by Deena Bright
This hypocritical and misogynistic professor always goes over the class time. Granted, that wouldn’t typically cause my claws to come out, but he’s got all these rules about being tardy and losing attendance points. He is nine minutes late every Tuesday and Thursday, because he teaches a class across campus. When he walks in, he looks at us, smirks, and says, “I will go 10 minutes over today to make up for our lost class time… whatever I say during those 10 minutes you can guarantee will be on the exam.”
This class is interminable. Nothing about it is remotely interesting or exciting. I’d rather lick a cheese grater and then suck on a lemon than come to this class. Finally, Dr. Slow-Death Doldrums packs up his scuffed and faded briefcase and dismisses us, reminding us to study and make a difference. The only difference he inspires me to make is to change the clocks, so we get out at the correct time.
“Sarah! Sarah!” Lyla calls after me.
Damn is she stunning—it’s the first thought I have every single time I see her. I don’t even know if my brain has the capacity to think anything differently when my eyes land on her. I’m not even sure why she’s in college. Lyla Crites is dumber than dirt. How she got into JMU, I’ll never know. It should be the topic of one of those Unsolved Mystery shows. Lyla should be in Hollywood or New York, modeling or acting or just letting rich, hot men take care of her. She’s a walking cover girl model with her lean legs, long wavy blonde hair, big blue eyes, and perfect fashion sense. Slap some wings on her, throw a gold ring on her head and you’d swear she was an angel sent down here to prove that angels really do exist… and fail classes at JMU.
“Hi Lyla, what’s up?” I ask, knowing that she either needs my notes or help with something she didn’t quite understand. We’re not exactly friends, but we get along well enough. Our boyfriends are fraternity brothers.
“Are you going to the 50’s date party, Friday?”
“God, I hope not,” I groan, wishing she hadn’t reminded me. If I could talk Kyle into getting out of his fraternity, then I’d do it in a heartbeat. I am so sick of all of the social events he drags me to each weekend. He’d never go inactive though. He’s a legacy, and in his family, that means something more to them than my involuntary eye-roll and head-shake.
“I was hoping you were going to say that,” Lyla says, bouncing on her toes. “Can I borrow your roller blades for my carhop costume?”
“My roller blades? How do you even know I have roller blades?” I ask. Owning roller blades isn’t all that high on the social status hierarchy.
“Kyle told Bo-Bo,” she explains, shrugging.
Bo-Bo is Lyla’s incredibly good-looking and equally ignorant boyfriend. He’s the envy of the entire campus. He’s got Lyla and a ton of money at his disposal. His dad got rich writing some Self-Help Sex book. They even named some dorm after him on campus. Her boyfriend’s real name is Jefferson. However, somewhere down the line, he ended up with the nickname, “Bo-Bo,” the poor unfortunate fool.
“I guess you can borrow them. How do you know they’ll fit though?”
“I tried them on before when you left them at the frat house once. Bo-Bo and I had a little fun trying to get freaky with me on skates. We tried this—”
“Nope… don’t need those details. I’ll just send them home with Kyle tonight,” I say, cringing at the thought of Lyla and Jefferson playing Roller Dicking on my roller blades.
“Yay, you’re the best!” Lyla squeals, hugging me and jumping up and down. “I’ll see you soon!” Watching her walk away, I’m amazed at how truly flawless she is. One of these days, I’m just going to come right out and ask her why in the world she’s in college and not just breaking bank with her appearance.
“Thanks for blowing it,” a voice says from behind me. Turning around, I recognize the woman behind me from my linguistics class. “I wanted to hear… in great detail no less… what she and Bo-Bo did on those roller blades.”
“Really? You want that visual?” I ask, chuckling. “I wouldn’t be able to get past how ridiculous it is that they even attempted it… but let’s not forget it’s Lyla and Bo-Bo,” I joke, emphasizing the name.
“Right? What the Hell kind of name is ‘Bo-Bo,’ anyway?” she asks, grimacing.
“A name that comes with more money than I’d know what to do with… Bo-Bo is actually Jefferson Davis—”
“No fucking way! Well why does she need to borrow your roller blades. He could buy her a roller blade company,” she says, shaking her head.
