Sorority Girls With Guns

by Cat Caruthers

  “Maybe we could recycle the rubber,” Tiffany suggests. “This could be the universe's way of telling us how we can help humanity!”

  “Um, I think there are some laws about handling bodily fluids,” I say quickly, grabbing the next bag. “Let's move on.”

  I pull the drawstring and at first, all I see are the confetti pieces of shredded junk mail. “Well, we could recycle this paper,” I say, carefully picking through it because I feel like the bag is heavier at the bottom. “But we have to make sure it's not mixed with other things that can't be recycled.”

  I dig down further, creating a valley in the pile of confetti, and finally I uncover what's making the bag heavy: Half a dozen doggie bags.

  “Ooh, I guess you won't be recycling that,” Harry says.

  “Nope. I guess not.” I shove the bag away. “Time to try another dumpster.”

  “So tell me about this Green Day thing you're doing,” Harry asks, as we pick up our piles of debris and march to the next dumpster. “Is that a not-for-profit organization?”

  “Yes, and they're offering an unpaid internship to six students, nationwide,” I explain, flinging back the dumpster lid. “We have the summer to complete our applications. Basically, we're supposed to submit a video showing our innovative idea to make the world a more environmentally friendly place.”

  “And you three have decided to work together on this?”

  “Oh...no,” I say, opening and quickly closing a bag of kitchen garbage. “It's a marketing internship. Morgan here-” I flap a gloved hand at her. “-is planning to go to medical school.”

  “Shade and I are submitting this project together,” Tiffany says.

  “And have you been working with other charities besides the Downtown Homeless Shelter?” Harry asks.

  “Um...nooooo....” Tiffany stammers.

  “We actually started the project as an informational vlog,” I say, and quickly rattle off our channel name for GluedToYou. “We've been showing people how they can save money and the environment at the same time. While working on that, we realized that we could do even more good by raising money for the homeless shelter and recycling stuff people just trashed.”

  “Which one of you came up with that idea?” Harry flinches a little as Morgan rips open a bag l of old skin magazines. “No need to get a close-up of that, Chuck, we won't be able to use it,” he cautions the photographer.

  Morgan's about to toss the bag aside when I stop her. “Wait, look at the dates on those. That one on top is from the eighties'.”

  “So?” Tiffany rolls her eyes. “I bet boobs looked the same in the eighties.”

  “Actually, they've made great advancements in plastic surgery since then,” Morgan says. “Implants are much more realistic and less likely to bottom out now.” She glances quickly at Harry, her face reddening. “I'm going to medical school. I do a lot of research on surgical techniques.”

  Tiffany reaches for the bag. “I'll put it in the recycle pile.”

  “Some of those are worth good money on Feebay,” I say. “They're considered collectibles. I'd try listing them before recycling them.”

  “Good idea!”

  We search three more dumpsters, mostly finding recyclables that will only yield a few bucks. Harry collects our contact info and tells us the first installment will air on Channel Eight tomorrow night. “Then I'll catch up with you at the party on Saturday, and the next installment of our Homelessness series will air on Sunday evening,” he says, as we approach the last dumpster.

  “That's great,” I say, quickly tossing aside several large, see-through bags. I am so ready to go back to my cheap motel and take a shower right now.

  “One more question,” Harry says, as I pull open a bag and find clothes. “What percentage of your proceeds will you be donating to the charity?”

  “Well, we want to be generous, but we do have expenses, and as you can see, we're living on a tight budget here,” I say, examining a sweater for its label. Faded Glory. Fuck. “Tickets to the charity ball are fifty dollars, so we're definitely donating that much, and that's a lot on our budget! After that, it really depends how much money we earn. I hope to be able to donate at least fifty percent of my proceeds to the Downtown Homeless Shelter – more if I can afford it.”

  “Me too,” Tiffany says. “I take any opportunity to serve. I'd like to donate sixty or seventy percent, if I can.”

  “I'll donate as much as I can,” Morgan says, hauling the skin magazines back to the car. I wonder if that's before or after she learns first-hand how much better implants are today.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “I can't believe you did that!” Richard yells. He just watched last night's six o'clock news on his cell phone, having bought the best new smartphone on the market at Charlie's urging.

