by M. C. Decker
“You have got to be freakin’ kidding me,” I muttered under my breath.
I soon learned that Mr. Gorgeous Asshole’s name was Rich Davis. He was a year my senior and thought he knew everything! Every time he opened his mouth it was to suck up to Professor Markley, or to correct another student. Ugh, he really just made my skin crawl.
When I found out that I was paired up with him for a writing assignment during the third week of class, I just wanted to vomit right then and there. Maybe then I could get out of it and pass it off as the latest stomach bug making its way around campus. Who cares if it would be a little embarrassing? I was known as Brooke the Klutz during my high school days, so what would a little vomit-and-dash incident really matter? Besides, I was already spoken for and completely in love with Jason James so I really couldn’t have cared less what other male students in the class thought about me. And the girls would just feel bad for me and give thanks that it hadn’t happened to them.
Oh, it would never work. With my coordination, I’d somehow slip and fall in my own puke.
“Miss Anderson, please move your seat over to where Mr. Davis is sitting so you can start on your assignment,” Professor Markley said with an annoyed tone.
Crap, I’d been in my own vomit-induced stupor so I totally zoned out. Way to go, Brooke. Give Davis even more of a reason to be a complete douche monkey.
I quickly scooted over to sit in the empty chair next to Rich; that’s when I was once again infiltrated with that most delicious scent – one that I can only describe as “man” … I know. Cliché, right? But, oh, so true! It was almost as if he bathed in the Irish Sea and then spritzed himself with fresh pears and melons. Seriously, again, Brooke? Snap the fuck out of it! He’s gonna think you’re an alien sucking in its very last breath. You despise this man, remember?
“Soooo, you’re Brooke, right? I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced. I’m Rich Davis, third year. I’m an English major, but I decided to add this new journalism minor. So, that’s why I’m here in this intro course. What about you?”
“Right, I’m Brooke … Brooke Anderson. I’m a sophomore majoring in political science. I worked on my high school newspaper and really liked it, so I thought I would give this new minor a whirl, too. I figure maybe I can mix the two, you know, work for the Washington Post one day.”
“Cool,” he replied apathetically.
I swear I saw the jackass roll his sexy eyes at me. You just watch, Mister, I WILL work for the Post someday!
“So have you read over the assignment? I guess we’re each supposed to write an article of our choosing for the Eagle and then we need to critique each other’s work. Markley is giving us two days to finish, but it seems pretty easy to me. I’m thinking we could get this knocked out by tomorrow,” he added so flippantly.
“Uh, OK. I have an obligation this evening and have a few other assignments, but I guess I could move this to the top and shoot for tomorrow.”
And now I had completely forgotten about that most amazing scent and those cerulean eyes. How the eff was I going to get this assignment done by tomorrow? Ugh, this brownnosing jackass is just infuriating. I couldn’t wait for class to end just so I could get on with my day and forget all about Hotty McAsshole.
I ran back to my dorm, which was only slightly bigger than my bedroom at home, but jammed with double the stuff, to quickly change before heading to my sorority’s recruitment-mixer event co-hosted with Chi Omega. I threw on a black camisole and layered it with an off-white, crocheted sweater. I decided to stick with the flared-leg jeans I was already wearing and slid on a pair of black flip-flops that were hiding out behind my clothes hamper. I ran a brush through my thick, wavy hair, ran some gloss over my lips and checked myself in the mirror. Pleased with my reflection, I headed out the door for a night of mingling and obnoxious sorority cheers. Really, I love my sorority sisters, but the constant clapping, bopping up and down and loud screaming could really get annoying especially after a long day dealing with gorgeous, yet super-irritating, upperclassmen. I heard the familiar chant of one of our famous recruitment cheers as I headed to the Chi house on the west end of campus.
“Hey Brookie, how was Markley’s class today?” my roomie and bestie, Cassidy, asked as I walked over to grab a slice of pepperoni pizza.
