by P. Dangelico
Blake hands me one of the drinks while Zoe’s gaze tracks mine right back to––
“Who are you staring at with that dopey look on yourrrrnooo. No!” she whisper-hisses. “Tell me you are not looking at Van Zant.”
I glance up to find Zoe’s picture-perfect face set in a grim expression, her glossy lips pressed together tightly.
The best way to describe Zoe is part motivational coach, part fashion consultant, part sociopath. Only the good kind, though. She’s the one always leading the charge in everyone’s defense. Maybe a little too aggressively at times, but for all her bluster and blunt talk, she’s generous to a fault and as loyal as the day is long.
Blake Allyn is the quiet one. The voice of reason. An introvert who goes out of her way to avoid attention. Thing is, with her movie star face, dark brown skin, and long thick braids, she’s too beautiful to go unnoticed.
Alice Bailey is the fourth member of our little group, the one absent at the moment. A recent transfer student, she’s a film buff and a scholarship kid like me. She’s also pretty much the most down-to-earth person I’ve ever met.
“I-I’m not. I’m looking at the v-view.”
Santa Monica Bay sparkles in the horizon. A small white lie for the greater good. I’m obviously not doing a good job selling it because Zoe’s expression calls me on my BS.
“You better be because––ewww, Ramos. Look at him––” The three of us glance over to find Dallas laughing it up with his buddies. “He’s a gorgeous, useless idiot.”
“He’s n-not t-that bad,” I mutter, taking a sip of my drink to hide the indisputable flush of my cheeks.
When all I get in response is whole lot of silence, I steal a glance and find that my knee-jerk reaction has earned me more unwanted scrutiny. Even Blake is eyeballing me strangely now.
“He’s sub-human, Dora. Liking him would require a level of self-loathing that seriously concerns me.”
The two of them move to sit on the bench, one on each side of me.
“You can’t fuck him,” Zoe continues with no sign of stopping. “He’s probably got like––a bunch of STDs.”
Ouch. My ears hurt. “C-can you please not u-use that word. It-t’s so crude.” At this point, there’s so much heat coming off my face I wouldn’t be surprise to see it smoking.
“I’m a fan of the first amendment, Queen Mum, but I’ll be sure to edit my fucks next time we have high tea.”
“Look at you lawyering,” Blake remarks.
“Yale Law, yo. Here I come.”
“Easy there, Atticus Finch, you haven’t gotten in yet.”
While they go back and forth, the instinct to defend Dallas gathers strength. I don’t know why it bothers me that people assume he’s dumb and “useless” because he’s far from it. Somehow we wound up in the same English Lit. class and his comments and answers are always insightful. He’s definitely doing the required reading and work…I don’t know. I guess I don’t like to be judged on my appearance so why doesn’t he deserve the same benefit of the doubt.
“You c-can’t judge people based on as-s-sumptions.”
“Yeah, Zo,” Blake chimes in. “Don’t we personally know the dangers of dragging people based on false assumptions?”
Zoe rolls her eyes. “You two bore me.”
Out of habit, I tug my phone halfway out of my backpack to check my emails. The small kernel of hope residing somewhere in my childhood dreams refuses to die.
I’ve sent Katherine Hamilton, the woman who gave birth to me, two more emails since that first one. I scroll down and that’s when I see it…a response.
The blood rushing in my ears drowns out everything else. With my heart punching my breast bone and my hand shaking, I click on it. Five words.
Please don’t contact me again.
Chapter Three
Dallas
The redhead seated in the second row is looking at me again. She’s cute as fuck too. Perfect rack. Nice lips. Fantastic ass. Not all dudes like a nice round ass and to that I say their loss is my gain. Go ahead and send them my way, guys. The only strike against her is that she seems to think I haven’t noticed her little game.
She glances over her shoulder again. That’s three times since class started twenty minutes ago. To her credit, this time she’s more subtle. Last time she tried to conceal it by scratching her chin on her shoulder.