  “I see you're not complaining about the excellent video quality on your new phone,” I observe.

  “I could have watched the same video on my old phone, and I still wouldn't like the content.” Richard pokes at the screen. “Do you have any idea what a disaster this could be?”

  “How is any of this a disaster?” Tiffany asks. She's driving the Buick for our mini-road trip to Dusty's ranch. “You're getting publicity for your charity bash. You're cementing your excuse for the cops. And you're helping the homeless!”

  “And I'm letting Delilah take credit for all the great PR I got you,” I add. “Even though under other circumstances, I could have used that experience to get an internship or even a job after graduation.”

  “I guess now you'll just have to wait for your parents to call in some favors,” Richard scoffs.

  I want to tell Richard that he doesn't know anything about my parents, but that's a conversation I don't want to have right now. Or ever, really. Explaining the polluted gene pool I swam out of is messy and complicated and, honestly, I'd rather lie about it.

  “Did you see that your magazines were bid up to $55 already?” I ask Morgan instead.

  “You and Charlie pool what's left of this week's money?” she asks Matt.

  He rolls his eyes. “I got plenty of modern magazines at home, thanks. Why do I need ones from 1980?”

  “Is that the ranch?” Charlie asks, ignoring them. He points out the window at what looks like miles of rundown, falling-apart wooden fencing.

  “Um....I think so.” Tiffany squints ahead. “Does that sign say 'Willowbrook Ranch'?”

  “Sure does.” I have the eyes of a hawk. Also the memory of an elephant on steroids and the reflexes of a cat, but the eyes of a hawk are the only thing helping me with the sign, which is so old and faded it looks like a Real Housewife of Willowbrook Ranch.

  The sign dangles from an open gate, and Tiffany pulls the Buick in and continues down a dirt road, gravel tinkling at the bottom of the car. I scan for some sign of civilization.

  “There it is!” I yell, pointing at a speck on the horizon.

  “What?” Tiffany slams on the brakes.

  “No, don't stop, the house is way up ahead,” I say, settling back into my seat. “On the left.”

  Tiffany slams her knockoff Manolo onto the gas pedal and the car lurches forward.

  Richard leans over the seat, his face hanging between Tiffany and me. “Do you see any TV vans? I'd hate to have a repeat of yesterday.”

  “For the last time, the publicity is a good thing for the charity and for us,” I say. “I don't know what you're upset about.”

  Richard rubs at his temples. “The more publicity we get, the more scrutiny there's going to be. People are going to start asking questions about this young moneybags who's throwing a big charity benefit.”

  “Just be vague,” I say. “You recently came into some money and you want to do some good. If anyone presses you, Matt is going to say you work for his parents' company.”

  “And I told you, my brother really does work for the company, and he's going to back you up,” Matt says. “He's also donating money to the charity and will appreciate us t
hrowing some good publicity his way.”

  “There's nothing to worry about. The universe is looking out for us,” Tiffany says as she parks the car on a random patch of grass that looks exactly like every other random patch of grass for five million miles.

  But I know what Richard's worried about: He's worried the publicity will end up on some national news source and his rich parents will see it. And then what will they think? Well, they'd probably be happy that he finally decided to embrace their financial obesity. But they might wonder why Richard would choose to take a summer job at Matt's family's company instead of their own. Of course, he could always say he wanted to prove he could get a job on his own. This whole thing hardly seems like a big problem-

  Unless, of course, Richard's parents show up in town. What if they decide they're so proud of him that they want to come donate money to the homeless? What if they want to capitalize on his good PR by throwing their own company's name behind the Downtown Homeless Shelter? The minute they show up, everyone will know that Richard's been lying, and he'll be permanently outed as a rich kid.

  “Don't worry, I doubt anyone will hear about this outside of Texas,” I assure Richard. “And the important thing is that you're square with the cops.”

  “Amen to that,” Matt mumbles, as we all get out of the car.