“I know; it’s crazy. I’m Sarah,” I say, switching my bag to the other shoulder.
“Vivian, Vivian Marx,” she says, grinning and tucking her hair behind her ear. “What? You didn’t already know that? Shit, I must not be as popular as I think, Peaches.”
“Peaches? I think you’ve got the wrong person,” I say, confused.
“Nah, I don’t think I do. Sarah Sloane, Advertising and Marketing major, from Ohio, can’t stand rap or country music, and has a slight obsession with Sudoku puzzles,” Vivian states, creeping me out.
“Yes! I’ve always wanted a stalker. I can finally cross that off my bucket list,” I say sarcastically, stepping a little further from her.
“Whoa… whoa… hold on there, Peaches—”
“My name is not ‘Peaches.’ You’re starting to creep me—”
“I sit a few rows behind you in linguistics. You always get there after me and you walk right by me. You smell like that peach-scented spray from Bath and Body Works,” she explains, openly. “I’m a nicknamer. I nickname everyone.”
Laughing, I say, “Alright, I’ll accept that, ‘Selma.’ You’re not so creepy now.”
“Selma? Now I think I missed something,” Vivian says.
“You remind me of Selma Blair, when she played that part in Cruel Intentions. That is if you had shorter hair,” I explain. “And truthfully… I’m a nicknamer too. And to think… I thought we were a dying breed.”
“We might be the last of them,” she jokes. “Can you imagine a planet with everyone just going by their God-given names and everyone accepting it? Scary!”
Shivering the thought away, I laugh. “Too frightening for me, Selma,” I quip, smiling.
“I like you, Peaches. I knew I chose wisely,” she says.
“Oh, so you chose me? What exactly did you choose me for?” I ask, starting to walk toward my dorm as she falls easily into step.
“My partner for the linguistics project,” Vivian states, confidently. “When Professor Punctuality announced the partner project last week, I started checking out all of my potential ‘partners’ on social media. I suppose I did stalk your Facebook and Twitter.”
“Look Selma, I’m probably just going to do this one by—”
“By yourself? Right. I thought the same thing. But I emailed him last night, and he said that we have to work with a partner—from the class. I choose you,” she announces.
“Well, how do you know I choose you?” I ask, teasingly, truthfully thankful that I no longer have to find a stupid partner from that class.
“Easy. Four of us got As on the last exam. You, me, Teriyaki Travis, and Mute Meredith. Since it’s a ‘speaking’ and presenting project, Meredith is out, and Travis smells like the all-you-can-eat 24-hour Japanese buffet. So, it looks like I win,” she explains, wiggling her shoulders in victory. “Unless, you want some dumbass partner who’s going to kill your grade with idiocy and mediocrity.”
“Well, you’ve certainly done your homework,” I laugh. “And ‘Teriyaki Travis’ is a lot better than my ‘Tiny-feet Travis.’ I think I’ll steal yours.”
“How did you even notice his feet? I can’t past his scent to notice anything else?” she asks, running her fingers through her hair.
“I lowered my head one day to avoid the stench as he passed, and saw his itty-bitty feet. I don’t know how he even stands upright on those things,” I explain, shaking my head.
“Shit, now I need to make a point to check out his feet,” Vivian states. “So, how a
bout it? Want to work together on this one?”
“I’m in,” I agree.
“Should we get started tonight?” she asks, taking out her phone.
“Can’t tonight. I have plans with the boyfriend,” I explain.
“Ohhh, the boyfriend… I’ll need some deets about that next time I see you,” Vivian says. “What’s your number?” she asks, before putting my information into her phone.
Laughing, I say, “How about I meet you at the library study rooms at 6:00 p.m. tomorrow night?”
“Sounds like a plan,” she says, walking away.
I have to meet up with Kyle tonight. I haven’t seen him in four days. He’s made it abundantly clear that he misses me and needs to see me tonight. Otherwise, he claims he may die. Sadly, I wouldn’t be able to give this Vivian any good details about our relationship to save my life. Things have been pretty blah lately.