Cassidy Carpenter and I had been best friends almost since birth – literally; we were born just a day apart. I always harassed her for being a day older, too. It usually worked out to my advantage except when she turned sixteen and was able to drive a day before I could, or when she turned eighteen and bought a lotto ticket to wave in my face. I’m sure she would use it to her advantage in a few years when she would be able to legally down a beer a day before me, too. Not that it really mattered anyways, because we were already drinking every weekend.
Cassidy and I have pretty much been inseparable our entire lives. Since we were both only children, we shared everything with each other – from our secret crushes to our annoying problems with pimples. I remember acting out plays in her living room and making candy out of snow and pancake syrup in my kitchen. We would sit on the phone for hours each night until our moms would literally have to pry the receivers out of our hands. She was my breath of fresh air and I was her stable rock. Of the two of us, I was definitely the more focused one, but she always taught me to have a little fun, too.
We both attended the same Catholic school before going our separate ways in high school, but still remained close and decided to go to college together at Western Michigan University, just as we had planned as girls in pigtails, swinging on the jungle gym. We always knew we were going to be Broncos, pretty much since birth, because both of our dads played on the football team and were also best friends, or “bros,” as they called each other in “man code.”
Anyways, that’s how Cassidy and I met – through our dads. The two of them had us wearing Western Michigan Broncos onesies straight out of the womb. So, we were both ecstatic when we were accepted into Western, not only because it would thrill our dads but also because it was close to the Lake Michigan shore and only about a two-hour drive to Chicago. We both loved spending time at the lake in the summer and who doesn’t love a shopping expedition in Chicago? My bestie was also a fashionista of sorts and now that we lived together, I loved to raid her closet.
“Ugh, don’t even get me started,” I responded to her question, trying not to get pizza sauce all over my sweater. “What the heck happened to you? Did you decide flirting with Sean over Instant Messenger was more important than class, or what?” I asked, giving her the eye roll.
Cassidy was absolutely gorgeous with her strawberry blonde hair and big brown eyes. I swear the girl could eat anything in sight and not gain an ounce. Unlike me, who hit the gym every morning, she hardly had to lift a finger to keep her petite frame. In fact, I think she had already consumed an entire pizza by herself. She really made me sick most days. Practically every guy on campus wanted Cassidy Carpenter, yet she was obsessed with the already-taken, Sean Thompson.
“Shut your face, bi-atch,” she responded. “And, how the h-e-double-l do you know me so well? He kept telling me how cute I looked in astronomy this afternoon. I couldn’t ditch him after that. I think we might actually have something going.”
“Gag me,” I shot back. … “He has a girlfriend at home, ding-a-ling. Or, did you forget that?”
“Different zip code, doesn’t count,” she explained with a wink.
“Does, too, count. I would bust a Lorena Bobbitt on Jay’s ass if I ever found out he tried to pull that ‘different zip code’ bullshit,” I hissed back at her, using air quotes.
“Calm down, Brookie, you know I wouldn’t really do anything with Sean anyways. Just wishing he would dump the blonde Barbie at home, that’s all.”
“Oh, Cass, I love you. I pray that one day you find a single boy to Internet flirt with,” I said, before bursting into hysterical laughter while, at the same time, dodging her flying fists. “P.
S. – you know you are a blonde Barbie, too, right?” I added as I fled to the opposite side of the room.
I spent the next few hours plastering on my fakest smile and chitchatting with half the freshmen class. I kept thinking about what a long night it would be trying to research and write an article for Markley’s class. Maybe I could write about egotistical juniors and just interview the most conceited one I knew.
“So, you never did tell me how Markley’s class went today. Did I miss anything?” Cass asked, as we finally made our way home after the mixer.
“Other than Rich getting under my skin for the billionth time and Markley pairing us together for a writing assignment … um, no, not much,” I answered, as nonchalantly as possible.
“Whaaaaat? You have to work with the most beautiful jackass to ever grace this campus? Glad it’s you and not me, friend. I would be sent to the dean for either molesting that boy, or kicking him in the nuts – depending on my mood.”