  “Tiffany!” A voice yells, and I turn to see a guy who makes me wish I had a thing for cowboys. If you could forgive the cowboy hat, he has a hell of a body, his six-pack visible through his super-tight, well-worn t-shirt. The jeans are a mart brand, but they hug his body like I want to hug my gold card the next time I get to see it.

  Tiffany runs over and basically tackles him, leaping into his arms and wrapping her legs around his torso and her arms around his neck. “Dusty!”

  He gives her a smooch that lasts ten minutes and would probably snag a PG-13 rating if it was in a movie, before he finally puts her down and starts introducing himself. “Hi, Dusty Martin.” We all shake his hand and introduce ourselves.

  “It's nice to meet all of you,” Dusty says, looking around at us, then back at Tiffany. “But, um, I thought I told you to dress for the outdoors.”

  Tiffany shrugs. “I'm wearing jeans.”

  “And high heels?” He points at her feet. “Your feet are gorgeous, honey, but you're going to be walking around in the mud and grass. You'll sink in those things.” He scratches his head. “Let me go in the house and see if I can borrow some spare boots for you and...” He looks at the rest of us, skimming our feet. Morgan is wearing flats; Charlie and Matt are wearing flip-flops; Richard is wearing sneakers and I'm wearing my oldest pair of running shoes, the ones I normally keep in my car for outdoor events like a 5K. “Well, the sneakers are probably okay, but the rest of you need real boots.”

  We follow him into the house, which, despite its size, isn't very well-decorated. The carpet looks almost as old as the one in our motel room. The walls are hung with pictures, mostly of farm animals. A few show people riding horses.

  Dusty disappears down a hallway and comes back a few minutes later with a selection of boots, most of them muddy and worn. I watch Tiffany wrinkle her nose as she kicks off the faux Manolos and stuffs her feet into the boots.

  “So you live here?” I ask Dusty, gesturing around the large living room.

  He nods. “Yeah, all the ranch hands live in this building. It's close to the barn, and we all have our own room. We have a ktichen here-” He points to a counter with a microwave and sink against one wall, with a fridge shoved up next to it. “-but we eat some meals up at the main house.”

  “I didn't see another house,” Morgan says, frowning. “Just that big red one and this.”

  “The main house is further down the road, at the bottom of the hill,” Dusty explains. “And that big red house is the barn – which I'll show you guys right now.”

  We all trek through the mud and grass (Dusty wasn't kidding about that) and into the Big Red House. There are no lights on the tall ceiling, but there are some flourescent lamps mounted to the walls, which Dusty turns on by pulling a rusty metal chain. Down the middle of the building is a dirt floor strewn with hay. On either side is a row of wooden stalls, where I'm assuming they keep the horses.

  “Who wants to learn to saddle a horse?” Dusty asks enthusiastically.

  The more I look at him the more I want to mount something, but it's not a horse, so I say nothing.

  “Me!” Tiffany raises her hand.

  “Great!” Dusty pulls open one of the stall doors and makes a clicking noise with his mouth. He reaches in, and a few seconds later, he leads out a large, fawn-colored horse. “Old Rosie's very gentle,” he assures Tiffany, who jumps a foot back when she sees the animal. “Why don't you pet her, get to know her a little?”

  Tiffany is sort of frowning and smiling at the same time, but she hesitantly steps forward and touches the horse's nose with one index finger. “Hi, Rosie.” She says it in the tone of voice that most people would use to say, “HI, Grim Reaper!”

  Dusty turns around, leans into the stall and bends over, giving me a fantastic view of his fantastic ass. Maybe I should have declared myself money-free and asked for dates. Sadly, he stands up and turns back around to face us, holding a leather-and-metal contraption in his hands. “You put this on the horse first,” he says, handing it to Tiffany.

  Tiffany takes the thing, looks at it for a minute and turns it over in her hands. Judging by the straps and metal parts, I'm guessing it's one of those things that go over a horse's head.

  “That's the bridle,” Dusty explains. “You need to put that over her head and slide the bit into her mouth.”

  Tiffany's face contorts in horror. “I have to shove something in the horse's mouth?”

