by June Hydra
DOUSE
BY
JUNE HYDRA
Copyright: June Hydra 2013
First Edition: December 2013
ISBN: TBD
Cover design by June Hydra
Chapter 1
“To cheat in college is to cheat yourself,” so said I a long time ago. “Not only can you screw up the curve for everybody else, but you also fool the professor into thinking they teach well.”
When I made my first fifty bucks selling answers for an intro to Women’s Studies final, I finally understood.
"So, like, will I get an A?” It was a frat boy asking. Big muscles, short-shorts, boat shoes, gel-swept hair. Probably joined because he thought he’d nab some ass. “Well?” he said.
Hold up! I know what you're saying to yourself, that supporting the brainless who do nothing but party is only perpetuating the evils of cheating. Don't do it. Don't do it, girl!
"How much are you willing to pay?"
"Fifty straight."
I whipped my neck around despite us sitting alone in an empty lecture hall. I was so naïve freshman year even talking about cheating gelatinized my legs. Anyone could catch us. Though maybe I was more embarrassed being caught with him.
"Okay," I said.
"What?"
"Okay," I said through pursed lips. "Here's my number."
Cheating in college is kinda like drugs. People are going to smoke Mary Jane whether you like it or not, scrounge for cocaine, cook meth. People are going to have sex and fill their brains with bonding chemicals whether you like it or not. And they'll do it married, unmarried, with multiple others, under God’s watch.
Worse people will label one another good guys and bad guys when perspective multiplies the grey possibilities—there are endless shades of grey, in other words, not just fifty. Is stealing when you're super impoverished wrong? What about the woman or man starving and failing to feed his or her kid in a place like North Korea? Or in China? Or in the streets of New York City? How should everybody feel about fulltime BDSM relationships?
Taming our humanity hasn’t ever been done before. Humanity is a drug upon itself.
So why not be the good distributor? The safe distributor? I am that woman or girl, depending how you see twenty one year-old college graduates.
Perspective.
My answers are always eighty to ninety five percent correct. This is to ensure no perfect scores—that's too much of a giveaway, both in terms of suspicion and effort. You don't want the professor to become aware that kids are all suddenly hardworking geniuses making A’s; and I definitely don't want my services to be lowballed.
So I stratify my prices. A B is one-fifty. An A is two-fifty. If I'm contracted for weeks or for a project, then we're talking much higher sums.
Last month, I made one-thousand off some rich kids. Biology papers. Five of them. Embryos, DNA, birth, yeah.
One thousand. When you’re fresh out of school, slumming around for work, one thousand means no noodles but an upgrade to beans and rice.
"You're going to get caught," [Piranha], my best girl friend loves to say. It’s her version of “I’m worried for you.”
"Have we been caught? Arrested? If I’m not worrying about myself, then you don’t have to for me."
"No, but—"
"Innocent until proven guilty. Besides, I don't know of any cheating."
Today is the beginning of a new semester at [XYZ University]. You don't need to know exact names or exactly where, just know it happens everywhere.
People like me are everywhere.
The clouds, grey, hang like over stuffed pastries swimming in a tub of dark blue ink. Streetlamps lord over empty pavements. Prey run loose, ready for capture.
I walk into Barnes & Noble. Think of yours. Brownstone exterior, green swirly writing, glass swing doors. Elevator music trumpeting on speakers. You shrink your head between the clamp of headphones to avoid chatter coming from the connected Starbucks, where friends hustle each other for the latest gossip.
“[Violet]?” my friend, [Caddy], calls from the crowded entryway. “Violet [Walker]?”
I wave him closer, whispering. “There you are. You should’ve come outside with me.”
I’ve known Caddy five years now. Tallish, with tan skin and a lightning bolt for a smile, on account of the slightly paralyzed left side of his face—blackish eyes and draped in hoodies all the time. He got the nickname from hanging around preppy kids’ golf courses during freshman year. He was never good at either golf or socializing though. He’d miss all his shots they made him their personal caddy boy by the year’s end, and only then did he terminate his “relationship” with the preps. He reclaimed Caddy though.
“Someone had major diarrhea on the seats, and I had to go.”
“That’s more than I need to know about the men’s room.”
“Please. I know you girls love to hover.”
“I definitely don’t. That’s contributing to the problem.”
“You know another ‘problem’?” Caddy beats a fist into an open palm. “We’re going to make lots. [Educate Inc.]’s got more work.”
I’ve grown used to filtering out real names. Paranoia is a devil’s mistress. That used to be my collegiate name. Devil according to professors and God according to students. Now I’m Violet Walker, able to walk from the ultraviolet to visible spectrum, dropping the goods every college kid needs to pass.
We find a place at Starbucks and do our hustling. Caddy has five other kids who need answers for the upcoming biology midterm. It’s up to our company to “educate” them. See, professors get quite lazy, and a lot of them don’t even change their answers from semester to semester, let alone year to year. In auditoriums filled with hundreds, it’s simply impossible to grade everyone and not die of work overload. A professor could hire five TAs, drain the school’s money and still not have enough bodies to sift through the intro crap.