This classroom has stadium seating and plenty of empty seats. I’ve got a perfectly unobstructed view of the second row where she sits every single time. She’s definitely not a fan of variety like I am.
It’s kind of adorable that she thinks she’s being sly, but c’mon man, I pulled the same maneuver in the eighth grade to get an eyeful of Tammy Kellog’s nonexistent A cup that had suddenly––and without warning––exploded into a full C cup over the summer. I’ve got a PhD in that move.
No one’s faulting her for wanting to get a good look at me. Let’s face it, looks like mine are meant to be admired. It’s her assumption that I don’t notice what she’s up to that chafes my balls.
There she goes again. Her head turns, her eyes lift. Nice eyes, by the way; tilted up at the corners. Except this time I don’t let her off easy. Nah, I stare back, pucker up, and send her a kiss. She blinks, her eyes get as big as fists, then her head whips back around to face forward.
Which, of course, makes me chuckle. I’ll take all the amusement I can get these days.
“Who are you air kissing?” the girl seated to my right asks, her tone managing to sound both hurt and possessive at the same time, neither of which she has any right to.
Kelly. Speedo chaser. Hot but on the dangerous side of a stage four clinger. We hooked up once and that’s all it took for me to figure out I never want to do it again. To some chicks we are all interchangeable. Not my crew. We have a hard and fast rule that none of us share. Unless, you know, extenuating circumstances like true love.
Ignoring Kelly, my attention drifts back to the redhead. Speaking of perfection. Want tangible proof that God’s a dude? Look no further than this girl because those curves were meant for a man to hug.
“Mr. Van Zant––” Professor Larsen calls out.
My head jerks in his direction in time to witness a slow smile grow on his bearded face. Larsen is a smug motherfucker. Young. With a head full of real hair, a hipster beard, and an attitude that comes from getting a lot of tail. Competes in decathlons and whatnot. I only know this because the chicks in this class gush about it out loud.
He crosses his arms, puffs up his chest. “You seem distracted.”
Self-righteous bastard. I know he doesn’t like me. Probably thinks I’m just another rich, good-looking asshole, and he’s completely right about that, but I’m not stupid and he needs to be disabused of that notion. Can I help it that I’m smoking hot? No. Can he help it that he’s a judgmental prick? Yes.
“Not at all.”
“Care to share with the rest of the class your thoughts on what Lewis was getting at in The Monk?”
He thinks he’s putting me on the spot. Sit tight, bro, I got this one. I initially took this class for giggles but I’m really feeling it now. “Thematically?”
His brow twitches in surprise. “It’s a start.”
The chick sitting on my left––Hailey, I think her name is––pats my thigh. For what, reassurance? I shoot her a glare. Babe, you got a C– on your last paper. You’re the last person who should be doing any reassuring.
Sitting up straighter, I push her hand off. “It’s a tale of morality. Ambrosio’s a pretty dark, twisted dude and definitely got what he deserved in the end.”
Chuckles sweep through the classroom.
“And why is that?” Larsen asks. By his tone, I can tell his curiosity is piqued.
Feeling my oats now, I sit back with my arms on the armrests, legs spread apart. “He raped and murdered. I can’t throw shade at the guy for lusting, though––even if he was a priest.”
“You don’t consider lust
“Hell no. Lust is healthy. It makes babies and shit. Besides, if it was a sin, the devil would’ve come for me a long time ago.”
Everyone laughs. Larsen stops trying to resist a smile and nods. “Interesting analysis, Mr. Van Zant. Keep up the good work, but let’s watch the language next time.” I return a nod and Larsen stalks to the opposite end of the room in search of a new victim.
My attention naturally shifts to the right, as if pulled by a supernatural force. The redhead stares back at me. She’s no longer pretending there’s a piece of lint that needs examining on her shoulder. Her cat-like eyes squarely meet mine and something weird passes between us.
I know we haven’t fucked. I have one rule and one rule only: never have sex high or drunk. In large part thanks to my grandfather and his countless lectures on using rubbers, girls being after my money, and the importance of getting signed consent whenever possible––I wish I was kidding.
