On a Wednesday

by G. , Whitney

  I stared at him, wondering how the hell he’d managed to get by as a Biochemistry major. It was moments like these that made me want to beg professors to stop passing athletes just because we won championships.

  “If you’d used one gallon, we could’ve easily ended this party within an hour and a half,” I said. “And like usual, we can kind of get away with it because it won’t leave that big of a mess on this fucking lawn that we don’t own.”

  “So, you want me to show you my math skills, then?” He took out his phone. “One and a half hours per can divided by five equals three tenths, and that means—”

  “It’s one and half times five, Josh. Times five.”

  He tapped his screen, and his eyes widened. “It’s going to take seven and a half hours to clean this up?”

  “Yes.” I noticed that the pile of wood was far larger than it usually was, too. “It’s also five times the acreage.”

  He blinked. “So uh … Should we just make the party last until seven in the morning then? Is the math your way of saying that I did the right thing?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “Tell the third string to start dousing the edges of it so we can have the option to get out of here by three.”

  “Who’s being Mr. Cautious now?” He rolled his eyes. “Why don’t we just wait for Grayson to yell at us all?”

  I let out a sigh. “I just want to go four for four, when it comes to Coach never seeing this.”

  He placed his hands onto my shoulders. “You won’t. I’ve got you. Now, can you go pick a few girls and get laid as soon as possible? Then, maybe when you’re finished, call me with the buzzkill, cleanup directions?”

  “Fine.” I walked over to a group of freshmen and attempted to take his advice.

  In the morning, I woke up to three passed-out freshmen on my living room couch.

  They’d followed me home from the bonfire—teasing me as I drove, but their entire tone changed once we made it into my apartment.

  They refused to give me the text message contracts that I asked for, telling me that I was being “ridiculously over the top.” I’d almost given in, but I caught one of them attempting to record our conversation.

  Without saying another word, I locked myself in my room and pretended like this was last year. As if they’d taken turns giving me drunken hand-jobs without any regard for the future. Or if they had any thoughts of using me for later gain.

  But even those memories weren’t enough to get me off.

  What the fuck is happening to me?

  I picked up my phone and scrolled through my messages, looking for an exchange with an open ending --for someone who would be up for another round months later.

  All I found were the endings and restraints that I’d placed on myself.

  Me: Thanks for a good time.

  Me: Thanks for last night.

  Me: Glad you made it back safe.

  Sighing, I tapped my fingers against the screen. I had a reputation to uphold, and I needed to find a way to have the reckless senior year that I'd always wanted.

  Even if I had to pretend for a while.

  As I was scrolling through the messages a second time, Josh sent me a new one.

  Josh: We stayed up late and made sure the fire was completely out. Coach will be 100% out of the loop for another year.

  Me: Thank you.

  Kyle: Then

  Senior Year

  Pittsburgh

  Subject: Next Time You Jackasses Throw an ‘Unofficial’ Bonfire ...

  How about making sure that you won’t burn down the grounds in the process?! How about ASKING your neighbors if they’ll mind having five hundred students in their streets until three in the morning?

  I know damn well that this was not a “team” idea, and whenever KYLE and GRAYSON want to own up to this shit, I’ll reduce the extra five daily miles you all now owe me to three miles.

  I’m waiting.

  —Coach Whitten

  * * *

  Subject: Re: Next Time You Jackasses Throw an ‘Unofficial’ Bonfire …

  It was me, Coach.

  Grayson had nothing to do with it this time. He didn’t even show up. Speaking of which—

  Dude, where were you? I fucked like three girls from this bonfire. You probably could’ve hooked up with at least five. I don’t think I’ll need another blowjob for a month after how amazing these were.

  P.S.—Are you back at our apartment yet? I need to tell you these stories in person when Coach isn’t acting like this shit is a big deal.

  —Kyle

  * * *

  Subject: Re: Re: Next Time You Jackasses Throw an ‘Unofficial’ Bonfire …

  Kyle,

  Meet me in my office at the complex NOW.

  —Coach Whitten

  * * *

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Next Time You Jackasses Throw an ‘Unofficial’ Bonfire …

  I meant to send that last part to just Grayson. Not to you, Coach. Can I come in a few hours? I mean, now that you’ve read what I said, surely you understand how exhausted I am. Three girls, Coach. THREE.

  —Kyle.

  * * *

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Next Time You Jackasses Throw an ‘Unofficial’ Bonfire …

  Right. Fucking. NOW.

  —Coach Whitten

  * * *

  I shook my head as I reread his messages, wishing I could tell him and Grayson the truth instead of the lies.

  They wouldn’t believe me in a million years, though.

  I debated whether I should go to my first class of the day to delay Coach’s berating session for another hour or deal with it now.

  Clicking on the syllabus for my course Debating Yourself & Others, I saw that today was “Revealing Your Vulnerability” day.

  Coach’s berating session it is.

