when I finally discovered what it feels like to have fantastic sex.” She smiles devilishly. “I went to this party and wound up hooking up with this basketball player douchebag from my high school. A total womanizer. But every girl he’d slept with—and there were lots—said, ‘Yeah, he’s a douchebag, but I’d do him again in a heartbeat.’ So I figured I’d give him a whirl and see if my lack of Os with my boyfriend was a him thing or a me thing.”
I lean forward on my small bed, holding my breath with anticipation. “And?”
“And, holy shit, girl! It was a him thing! I had three orgasms with the douchebag our first time out! I hadn’t had one in two months with my boyfriend! Not one.” She sighs happily. “Man, that douchebag was good.”
I feel flushed. “Is sex that different depending on the guy?”
“Oh, honey. It’s the difference between an opera singer belting out Mozart and a tone-deaf dude singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to his sister.”
We both shriek with laughter.
“That’s the day I discovered all dicks and tongues and fingers are not created equal, my friend. Not. At. All.”
I fan myself. “Is it suddenly getting hot in here?”
Clarissa giggles. “So that’s why I say, if you’re truly thinking about losing your V card the way you’ve been telling me, then you should find yourself a de-virginizer who knows exactly what he’s doing. Nice boys with little to no experience need not apply, no matter how hot they might be.”
“But how on earth would I know in advance if a guy’s good at sex? It seems like a total crap shoot, especially at a school this big. There are over thirty thousand students at UCLA. I wouldn’t even know where to start looking for the rumor mill regarding a particular guy.”
“Yeah, good point. It’s probably a lot easier to get intel on guys in high school.” She twists her mouth, seemingly deep in thought. “But I’d think you could drastically increase your odds of finding a guy who knows what he’s doing by looking for certain telltale signs.”
“Like what?”
“Well, for instance, if a guy’s a great kisser, he’ll likely be good at sex, too. Not guaranteed, but it’s a good start. Also, you should probably go against your usual instinct when scouting the guy. I’m assuming you’re the kind of girl who typically crushes on nice boys who are classic boyfriend material?”
I nod. She’s got me pegged.
“Okay, then look for guys you’d normally sprint away from at full speed—the ones who make it blatantly obvious they’re womanizers.”
“How do guys make it obvious they’re womanizers? Sorry, I’m lame.”
“They just do. When you see a guy like that, you’ll know it. They’ve got this swagger.”
I shudder with excitement. “Man, I really want to do this, Clarissa.”
“Then do it. No big whoop.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Sure, it is.”
I feel myself blushing. “I’m nervous I’ll be bad at it and embarrass myself.” I bite my lip, take a deep breath, and just spit it out. “I’ve never had an orgasm.”
Clarissa tilts her head to the side. “You mean never, ever? Or just with a guy while fooling around?”
My cheeks flash with color. “Never. I’ve tried to make it happen on my own, but…” I sigh. “I think I’m defective. Either that or I’m doing it wrong.”
Clarissa asks me a bunch of embarrassing questions, but based on the lack of judgment I’m seeing on her face, I feel emboldened to answer all of them with complete honesty.
“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” Clarissa declares when I’m done telling her the details of my paltry solo efforts and the few make-out sessions I’ve had. “Everyone starts in your exact shoes at some point.”
I sigh with relief. “God, I love talking to you about this,” I admit. “I’ve never talked to anyone about this stuff before.”
“Not even your mom? I mean, not in detail, but just, you know…the basics?”
I don’t normally talk about my late mother right off the bat with new people. But the look of pure kindness on Clarissa’s face makes me want to bare my soul to her without holding back. “My mom died in a car accident when I was two,” I say softly.
Clarissa looks stricken. “I’m so sorry, Zooey.”
“Thank you. It’s sucked growing up without a mom, but my dad’s done a great job. He’s way too protective of me for my taste, but he’s always been really sweet.”
“I’m surprised your dad let you go to school so far from home if he’s so protective.”
“He wanted me to go to the University of Nebraska. He played football there. Actually, my lifelong dream was to go to NYU, but I didn’t get in. Which is crazy, by the way. It’s supposed to be way harder to get in here. But go figure.”
“It’s such a crapshoot. If it weren’t for water polo, I doubt I would have gotten in here.”
“Who knows? So, anyway, when I got accepted here with a partial scholarship, my dad couldn’t say no to an opportunity like that, even though I’m sure he was totally freaking out.”
Clarissa comes to sit on my bed and hugs me. “I’m so glad we got assigned as roommates, Zooey. I was nervous I’d get someone lame, and it turns out I got my future best friend.” She pulls away from our embrace. “Hey, you want to go to our first college party tonight? You never know—you might find yourself a talented douchebag to kiss.”
“Let’s do it,” I say. “What party?”
“This morning at the bookstore, this sweet guy told me about a party being thrown by a bunch of football players. It’s perfect. Football players are notorious for being womanizers. Maybe one of them will catch your eye and turn out to be a fantastic kisser and…who knows where that might lead?”
“You don’t think a bunch of football players would be annoyed if two random freshmen crashed their party?”
“Ha! Zooey, freshmen girls can’t crash a party, even if we wanted to—we’re always implicitly invited.” She snorts. “But, regardless, the guy from the bookstore expressly invited me, and he’s the quarterback’s tutor.”
“Sounds great,” I say. “But fair warning, flirting with a bunch of football players is going to be way outside my comfort zone. I’m not naturally outgoing like you.”
“But you’re a theater major.”
“It makes no sense, I know. Put me in a costume and give me a script and I’m fearless—ask me to be myself with new people, and I take some time to warm up.”
“Well, then, we’ll just have to put you in a costume and give you a script. Easy peasy.” She looks me up and down. “Speaking of costumes, honey, this whole ‘small-town virgin’ thing you’ve got going on definitely doesn’t scream ‘I’m a hot vixen looking for
a meaningless hook-up!’ If you want to attract a guy like that basketball player douchebag of mine from high school, you’ll probably want to tamp down the ‘I’m your future wife!’ vibe.”
We both laugh.
“You’re beautiful, Zooey,” Clarissa says, her tone sincere. “A natural beauty. But for your stated mission, I’d suggest you lead with your sexuality a bit more.”
“I wouldn’t even know how to begin to do that.”
“I’d be happy to help you, if you’d like. A head-to-toe makeover and you’ll get the attention of every football player at the party tonight, no doubt.”
I bite my lip, considering.
“No pressure, of course,” Clarissa adds quickly. “I’m only offering because you said it’s what you want to do. But it’s your V card. Your body. I don’t have a horse in this race. All I’m saying is if this is what you want, then I’ll help you.”
“Oh, I want to do it,” I say firmly, and it’s the truth. “One hundred percent. I’ve felt like a horny prisoner in a cage for the past year, and I’m ready to break out, baby.”
Clarissa guffaws.
“Do whatever you want to me, Mr. Miyagi,” I declare, nodding emphatically. “I’m your Karate Kid.”