  “Don't worry, it won't hurt her, and Rosie's used to it. Here, I'll show you how.” Dusty takes the bridle back from Tiffany and turns to the horse. He places one finger inside the horse's mouth, pulling back her lip. “See that space? That's where the bit goes.” He slides in one of the metal bar thingies and pulls the leather straps over her head. “See how easy that was?” He removes the contraption and hands it back to Tiffany. “Now you try.”

  Tiffany steps closer to the horse and extends a pink-fingernailed hand toward its mouth, wincing as she does it. “Nice horsie,” she says, and I hear Matt snickering. She actually closes her eyes as she sticks her hand in the horse's mouth. Then she screams, “Oh my god!” and jerks her hand back. The horse tosses her head back and neighs, or whatever horses do.

  “What's wrong?” Dusty asks, patting the horse's side to calm her.

  “She licked my hand!” Tiffany wails.

  Dusty chuckles. “She does that to me all the time. Just try again, okay?”

  The problem with Tiffany is that she never listens when I tell her she shouldn't keep trying to change herself for every guy she likes. If it was me, I'd tell Dusty that I'd prefer to spend time with him in a hot tub, because I am just not a horse person, and if he doesn't like it, he should probably find someone else.

  But I'd tell him that after we'd spent a couple hours in bed.

  Tiffany's not backing down. “Okay.” She takes the bridle back.

  “Don't be so timid,” Dusty says, as she scrunches up her face and reaches for the horse's mouth. “She's expecting you to just stick it in like it's no big deal.”

  I'm having all kinds of naughty thoughts about that one.

  Tiffany switches on her positive-attitude face. “I can do this. The universe is giving me a wonderful opportunity to expand my horizons.” She shoves the bit in the horse's mouth in an I-just-want-to-be-done-with-this motion and jerks her hand out so fast she startles the horse, who whips her head up again, causing spittle to fly off and spray Tiffany's face. “Ewww!” she yells as Charlie and Matt start chortling.

  “Don't worry about that, it happens all the time,” Dusty says, waving a hand like he's swatting a fly.

  Tiffany wipes her face on the sleeve of her Forever 2
1 western shirt, not caring that she's smearing lipstick all over it. Then she pulls the shirt collar up to her face and uses the inside of the shirt to wipe her mouth again. “All the time? And you kiss me with that mouth?”

  “It's just horse spit. Most horse diseases are species-specific and won't hurt humans,” Dusty says with a shrug. “Now pull the bridle onto her head.”

  Tiffany grabs the leather strap contraption and jerks it over the horse's head, probably too roughly, because the horse neighs and starts to rear up.

  “Easy, girl.” Dusty pats the horse down and shoots a look at Tiffany. “You have to be careful of her ears. Try gently folding one ear back at a time and sliding the bridle over it.”

  Tiffany glares at Dusty like she'd rather slide his dead body into the trunk of her car, but she does it. The horse doesn't buy her act though – she keeps making angry-horse noises and tossing her head around.

  “Hold still, you stupid horse!” Tiffany yells in frustration, jerking the bridle over both ears at once. Rosie tosses her head again, and this time Tiffany whirls around so she can't get hit with any spittle.

  But Rosie doesn't stop with tossing her head – after she whips it up she jerks it back down and tries to nuzzle Tiffany, who does actually look like she's about to cry. Seeing the horse's nose on her shoulder, she jumps a foot in the air. “Get away from me, you nasty horse!” she shrieks.

  And that's when Rosie tosses back her head, lets out a really loud neighish sort of sound and whacks her snout into Tiffany's backside, throwing her off balance. Tiffany trips and lands facedown in the hay.

  “You said that horse was gentle!” she yells at Dusty as he rushes to help her up. She slaps him away, and then she wrinkles her nose and looks at the palm of her hand. “Ewwwwww! Did I just put my hand in-”

  “Horse shit? Yeah, you did!” Dusty yells, looking down at the nasty brown smear where Tiffany just smacked him on his sleeve.

  And then something wonderful happens: He rips off the shirt and tosses it in the corner of the stall, revealing his sexy six-pack. I realize I'm about to start drooling and slam my mouth shut.