  “Have a seat, Kyle.” Coach Whitten shut the door once I arrived. “And turn off your cell phone.”

  I obliged and set my phone on his desk. “I’m sorry about sending you those emails, Coach. They were meant for Grayson’s eyes only.”

  “I’m glad you sent them to me,” he said, clearing his throat. “It’s rather interesting to see how my star receiver behaves whenever he’s off the field.”

  “It’s what happens on the field that matters, Coach.” I leaned back in my seat. “I haven’t let you down once since my freshman year.”

  He tapped his fingers on the desk, looking at me in the way he did when he first recruited me in my living room years ago. It was a cross between confusion and admiration.

  “Look, son,” he said, finally. “Life is not all about women and sex.”

  “I know,” I said. “There’s also football, achievements, and success. Not to mention the parties. It’s important to have those as well.”

  “Damnit, Kyle.” He rolled his eyes. “Stop talking. I know, without a doubt, that you’re going to be selected within the first round no matter what antics you pull this semester, but since you’ve purposely picked the lightest major and you clearly have plenty of time for recklessness, I think you can make space for a little female appreciation.”

  “I always have space for that.” I smiled. “Did you find me some girls I can trust?”

  “What? No, Kyle.” He pulled a brochure from his desk and handed it to me. “I found you a brand new activity. The Theater Department is showcasing The Vagina Monologues for the next few weeks of the semester.”

  “The Vagina what?”

  “The Vagina Monologues.”

  “There must be a typo.” I glanced at the front page. “I’ve never heard a vagina talk. Squirt, maybe, but not talk.”

  “Kyle …”

  I flipped the cover over. “Is this like some type of science fiction?”

  “It’s like some type of punishment.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “It’s a way for you to gain some insight before you leave this university, and I expect you to watch every Wednesday performance and write a report on something new you learn each t
ime.”

  I stared at him, waiting for him to laugh, to tell me that he was just bullshitting, but he continued talking.

  “I took the liberty of getting you a press pass for the event with The Pitt News, so you can’t claim that you forgot to buy one of your own.”

  Fuck no. Tell him the truth about the girls. “Coach, look. With all due respect—”

  “Once you learn what the word ‘respect’ actually means when it comes to women, I’ll let you finish that sentence, son.” He uncapped a pen and signed a disciplinary action form. Then he handed it to me. “If you don’t do this, in addition to the extra fitness shit that I’ll be adding later this week, you won’t play another game this season.”

  “If I don’t play, then the team will lose.”

  “Then everyone on campus will blame you.” He smiled. “Then again, I think Grayson Connors can make any receiver look as great as you out there. Don’t you think?”

  “No.”

  “Then don’t try me.”

  I groaned and signed the paper. “Anything else, Coach?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He stood to his feet and walked over to the door. “The neighbors on Childs Street expect you to clean up all the cups, wood planks, and papers that you and your teammates tossed into their backyards. Get it done by tonight.”

  “How can you expect me to get that done tonight and see this play?”

  “You’ll figure it out.”

  Courtney: Then

  Senior Year

  Pittsburgh

  * * *

  That night

  “Marissa?” I knocked on the student art director’s door.

  “Yeah, Courtney?” She looked up from a bowl of ramen.

  “Can you email me that review of The Vagina Monologues before midnight?” I asked. “Even if it’s just a few lines and you have to adjust it later, I’ll take it.”

  “That’s due today?”

  “Yes.” I crossed my arms. “We went over this last week, and I left you a voicemail last night.”

  “Oh … I was having sex with my boyfriend then,” she said. “I try not to check my phone whenever he comes over, because, the orgasms get pretty intense.”

  I really didn’t need to know that. “Just send it by midnight so I can submit it to the layout team.”

  “You know what?” She scarfed down a forkful of her noodles. “I’m going to send you the review I did for it two years ago, and then you can insert the new actors’ names. It’s not like anyone will know, right?”

  I sighed. “Give me the ticket, Marissa.”

  “Are you sure?” She raised her eyebrow. “My original review was amazing!”

  I nodded, refusing to tell her that we never ran her review because she pieced together the words of popular YouTubers instead of penning her own.

  “Here you go,” she said, handing me an envelope. “You know, I don’t care what anyone on this staff says. You’re not some dumb blonde who is trying too hard to come off smarter than you look. You’re passionate, and you more than deserve to be our editor-in-chief.”

  “There are people here who think that I don’t deserve to be?”

  She stuffed another forkful of noodles into her mouth. “The play starts in half an hour. May take you a while to get there in the rain, if you don’t hurry up and leave.”

  Biting my tongue, I grabbed my umbrella and headed outside, taking my time to walk to the theater.

  By the time I made it to the designated seat in the front row, the lights were flickering above the stage.

  Flipping through the program’s brochure, I highlighted all of the leads’ names and wrote a few notes in the margins.