I SET UP everything for our project and type out a template and outline for what we should be doing. I just loathe getting together for group projects and spending the first hour debating what should be done, how it should be done, and who should do it. If people don’t come prepared, then the meeting is unproductive and pointless. I don’t like wasting my time on pointless activities. I took the liberty of assigning very little work for Vivian.
Hearing my text ding, I read a message that she’s running “15 behind.”
Sighing, I type out a response and explain which study room I’m set up in. I’m also very intolerant of tardy people. I’ll give her a pass this time. She did at least text me to let me know. I hate group projects. Why in the world should I allow my grade to be impacted by the lackadaisical and carefree attitudes of others? I’m the one paying for my education—not them. I’m the one who cares about my future—not them.
Group projects are fine for middle school and high school kids, that way a teacher can shove some loser, failing kid in your group, so you can carry them through the course and essentially across the stage for graduation. I get that. It works in public education. It should be prohibited in higher education.
Waiting for Vivian, I peruse the databases, bookmarking some articles that will help with our presentation. I just really wish she’d let me do all the work. That would make things so much easier and enjoyable for me. Yes, I said “enjoyable.” Schoolwork and studying is very fun and exciting to me. I love education and thrive on learning. Call me whatever you will, but I can’t get enough knowledge.
“Sorry, I’m late, Peaches,” Vivian says, dressed to the nines. “My printer jammed, and I refused to show up empty-handed,” she explains, handing me a Starbucks. “It’s a Caramel Macchiato. I’ve got a Chai Tea Latte too—if you prefer that. Doesn’t matter. I like them both. Figured a drink would make up for being late.” Putting her drink down, she reaches into her enormous Louis Vuitton tote and hands me a manila file folder.
“Here are fifteen articles, highlighted… with notes in the margins… I also attached the APA formatting… this will give us a strong start,” she says, taking a drink of her latte. “Ahhh that is so good.”
Then, she reaches into her LV tote again, takes a mini bottle of some dark liquor and pours half the bottle into her cup and says, “Want the rest in yours?” Vivian doesn’t wait for my response; she picks up my cup off the table and dumps the remaining contents of the mini bottle into the cup. “Studying is always better with a little Jack.”
Staring at her, I’m dumbfounded, completely and totally speechless. First of all, she looks gorgeous. Typically, I think she’s attractive, but she’s always dressed like a “college student.” Today is a different story. Her long black hair is sleek and straight, falling down past the middle of her back. Her dark eyes are accentuated with a golden brown liner and a shimmery frost shadow. And apparently, Vivian knows a little something about fashion and has the money to do something with that knowledge. Her 4-inch, yellow Louboutins complement her light gray skinny jeans and yellow and red tight-fighting, lacy, see-through blouse. Her gray camisole and no bra underneath leave little to the imagination. She could be the stark contrast runway model to Lydia Crites. The two of them together could model and be the perfect Ying-yang version of each other. It’s amazing really.
“So what’s your deal? You going to talk tonight or what?” Vivian says, sitting up on the table, crossing her legs, not once, but another time, looping her foot around her calve. I’m not even sure I could do that with my short, stubby limbs.
“I’m just… just… shocked as all,” I admit. “I mean… I didn’t expect you to… to…”
“To be so fucking hot?” Vivian asks, grinning.
“Well shit, I didn’t know we were supposed to dress up and have so much done. I feel like the weak link of the group,” I admit. “I’m just surprised is all… and I certainly didn’t expect to be showered with yummy beverages.”
Suddenly, I feel very self-conscious and keenly aware that I haven’t even showered today. After ending up staying at Kyle’s last night, I walked home this morning, went to class, slept for a while, and started working on what I thought was going to be my portion of this project. I threw my long, red, nappy hair up into a messy bun, put on my glasses, not bothering with my contacts, and pulled on some yoga pants and a hoodie and felt pretty solid for a partner project.
“Well, you’re welcome,” she says, grinning. “I wanted to make sure you knew that I’m not some deadbeat loser.”