“Right,” I responded with a chuckle. “Our assignment isn’t due until Wednesday, but Rich wants to finish it by tomorrow. So, I guess I need to get my ass to the library.”
“All right, I’m gonna put my sweats and bunny slippers on and wait for Sean to get back from his night class. … At least that’s where his Away Message status tells me where he’s at.”
“Stalking and bunny slippers? Sexy, Cass … real sexy.”
With that, I felt one of her bunnies hit the back of my head as I walked toward the bathroom that we shared with an adjoining room. I quickly changed into a more comfortable pair of black yoga pants and threw on my favorite Michigan State Spartans’ sweatshirt before heading out the door in pursuit of the quiet stacks of the campus library.
As I walked through the library’s dimly lit entrance, I noticed Mr. Brownnoser himself. I considered acting as if I didn’t see him, but I must have been thinking too hard because as I began digging in my purse, as if to make a phone call, he started yelling at me across the room.
“Brooke, I’m working on our assignment. Come join me?”
“Hey, Rich … sure.”
I walked over to where he was sitting and dropped my heavy shoulder bag onto the round table. What a relief! I really needed to invest in something lighter and less cumbersome. Sure, my sorority letters attached to the side were cute, but it wasn’t worth the pain in my neck, literally. I took a seat next to Rich and was rummaging through my bag looking for my notepad when he broke my concentration.
“I decided to write my article on the recurring injuries on the varsity football team,” he began. “I’m just researching some physical therapy books now. I already scheduled an interview with the athletic director, football coach and head trainer for first thing in the morning.”
Of course he did. Ugh, who was this guy? He can’t possibly have any social life which is so weird considering how GORGEOUS he is.
“Hey, are you there?”
“Uh, yeah, sorry. It’s been a really long day and I’m beat, but I told you I’d have this done by tomorrow. … So, here I am.”
“Right, so, Brooke, what is the subject of your article?” he asked.
“Well, I decided to go with an opinion piece,” I replied. (Mainly because I didn’t think about scheduling interviews and I certainly didn’t have time for that now. But, I thought I would leave Rich out of that little secret). “Since the election is coming up, I thought I would write about the pros and cons of the Electoral College and how the candidate with more popular votes can sometimes lose the election.”
I must admit, for thinking of a topic on the fly, I was pretty proud of myself. I think I’ll give myself a proverbial pat on the back. Way to go, Brooke.
“Riiiiight. … You know, that would NEVER actually happen?”
“ACTUALLY, it’s happened three times in history. Did you know Benjamin Harrison actually received more popular votes than Grover Cleveland?”
“Hmmph, I meant in like today’s era. That was, what, like 1884,” he said, as more of a statement than a question.
“Whoa … Mr. Smarty Pants got one wrong. It was actually 1888,” I spat back, feeling slightly superior.
“Whatever, it will still never happen again. Your article is going to be a waste of time. I thought you said your dream was to write for the Washington Post? They would never publish such farfetched, political propaganda.”
“Well, I believe it could very well happen again this year. And that, Davis, is why they call it an opinion piece, and when it does happen … you can kiss my ass.”
He paused for a moment and I could briefly see a spark in those sexy blues of his. Then – in barely a whisper – he said, “I wish, Brooke. I wish.”
What the hell? I must be really tired or really delusional or both because I didn’t just hear him say that. You’re imaging shit now, Brooke Christine Anderson. Get a grip.
After that, we worked in silence for what seemed like forever. I got up a few times to grab some reference books from the shelves and he prepared his interview questions. I completed a fairly good outline and decided I would wake up before class to finish my writing.
It was approaching eleven o’clock and I wanted to be home before Jay called. We’d had a standing phone date each night at that time since he moved “Up North” to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula two years ago to attend Michigan Tech. After packing my bag and heaving it over my shoulder, I muttered goodnight over my shoulder to Rich. I swear I heard him say, “Goodnight, beautiful girl,” as I headed toward the door. Seriously, I either need to make an appointment with the school nurse to get my hearing tested, or with the counselor to get my head examined.