  As I was summarizing the plot’s theme, someone to my left cleared a throat.

  I looked up and saw Kyle Stanton dressed in a black T-shirt that hugged his abs in all the right ways and dark blue jeans.

  “Well, hello there.” He showed off his perfect smile. “Do you mind if I sit next to you?”

  I didn’t answer him. I was half caught off guard by how sexy he was, half trying to remember the exact reason why I vowed to never speak to him again.

  As he tilted his head to the side in anticipation of an answer, the once fuzzy memory came flashing back with full clarity.

  He left me hanging on purpose … Never even apologized.

  I’d told him to meet me at Kiva Han so we could knock out our parts over a weekend, and he smiled and asked for my phone number.

  Obviously, I refused.

  Instead, I wrote down the address of the cafe and the meeting time.

  I even sent him an email the night before.

  He never showed up, and I was left to do eleven and a half hours of work alone.

  “Are you struggling to hear my voice?” he asked, pulling me back into reality. “I feel like we’ve had run-ins before and you heard me just fine. By the way, what’s your name again?”

  “Eleven and a half hours,” I said. “Eleven and a half hours …”

  “Well, I’ll credit your parents for being unique, but that’s a bit of a mouthful.” He smirked. “I’m sure you’re legally allowed to change that now, right?”

  “That’s not my name.” I glared at him. “That’s the amount of time that I had to spend working on our group project freshman year, alone. The one that you never even bothered to ask about, after I emailed you more than once.”

  “It’s not healthy to hold grudges this long, Eleven and a half hours.” He smiled. “If it’s making you this angry after all this time, you should let me make that up to you after this.”

  “Too late,” I said. “I already finished it, and I got an A. You also got one that you didn’t deserve. You’re welcome.”

  “Thank you.” He was still smiling, still turning me on with ease.

  “Let’s pretend like we’ve never met before,” he said, extending his hand toward me. “I’m Kyle Stanton. And you are?”

  “Here with The Pitt News to watch the show, so if you don’t mind—”

  “It hasn’t even started yet.” He looked around the theater. “And from the looks of things, it doesn’t seem like that many people are interested in seeing this shit. With a title like Vagina Monologue, I can’t say that I blame them.”

  I felt my lips turning up into a small smile, but I didn’t let it stay.

  “It’s preview night.” I glanced at his badge. “It’s only for theater majors and early reviewers. What girl’s room did you steal your pass from?”

  “You can’t honestly believe that I would willingly steal a pass to come see something like this, can you?” He moved closer to me. “I’m here to write a punishment report for my coach.”

  I bit my tongue before I could ask him what that meant.

  “You know what?” He tapped his chin. “I think that means we should share notes to make this easier on both of us. Or maybe we can take turns staying awake? I’ll sleep through act one while you watch, and then you can sleep while I stay up for act two.”

  I closed my notebook and stood to my feet. Then I moved several seats away from him.

  Laughing, he looked completely unfazed as he settled into my previous seat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please?” A man dressed in all-black walked to the center of the stage. “We’d like to thank you for coming to see the first run through of The Vagina Monologues, but I regret to inform you that we’re having some major technical difficulties with our audio. I know you’re disappointed, but we’ll have to reschedule this showing for next Wednesday morning. Thank you.”

  “Yes!” “Hell yes!” “Let’s go drink!”

  The other members of the audience didn’t sound disappointed in the slightest.

  I tucked the playbill into my bag and stood up, finding myself face to face with Kyle and his perfect lips.

  “Looks like we’ll be seeing each other again next Wednesday.” He smiled. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “I can’t say that I feel the
same.”

  “The fact that your panties are currently wet for me says otherwise.”

  “What?” I blushed. “How did you know they were wet?”

  “I didn’t.” He smirked. “Now that I do, though, what do you want to do about it?”

  “Do you like, think about the words before they come out of your mouth, or do you just let them fly?”

  “What answer will convince you to continue this conversation back at my place?”

  I moved past him. “Goodbye, Kyle Stanton.”

  “You mean, see you next Wednesday?”

  “No, I’ll have a regular staffer here in my place.”

  “That doesn’t mean I won’t see you.”

  “Want to bet?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Kyle: Then

  Senior Year

  Pittsburgh

  * * *

  A few days later

  * * *

  On Saturday afternoon, the scoreboard read 36-4 at halftime. Every seat in Heinz Field was filled with students or alumni wearing our colors and screaming, but I couldn’t help but feel lost.

  And ashamedly hungover after another night of partying that went nowhere.

  “Look alive, Kyle!” Coach Whitten patted my back. “You’ve caught every pass today and you’ve looked nothing short of amazing on that field.”

  “Does that mean, I’m off punishment?”

  “It means that I’ll forget that you’re two shots short of being drunk and not rail on you about it in the locker room.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate that.”

  He took off his headphones and pulled me to the side as the other team called a timeout. “What the hell is wrong with you?”