Kitten.
The word pops up out of nowhere. I re-examine. The stubborn chin, the freckles covering her nose and cheeks…those lips. Jesus Christ, those lips. Juicy and plump with a natural reddish color. Fuck me, those lips look familiar. How do I know this girl?
Class lets out. While everyone stands and files out of my row, I remain in my seat and watch Kitten gather her things.
“You wanna get something to eat, Dallie?” the blonde on my left says. I glance up to find her standing over me with her hip cocked and a phony smile on her face. Her shoulders roll back, her chest comes out.
I hate it when chicks do that. Don’t overstep. You don’t know me. You’re not entitled to a pet name.
“Nope. See you around, Hannah.”
“Hailey.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said.”
She waits a beat, glares at me, then walks away in a huff. At least she got the hint on the first try. Most don’t.
When the redhead makes it from the aisle to the stairs, I shoot out of my seat. A relentless urge to get to the bottom of this strange feeling has me hunting after her. “Heyyy…”
She looks around but doesn’t look back at me.
“Hey, Bailey’s friend––” I think I may have seen her with Bailey at some point. Bailey being Alice Bailey, Rea’s girlfriend-non-girlfriend. My boy’s got issues.
She turns and when her eyes meet mine she flushes cherry red to the roots of her hair.
Jackpot. I knew she looked familiar. I smile big. “Bailey’s friend, right?”
The chick bolts. And I mean bolts. Like Road Runner style. Stumbles down the steps, knocking into people on her way out the door. I’d be laughing my ass off if I wasn’t so damn confused.
I’m slowly making my way down the steps when a small object resting on the carpet catches my eye. An iPhone. I pick it up, inspect it.
No lock code.
Dora
“I-I need your help,” I nervously announce as I burst into the communal living area in my dorm suite.
Last Monday night’s Halloween debacle was a game changer. It was one thing not knowing what I was missing out on, but now that I do know I can’t stop thinking about it. Which has led to a lot of self-reflection––and staring vacantly off in space trying to determine what to do about it.
I’m not happy. I’m just…not. That isn’t to say that I would rewrite the past. I wouldn’t. Ever since I can remember I’ve wanted to be a vet and Cornell University Veterinary School accepts only the best.
I just…I need something more now. No matter what I do the restless feeling that I’m missing out won’t go away. Thus, true to form, I made a list of the things I want to accomplish this year. New school year, new me. And on that list is a real life boyfriend.
I’m not deluding myself that Dallas is going to magically wake up and recognize me as the bun to his hotdog, the this to his that. He’s a beautiful distraction. Nothing more. A way to escape the very real fact that I’ve been stuck in limbo for years. Limbo, in large part, of my own making.
Not to mention, yesterday. Dear gosh, I don’t know what came over me yesterday. First, he caught me staring at him and blows me a kiss, clearly trolling me. Then, I ran out of class like I owed him money. That pretty much sealed it. I will not be having Dallas Van Zant’s babies so it’s high time that I replace my fantasy crush with a real one.
Seated on the designer couch Zoe’s decorator picked out––yes, her decorator––Zoe puts down her Kindle while Blake stops typing on her iPad. Just to give you a visual, when I moved into this dorm it looked like a prison cell. Now it looks like a suite at the Standard Hotel complete with an oversized flat screen TV, a designer rug, and art on the walls.
“About damn time,” Zoe shoots back with a knowing smirk.
When I don’t continue, Zoe’s head tilts, her platinum blonde ponytail falls to the side, and her perfectly groomed eyebrows hike up her tan forehead as if to say well? My gaze nervously shuttles to Blake who bites back a smile knowing I’ve just made a deal with the devil. Is this plan strife with danger? No doubt, but I’ve made up my mind. I cannot continue on like this. Hiding. Fearing rejection at every turn. That’s not living––it’s existing. And it’s not enough anymore. I’m tired of waiting for life to happen to me.
Screwing up every bit of courage I have, (which, for record, is not a lot) I force the words out of my mouth.