Jason James or Jay, as he was known by everyone around our town, and I were high school sweethearts. I met him my first day of my freshman year. He was the stud sophomore, baseball player and I was the new girl who transferred to the public school after spending nine years becoming educated by the nuns at St. Mary’s Catholic School.
If there was such a thing as “love at first sight,” I think that’s what Jay and I had. We had that instantaneous spark of chemistry people often talk about. He asked me to have lunch with him that day and we were inseparable for three years.
All of my high school memories involved Jay. We swayed as one at both of our proms. I watched as he was crowned prom king his senior year and he returned the favor the following year by watching as I was named homecoming queen.
I was his personal cheerleader during every baseball game and he held my hand in the emergency room after I slipped on some ice a few winters back and broke my wrist. (Remember, I said I was known as Brooke the Klutz).
It was one of the hardest days of my life watching my Jay-Jay Bear pack up his Chevy Blazer before making the four hundred mile, seven-hour drive to his new home and away from my everyday existence.
But, even with the distance, we had already made it work for two years. He called me every night at eleven o’clock. I think in those two years we have only missed a handful of telephone dates. Really, those twenty to thirty minutes were the highlight of my day. I couldn’t wait to hear his voice each night before falling asleep.
I was relieved when I got back to the room and Cassidy told me I hadn’t missed my call from Jay. I figured I still had a few minutes to take care of my nightly routine before he called, so I padded off to the bathroom. I was in the middle of applying my face scrub when I heard the phone ring.
“Hey Jay-Jay Bear,” I heard Cassidy say as she answered the phone from the other room. “Hang on a sec. She’s getting herself all pretty for your nightly phone sex … I mean date.”
“CASSIDY! Shut up and hand me the phone. You ARE crazy!” I screamed at her as I grabbed the phone and plopped down onto my plush comforter.
Jay and I talked for about half an hour before he had to end our conversation to finish some mechanical engineering homework. I told him about my day, the sorority mixer and studying in the library; I didn’t mention Rich at all. Not because I was trying to hide any
thing … after all, I did loathe the guy, but I just didn’t see any reason to get Jay jealous about me talking, or studying with other guys.
He talked for at least ten minutes about the Yankees game. Evidently one of the players, a Derek Jeter or something like that, hit a grand slam against the Texas Rangers to clinch a playoff spot for his beloved team. I really couldn’t have cared less. I never understood why he loved the damn Yankees so much anyways. We both grew up just an hour or so from Detroit and I had always rooted for the Tigers. Well, honestly, I didn’t really care all that much for baseball in general, but if someone asked I would cheer for the “Old English D.” I guess Jay just liked to be different and since he had a number of relatives living in the Bronx, he had adored the Yankees since he was pretty much still in Pampers.
After hanging up, I decided to grab the latest issue of US Weekly before calling it a night. (Don’t judge me. … I enjoy my latest celebrity gossip). Cassidy was still over at her desk bopping her head to the beat of whatever bubblegum, boy band she was listening to and giggling at everything Sean Thompson tossed her way. I swear she was worse than a puppy about to get a Milk-Bone. If I listened closely enough I could probably hear her panting.
I think I fell asleep somewhere between reading about Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt’s honeymoon and the recent star athletes of the Sydney Olympics. I woke up the next morning with the crinkly magazine pages off to the side and my glasses still fixed on my face. Fuck what time is it? I looked at my clock and the red digits glared back that it was nine-fifty in the morning. NO! NO! NO! Class starts in ten minutes and I didn’t finish writing my article.
I quickly ran to the bathroom: brushed my teeth, washed my face and tried to run a comb through my thick brown, tangled tresses. Since that didn’t seem to be working too well, I grabbed a scrunchie off the counter and twisted my hair into a half-knot on top of my head. Once I was finished in the bathroom, I ran to my wardrobe, grabbed a sports bra and cotton panties, threw on a faded pair of jeans and one of Jay’s baseball Tshirts, and slipped on the same flip-flops as the previous night, before rushing out the door.