Moreover, students are even lazier. Who’s going to keep their last semester answers? Or remember how their Economics 101 class was? Maybe for a good friend, one or two, and that’s it. The masses don’t bother though.
“You have the latest info, right?”
“Yeah,” I say, “just tell me.”
He hands over a folder containing names, email addresses, phone numbers. Everyone’s in code, incognito on paper. We play our game safe.
“It all looks good.” Caddy taps my wrist. “We’ll make a killing on the frosh kids struggling with their English papers. And the internationals. I’ve got three Angolan girls who need help. They only speak Portuguese in Angola, you know that?”
I shake my head. Caddy has all this extraneous info. He’s good that way.
“Then there are the Chinese kids. None of them are from Hong Kong. Mostly Taiwan and the mainland.”
“Does it matter?”
Caddy stares.
“Well, mister International Relations major sir, general, pray tell, why does it matter that they’re from Hong Kong or not?”
“Because they speak English there, duh.” Caddy screws up his face, tilting his head. “You should brush up on your maps and shit.”
“I’ll Wikipedia it. Keep going.”
“Okay, and I know this one guy from Argentina. His English is passable, but he’ll need help.”
They all will. They’re on daddy’s dole, the internationals. Even if they can’t speak English some of them somehow manage to relocate halfway across the globe and insert themselves into English speaking institutions.
“By the way,” Caddy says, “the website could use an update again. Really, the front page needs a new design. The one we’ve had is too r
etro looking.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll find a guy who knows a guy. Or, you know, I’ll just do it myself, if you’re patient. Anyone else?”
“There’s a bunch more. A Japanese kid, this one Mexican girl. Those are just the ones I’m working on. They keep coming and coming.” He props his hands underneath his chin. “Yeah. Hey, lookie there.”
Standing across the Starbucks is a man I nicknamed [Bishop] thanks to his religious studies major and Christian affiliation. You know so much personal info when you’re around Caddy.
“He’s so cute,” Caddy says.
“You think that about everyone with a dick. Really. And they’re ninety percent of the time dicks. Really.”
Caddy raps the table. “He’s going away, look at that, he’s getting away. Seriously,” he says after Bishop leaves, “you should get with him already. I swear you two would be perfect.”
“How?”
Bishop’s a goody-two-shoes from what I’ve heard. Goldilocks hair, sings in a choir, cured AIDS when he was fifteen, saved starving Latvian kids at eighteen. That type. The type to wine and dine you out on the first night and then ask for your hand in marriage the next day. Ultra-passionate, uber smart, impossibly clingy guy.
“I can just imagine him being suffocating.”
“Nobody’s dossier matches yours like his.”
“You have a dossier on me? What for?”
“Pay attention, that’s not important little girl.”
I throw a napkin at Caddy’s face. His lips flap and he spits but capitulates.
“Information is king. Besides, I have one for myself too. I want a sweet guy in my life. Hell, if Bishop was gay, or even bi, I’d soak up his heavenly rays of light any day.”
“Please don’t ever speak like that. Just no.”
Caddy nudges his chin over the Starbucks railing. “There he is again.”
Bishop swings down the steps to the help desk. He grills a clerk, then doubles back up the steps, heading towards the fantasy section.
I will admit Bishop’s aura is magnetizing. The swagger in his walk defines him as a man carrying loads of muscle. He has to sway his hips just so to counteract his barrel-chest. And the broad shoulders—I bet he wakes up early, say, six A.M. to catch a workout or yoga class. Possibly he speaks various languages. Plus his thick hair stays perfectly frozen with mousse, not overdone so it looks greasy, but enough to signal his attention to details. He cares for his hair, his body. He’s a good boy…
“Whatever,” I say. “It’s kind of creepy for someone who’s graduated to be stalking someone who’s still in school.”
“He’s graduated too. This past summer.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Early also.”
So he’s smart too, not a slacker kid. “He’s so unapproachable though.”
Plus, why would a guy like him even like me? We come from different worlds with different perspectives. I’m not even religious nor am exactly in a business considered moral.
“Nope. You’re just scared.”
“I’m not scared of anything, ever.”
“Then I bet you fifty bucks to go up that guy and ask him out.”
“We’re not in middle school, Caddy, bets like that don’t hold.”
“I’ll give you the Chinese kids’ money if you go and ask him.”
I twist out of my seat. “Be right back,” I say, smirking.
Caddy is right. I’m scared of rejection. But his money can go to my Roth IRA or something. Money is tight, young, old or not rich.
Bishop hides among the teen lit stuff. Up close, his muscles become more evident. They strain, pushing the seams of his t-shirt up against his traps. A distinct crease along the front of his shirt just out, marking exactly where his chest is. His jeans hug his ass, highlighting his meaty hamstrings.
He is a blessed specimen.
I keep my hands wandering the bookshelf, pretending to scan for a title. Vampires, werewolves, vampires and werewolves, novels about breaking up, novels about getting back together, stories where the woman has no spine and basically bends over to serve billionaires, stories where the woman basically has no brain whatsoever and might as well be brain dead. Damsels in distress, what the market wants. Naked women contorted in impossible sexy sword-holding poses. And Caddy wonders why I don’t like reading: there are never any nuanced heroines I identify with.
