by Germaine, KF
I sagged back against the wall, muffling my laughter. If this were an alternate universe, I’d think Sydney and I would get along just fine. Both stubborn with evil tendencies. This thought, which came out of left field, made me shudder. Sydney Porter had declared war by ruining my Porsche. No mercy would be given.
Heels clicked up the hallway, and I hid in a shadowy alcove. After waiting a minute, in the event she was waiting to lunge at me with a vinyl record shard, I rounded the corner toward Ms. Douglas’s office.
My plan was to tear the folder off the wall with the stealth of a ninja, but since it took me three tugs and I ripped a piece of paint up with it, I was pretty sure the scene was much more suave in my mind.
Once in the peaceful familiarity my car—which, thanks to Sinister, now smelled like musty tacos and had stains like a toddler peed all over it—I rummaged through the envelopes until I found one clearly marked Sydney Porter in perfect writing, because that’s what Ms. Douglas (wink-wink) asked for.
Dear Ms. Douglas,
Let me start by stating my concern with the lack of security related to classified files at Northern.
What a turd.
I think it would be wise to reassess your organizational protocol, or if this is truly software-related, reassess your choice of IT contractors. Despite this breach of confidentiality, I will oblige your request with my semester schedule provided below. Please call me when you receive this so we can discuss the university’s shortcomings and my disappointment in greater detail.
Sincerely,
Sydney Porter (Junior – Communications Major)
Schedule is as follows:
M/W 10-12PM: 306 Graphic Design, Communications Building - Prof. Thomas
M/W 1-3PM: 302 Sexual Evolution, Anthropology Building - Prof. Gratis
Mental note to add that one to my second semester schedule.
T/Th 10-1PM: 304 Geology: Why it Matters (It doesn’t), Natural Science Building - Prof. Cahill
T/Sun 5-9PM: Elective (Don’t ask, don’t tell policy on this one),Communications Building - Prof. Sinister
Prof. Sinister? Don’t ask, don’t tell policy? I felt like I was in Vegas and had just hit the jackpot. That was my ticket. Today was Tuesday and it was already five. So she’d be in her mystery elective.
Crossing campus, I tried to keep a low profile, but I was stopped twice by teammates and three times by chicks wondering where I was going. I never understood why people asked that when you’re obviously in a hurry. It’s nosy. Sometimes, I want to tell them I just ate a bean burrito and had a gambler coming on (side note: gambler is a sudden urge to use the restroom for an unsavory purpose. It’s a gamble because the odds aren’t great you’re going to make it in time).
In the communications building, I stood in front of the map, scoping out the layout. Classes didn’t usually extend after five at night, so the odds of roaming the halls and finding it were probably good. Unfortunately, when it comes to the suffocating walls of campus, I have little patience, so maybe staring at it some more would help.
“Can I help you?” A sweet voice came from behind me, and I whipped around. A full-figured girl with mousy brown hair and glasses approached my side. Hey, I wasn’t going to judge. I like a little meat in my hands.
“Yes, sugar.” Suddenly, I had a southern accent. Too many Matthew McConaughey movies. I almost started with, “All right, all right, all right.” She blushed, so my confidence in my southern drawl grew. “I know there’s a class here from five to nine, but I don’t have the actual room number. Can you help me out?”
She peered up at the building layout as if she were analyzing a murder scene. Closing one eye, she dragged her finger over the glass-encased map. Next, she swung her eyes to the building’s wall-mounted clock. Then she nodded, a knowing nod, as if the killer had been in front of us the entire time.
“No classes right now,” she said, eyes scanning my body while deep in thought. “But the radio station is at the top level. It runs twenty-four hours.”
“What station?”
“Duh, the campus radio station, KRUZ 97.4.” She said it like I was the last person on earth to hear this news. “It’s a pretty good station. Right now is the Sunday Lane segment. She’s hilarious.”
“Sunday Lane?”
“Yeah. Didn’t you notice half of the girls on campus were braless on Monday? She had a convincing hour-long segment on how bras were created by sadistic men. Men from the same genetic line who pressured Chinese women to bind their feet.”