“Of course… I never thought that at all… but… I don’t really know you,” I admit, taking a drink of my Caramel Macchiato, relishing the sting of the heat coupled with the burn of the liquor. I need to take the edge off. I’m all jagged, angles and tension tonight, and I’m not even sure why.
“Alright, well what do you want to know?” she asks, flipping her hair to the side.
“Ummm… I don’t know… what’s your last name… and your major?” I ask, feeling silly and juvenile.
“Marx, I already told you that… and… I don’t know. I loved my Women’s Studies class… shocking, I know,” she laughs and winks at me. “But seriously, I also loved Political Science and Black Studies… I think I might want to be a lobbyist… maybe a politician… Hell, maybe a journalist. I’m not sure yet,” she explains, shrugging her shoulders. “I just love knowing shit and arguing it. It gets me off, actually, so probably I’ll just end up being a lawyer—like my brothers and both of my parents. I’ve just been trying to resist following them like a snowy-white, obedient little sheep.”
“Ahhh, that explains your aggressiveness,” I say, nodding. “Brought up by lawyers…”
“Hey! I resent that… it’s true… but I still resent it. My parents taught me a lot. For instance, there isn’t anything I can’t argue… or persuade,” Vivian states, proudly. “What else do you want to know?”
“Ummm, let’s see… why’re you so dressed up to do homework?”
“Easy… I’ve got a date in a couple of hours, and I didn’t want to go back to the dorm to get ready. My car’s parked in the remote parking lot, so it’s closer from here,” she explains. Lifting her leg and shaking her foot, she adds, “These damn shoes are pretty comfortable as far as heels go, but to traipse around campus from point A to C without a break at point B… no way.”
“Those shoes… totally coveting… tenth commandment shattered,” I admit, making the sign of the cross while wishing I had the money and finesse to pull off designer heels—heck, designer anything.
“Ahhh, fellow Catholic girl, eh?” Vivian says.
“You’re Catholic?” I ask, curiously.
“Well, not exactly religiously Catholic… ha… pun not intended… but I like a good pun,” she jokes, licking the stir stick from her cup. “No seriously though, I was raised Catholic. I’m not exactly practicing much religion these days… as I like to practice… uhhh other things that the Catholic religion might not be too keen on.”
“Got it,” I say, glancing down at the file folder. I’m never all that comfortab
le talking about sex and crap with my friends. It’s awkward and odd. Freshman year was the worst. All my suitemates ever talked about was “sex this… sex that… oral this…” It was exhausting and nauseating.
“Alright, so about our project, I see that we both had the same idea of which way to go on this,” I announce.
“Whoa, hold on there Peaches, I almost got whiplash from that abrupt subject change,” she announces, rattling her head back-and-forth. “I didn’t think I’d upset you. I’m sorry. I’m not real prim and proper. I didn’t realize that you were uptight,” she states offensively.
“I’m not uptight. It’s fine. Whatever you do is fine with me,” I say, flipping through the papers quickly.
“Okay, so tell me a little bit about this boyfriend of yours,” she says, cocking her head to the side, questioning me.
“There’s not much to tell. He’s perfect, actually. He’s smart, cute, fun to be around… he’s loyal… so loyal,” I explain.
“Wow, let’s get him a license and a collar, because it sounds like you just described my dog, Beaner—not a guy you’ve been dating for a while,” Vivian remarks.
“I wasn’t done. Kyle’s ambitious,… ummm… loyal—”
“I’ve heard ‘loyal’ three times now,” she quips, raising one of her brows, laughing.
“Well he is. He’d do anything for me… and… and would never hurt me,” I say, confidently. “He’s a great guy.”
“Hmmm…”
“What does that mean? ‘Hmmm?’ You don’t believe me?” I ask, self-consciously.
“Sure, I believe you. Sounds like a great guy,” she says, opening her laptop.
“Well he is,” I argue, feeling defensive.
“I’m sure. How long have you been dating him?” she asks
“It’s been just over a year now,” I explain, closing my laptop.
“A year! And that’s your response? Christ. It’s worse than I thought,” she says, shaking her head and flipping her hair back and forth.
“What do you mean? Why are you making me feel like I’m lying or something? Kyle’s great,” I say again.