Not that I’m special, it’s just, society doesn’t want to read about girls with a little bad in them. Else you be a slut, whore, bitch, cunt, etcetera.
My hand lands a glancing blow against Bishop’s arm. “Oh, sorry,” I say. He smiles at me, and an insatiable lust overcomes every mental faculty I posses.
Good Lordy, straight white teeth, clear skin, trimmed but substantial eyebrows. He speaks. “No problem.”
“I just noticed you were…buying books.”
Bishop’s smile widens and I heat up. “Yeah. That’s what Barnes & Nobles is for.”
“I just wanted to say hi.” I swallow a ball of thick saliva. Be bold. Men rarely get asked out, and it’s the future, girl. Anybody can ask anybody out now. This is what women fought for. “I just wanted to say hi and say that you’re cute.”
I put out a hand. He shakes, smile stretched to its farthest points.
“Really? That’s not something I get often.”
“Oh, stop. You must.”
“No, really, I don’t. But thank you. What’s your name?”
I glance over at Caddy occasional while we wax poetic about the basics. Oh, he was a religious studies major. Oh, he is Christian, and sings as front man in his choir’s band. Oh, wow, and he has a convertible and moved out already.
“What do you do?” he asks.
“I’m self-employed now. I did business in college, actually.”
Bishop leans closer. “You own your own?”
“Sort of. More or less.”
“What side of town are you on?”
“Northwest. I live with some roommates. One’s over there.” I swat a hand in Caddy’s direction. “I’m going to be straight up, because I like honestly and directness. You’re really cute to me. Would you like to go snag dinner or do a movie together?”
Do a movie. I imagined having sex and watching a movie simultaneously and came up with “do a movie”.
Bishop’s laugh explodes from his mouth, full of sonic power and reminding me of an accordion, long and winding, with colorful notes. I match his laugh with my own short chuckles.
“You’re brave. Seriously. These days girls still wait on guys to make the first move. On everything it seems.” He plucks his phone from a front pocket and shows a calendar. He rolls to the current day and month. “I’m free on these days,” he says, indicating Wednesday, Saturday, or Sunday.
I pick Wednesday. If we wait too long, the interest might fade. And I’m no scared girl.
“Tomorrow, then. It’ll be after seven, if that’s okay with you.”
“You have work?”
“Long day. From eight A.M till six.”
“That sucks.” Caddy’s waving me over. He wants to leave, and since we came in his car, we have to. “I’ll text you later, but I really have to go. Is that—”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m not a slave driver and you’re not servant. Don’t worry, we’re busy people.” As I turn to leave, Bishop catches my arm. He winks. “Don’t bail though. It sucks when that happens too.”
I pat his shoulder. “Have faith,” I say.
“So?” Caddy says at the swinging glass doors. “So? What happened?”
“Something good.”
“And?”
“And you owe me Chinese money.”
“He’s fine, isn’t he?”
“Not bad.”
“Give him some credit. I know he got your panties wet.”
I smack Caddy’s neck, but he’s right, so I go easy on him. “We barely have anything in common though.”
“First, you spent nearly an hour t
alking to him.”
“Did not.”
“Look at the time.”
Caddy’s right again.
“Besides,” he says, “science says it’s not about what’s in common, but how far your are. Proximity is important in relationships too.” He fetches his keys from his shirt, and our grand station wagon beeps unlocked. “Did you know he’s rich, too?”
“No,” I say, clicking on my seatbelt. “That’s not what normal people talk about when they first meet each other.”
“Well he is, just know that.”
“I don’t need money.”
“That sounds super familiar. Like when we graduated familiar.”
“I don’t need another man’s—boyfriend’s—money because I can make my own.”
Caddy turns into the lot, and we swerve out. Overpasses careen midair, crisscrossing the cityscape. I dial on some dad rock to keep peace with Caddy’s more eclectic tastes.
“He likes the Beatles too, so you’ll get used to them soon.”
“It’s really weird how you know everything about everyone. You should’ve gone to the CIA instead.”
“I did apply,” Caddy says, turning the wheel rightward. “But see, I know how much they pay, and for that lifestyle, it’s nothing at all to talk about.”
In addition to Caddy, I share the apartment with Piranha. She’s plastered Americana everywhere. Upon entry, you’ll get a have Uncle Sam glaring at you as you pass through the foyer. Then there’s the flags. There are flags pinned in the living room. Upholstered on the couches. Our cutlery is all American. She sourced them domestically, from start to finish those damned knives and spoons and forks are all-fucking-American. She’s good for businesses but horrible at personal finance, considering how expensive those pots were—a month’s worth of rich kids paying you for biology homework.
Her major: American History. This is after studying American Literature. She found out in “regular” literature, you had to study material from Britain too.
“You guys are finally home,” Piranha says, shoving a hot tray of muffins at our throats. Caddy and I have to finagle the tray onto the table where it can cool down, and it’s not but a nanosecond before she’s peeling off our shoes for us. “It’s getting cooler. You two should switch to socks.”