“I w-want a boyfriend.” My overloaded backpack falls to the floor with a thunk.
“Don’t we all, sister,” Blake mutters drily.
“I-I mean I really want to try. H-how do I get one?”
The two of them share a look I can’t decipher and this isn’t the first time. They’ve been best friends since junior high, having grown up in Beverly Hills a block from each other, so it doesn’t surprise me.
From what I’ve been able to piece together, they’re living on campus because Zoe got in megatrouble with her mom when she threw a party at her mom’s condo, which they were both living in at the time. Apparently, someone stole an expensive painting.
“Haven’t you ever had one?” Blake adds, her face wavering between disbelief and polite neutrality.
A boyfriend? Mmmno. Not even close. I’ve shared a couple of sloppy kisses in high school with a boy named Ted Turner who was visiting his grandparents––our next door neighbors––for the summer. Not the famous one who created CNN. Just a regular Ted Turner. There might’ve even been some clumsy over-the-clothes groping involved. But that’s the extent of my sexual life or lack thereof.
“D-define b-boyfriend.”
“We’ll take that as a no,” Zoe answers for both of them.
I failed to mention Zoe’s spooky sixth sense about people. She sussed out my sexual inexperience within a few weeks of meeting me and I hadn’t said more than two words to her yet. You don’t want to be caught in her crosshairs telling a lie.
Zoe’s large hazel eyes scan my clothes and her refined features twist like someone just dropped a stinker. “We start with your clothes obviously––”
I’m just going to put it out there––I am not a fashion person. Khakis, button-down shirts, and polos make up most of my wardrobe because they help me blend in. They don’t draw any unwanted attention, and I’m comfortable. In my book, that’s called a win win. Besides, I have better ways of spending the money I earn from my afterschool jobs. Like donating it to the animal shelters I volunteer at.
“At some point we need to discuss blowjobs––” she continues. “But it’s too long a conversation to have now. We’re gonna have to block out an entire afternoon for that––”
“At least,” Blake chimes in.
“At least,” Zoe echoes. “In the meantime, hear this…do not, under any circumstance, close your eyes around an aroused penis––like ever. It’s stupid,” she marks off with a thumb, “it’s dangerous,” she flips up her index finger. “There’s a very good chance you’ll catch a dick in the eye, and trust me, you will not like the consequences.”
“That was a nasty case of pink eye you got,” Blake commiserates.
“It really was,” Zoe muses.
Chapter Four
Dora
New Study Finds That An Alarming Number of Cases of Pink Eye Are Linked to Blowjobs. #eyeswideopen
I stifle a burst of laughter as the Twitter headline flashes in my mind’s eye. My attention returns to the closet I’m blindly staring into. Then I remember that hidden among the mess in the corner is the Cat Woman costume, and thoughts of Dallas immediately replace fears of getting poked in the eye by an aroused penis.
“Dora––” Zoe says, tone annoyed. A clear indication that it’s not the first time she’s called my name. “Earth to Red. Come in, Red.”
I glance up to meet her narrowed hazel eyes. And when I say up I mean way up; Zoe’s head practically grazes the ceiling of my cramped dorm room. She’s five ten to my five three. In addition, she’s wearing platform espadrilles which puts her somewhere between here and the moon.
“Where’s Blake?” I ask, glancing around.
“Inspiration struck.” Tilting her head, she strokes her platinum ponytail. “Have you heard a word I’ve said?” I let my silence speak for me as it often does. “For a minute there, you looked like you were mooning over some dude.”
“I like your s-shoes,” I go with. Anything to distract her from sniffing out that I actually was mooning over a guy. And not just any guy.
“Sophia Webster. Feel free to borrow them any time you want. In fact, you’d be doing me a favor. Anything to spare my gag reflex from seeing you in those heinous penny loafers again. I swear I get depressed just thinking about them.”
She picks up two pieces of clothing off my bed. Gingerly. As if they’re infected with Ebola. Her slender diamond-covered fingers dangle my favorite white button down shirt in one hand and my tan khakis in the other.
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