Now that she mentioned it, I did notice that. Chance did too. He’d managed to turn the air-conditioning up in the Chemistry building just so he could find out who had the best nipples. Bailey Jenkins won ‘hands down’ he’d said.
Giving her a wide smile, I wrapped my arm around her shoulders. She trembled under the weight of my bicep, and I couldn’t help but let out an evil cackle. “Thank you. Thank you so very much. You’ve just made my day, darlin’.”
Chapter Seven
Mirrors are cruel inventions, aren’t they?
When I was younger, my mother would take me shopping, and I’d try on clothes in the stall with the most flattering mirror and the least amount of light. No one should look at you under fluorescent lights. Let me repeat myself: NO ONE. But every so often, you’d find that magic mirror, like it belonged in a fun house or something. It wasn’t the one that made you look like your head was about explode. It wasn’t the one showing hips that could cross continents. It was the one that made you look perfect. Or what you thought was as perfect as you can get.
“You look awesome!” Allison squealed, standing behind me in the mirror.
Yes, I pretty much qualified as a prostitute at this point—pimping out my soul for budget tires. At least that extra hundred and fifty ensured they wouldn’t blow up in the next three weeks, but by that time, I would have my old ones back.
During my official investigation, I determined my tire thief had less than three minutes in the parking lot and acted solo—although, without question, for Evil Lord Peters.
1. Snake patrolled the parking lot every five minutes, and through a series of unintelligible Morse code grunts, he informed me my truck was in the parking lot with all four tires three and a half minutes prior to my discovery (calculation as follows: one mmph = 1 minute, one ugh = 0.5 minutes).
2. Only one person could have removed the tires. You could hula-hoop down the middle of the parking lot without triggering the motion-sensitive light. However, if you were to hula-hoop just as a cockroach scuttled across, the lights would blaze like the Superdome. Without fail, any time the light popped on, Snake poked his head out the alleyway door to survey the scene.
My conclusion: the perp was experienced, nimble-fingered, and strong enough to toss massive tires in his car like plastic Frisbees.
Enter Jack.
I’d managed to swindle Jack into a white-flag-of-surrender lunch. Boy ate Chinese like it was going out of style. But really, we needed to discuss the upcoming earth-swallowing event that was “Mom’s weekend.” Mom had been texting every thirty-six minutes, asking about it, and I wanted to be sure Jack was getting the same death threats. He was.
Earlier, Jack claimed ignorance about the tire theft. So I tricked him in a roundabout way, which he should have picked up on considering that’s how I’d conned half his Halloween candy until he was twelve. Some people never learn. But that’s when Jack dropped the F-bomb (Fernando Cruz).
“Jack,” I’d said in a low purr. “My car is having trouble. It’s rattling. At first, I thought it was the bag of Skittles I’d spilled into the dash vent last month, but it’s been worse over the last week. Do you know of any experienced, reliable mechanics in town?” Eyelashes batted.
“No,” he’d mumbled through a pile of moo shu pork.
Then a light bulb clicked over his head. Well, the restaurant owner clicked a physical light bulb over our heads, then yelled at us in Chinese. But anyways, there was a metaphoric ligh
t bulb as well.
“Hey, yeah.” He looked up with glossy, MSG-infused eyes. “Fernando’s dad is a mechanic. He knows a lot about rigs. I can ask him for you,” he replied thoughtfully as he destroyed a plate of crab rangoons.
I waved him off like it ain’t no thing. “Don’t worry, Jack. I’ll figure it out.”
Fernando Cruz was next on my hit list. This was in my Kill Bill fantasy of course, but I would never be caught dead in yellow spandex.
Back to my current situation.
Here I was, an hour before the gig from hell, in a dress. Hell hath frozen over. DJ Sinister was in a dress.
Allison chose it. It wasn’t pink or cream. After an hour of threats and fighting, she’d allowed me to wear black. It was slinky, and I knew I was going to sweat right through it. A low-cut V plunged down the front, showing off the girls, which I fought her over. Somehow she won after dulling my senses with her rancid perfume. I wanted to wear a sports bra. They’re so much more comfortable, right? But she was my pimp for the night. God (mentally on my knees), if I can just get through this night, I’ll come to church. On Christmas. Every fifteen years. For the next fifteen years. So once.
“No,” Allison said as she fervently paced the room, examining me.
It was obvious she was having an internal argument I wasn’t aware of.
“You look really good, and it shows off your piano tattoo. Like it looks really good.” She ran over to her dresser and grabbed a pearl necklace. “Here, slap this on.”
A snake of pearls hit my bare skin.
“Allison? A pearl necklace?” Pulling it off, I tossed it on her bed. “No way. That’s crossing the line. I’m the DJ, not a European debutante.”
“Oh, about that.” Her voice softened and her eyes hit the floor. “I had to change your DJ name. Some of the girls think it’s crass.”
“Crass?” I threw my arms up in the air. “Half those girls give blowjobs for a living, and they think my set-in-stone DJ call is stupid?”
“Not me,” Allison said on the verge of tears. “The chapter head did, so we just changed it up for the night. Just one night. I’m sorry.”
I shook my head, which was now fringed with soft curls. “Who’s the chapter head? Hitler?”
“No, worse.” She shuddered under her baby-pink slip dress. “It’s Katharine DeSonna.”
Sinking down on her bed, Allison ran her fingers along the pearls. “She hates me. She’s terrible to me.” She looked up at me with those pitiful blue eyes. “I’m sorry, Syd. I really am.”
I gently patted her on the shoulder. “It’s fine, Allison. I’ll do you proud.”
This is just one night, right? I can do this.
“Baby girl got this.” Baby girl? Note to self, no more Real Housewives of Atlanta marathons. “What’s my name, then?”
She wiped her eyes and smiled. “You’re DJ Lesbos.”
If I had a mouth full of acid, she’d be Two-Face from Batman. “What the hell?”
She shrugged her tiny shoulders. “It’s Greek Island themed. If it makes you feel better, I’m pledge Mykonos.”
“No, Allison,” I chastised, hands on hips to exaggerate my annoyance. “That does not make me feel better.”
Operation Do My Job and Get the Hell out of Dodge was in full effect. The Kappa Delta sorority house was a massive brick colonial with impressive landscaping and a suffocating air of snootiness. We were in their basement recreation room. As expected, tacky Greek columns plunged down from the ceilings, surrounding the room like a cage—I was a caged animal.
Fortunately, my table was in the corner, black tablecloth, and they’d sprung for decent amplifiers. After setting up my gear, I started a slow, steady beat. Just one track to invite the crowd inside. I felt like an old pervert at a middle school dance, watching the tweens roll into the room. Most of them were already drunk, so that helped.
Before I got into the groove, my phone buzzed across the table.
Unknown: Hey
Syd: Who is this?
Unknown: Oh, sorry. It’s Nick, from work.
Yes, Nick from work, I know who you are. My pulse rose just typing the next text.
Syd: Is tomorrow canceled or something?
Nick (I’d just programmed him in my phone… in gold): No, just seeing what you’re up to.
Syd: I’m in Hades right now.
Nick: Hades?
Syd: Greek hell. Literally, I’m on Greek row, doing a gig.
Nick: Oh. Hope you don’t mind I swiped your number off the employee roster.
I’d made it on the SpaceRoom employee roster? That was better than honor roll. I wanted a bumper sticker for my mom’s car: My Sinister made honor roll at the SpaceRoom.
Syd: God no. It’s fine.
I was about to give him my social security number at this point.
Nick: Are they accepting visitors?
I looked up at the snooty crew growing across the room.
Syd: Probably not. But they are accepting roadies *wink-wink*
Nick: Okay, where?
After typing out the location details, I was pretty close to being on cloud nine. No sooner had I whipped them out, when a tall brunette with a self-satisfied smile entered the room. She screamed bitch, which also meant she was Katharine DeSonna. She was disgustingly thin. A draft from a door shutting across campus could’ve blown her over. Her long, dark hair fell in loose curls down her shoulders, and her iridescent-blue eyes made my brown ones feel like pebbles of dung slapped into sockets. If there were ever a girl to make you feel like crap just by breathing the same air, it was this one.
She was followed by eleven meek girls, Allison included, with heads hung low. It pained me to see this. Allison was a sweet girl, maybe not the brightest, but she didn’t deserve to be treated like trash. I thought about the million ways I could fuck Katharine over tonight, but Allison’s pleading eyes infiltrated my brain.
Do this for Allison. That was my new mantra.
Without pause, Queen Bee Katharine sashayed up to the DJ booth and gave me a onceover. Glancing over her shoulder at Allison, she said, “I thought we’d agreed she’d be in pink.”
Allison trembled behind her like an abused animal.
“Sorry, I was in pink earlier, but I made a switch. Pink was the color my mother was buried in, and I can’t quite get over the image.” For dramatic effect, I looked down, wiping my forearm across my eyes.
“Oh,” Katharine said, knowing anything she said after this would confirm she was Satan’s spawn. “That’s… umm… that’s fine.”
She waited until I raised my head.
“Well, I know we said Jack Johnson, but we really like Taylor Swift if you could fit that in.” She crossed her arms, wearing a smirk.
I saluted. “Yes, ma’am. DJ Lesbos is on the job.”
A few snickers arose from behind her.
“Yes,” she replied, and I felt another judgmental stare, but then she turned, distracted by someone lingering in the doorway. “There you are. Girls, this is my date, Gray Peters.”
A vinyl scratched to a halt (in my mind of course), and I looked over at the ever-so-arrogant face of Gray Peters.
Chapter Eight
Katharine’s arms were wider than the Pacific Ocean when she pulled me in for a hug. I couldn’t focus on her. I was here for one reason only: ruin DJ Sinister’s night. Oh, whoops, I mean DJ Lesbos’s night (yes, I suggested that to Katharine).
Katharine was a tool—on all levels. She was a jerk, and I’d use her like a crowbar to tear Sinister apart if I could. A little known secret: I was repulsed by these gutless sorority types. The girls I slept with were usually GDIs (Goddamn Independents). I found them more refreshing and adventurous. Less need to define relationships or get pinned, whatever that meant.
After overhearing Sydney’s phone conversation, it became my mission to get to this party. So I made a few calls and got myself on the VIP list, but I forced the guys to come with me. I couldn’t sit in the corner, listening
to Katharine’s bullshit all night.
To be completely honest, I was a little pissed at Katharine. She might have changed her name for the night, but DJ wasn’t in pink. She was in a slinky black dress, and for some unknown reason, I checked the eyes of every male in the room, satisfied their gazes were on the bimbos in front of them. If anyone was going to mess with her tonight, it would be me.
Sydney’s gaze flew to me with the sharpness of a thousand knives. Nearly snarling like a rabid dog, she dumped one track over another. A husky voice billowed over a slow beat. It was highly sexual. Heavy breathing. Panting. Then a beautiful lull engulfed the crowd.
Now all eyes were on the DJ, but she was looking down. The moment Katharine turned to look at me, Sydney flipped her the bird. The line of girls behind Katharine chuckled, glancing at Sydney with brief admiration.
Adding a light piano track to the mix, she faded completely into a fast beat, taking the room into dance mode. The girls squealed, obviously recognizing a part of the song, and grabbed onto one another. In less than two seconds, she’d taken them from zombies to vibrant.
The girls surrounded the DJ booth in a semicircle, pumping their fists in the air. She looked at them with a beaming smile and picked up a pair of headphones. Covering one ear, she nodded to the beat. Then she kicked it up to nuclear. It was magic, and I hated her for it. Everyone was on the floor but me. I was stubbornly leaning against the cheap fake Greek column in the corner.
“Come on.” Katharine grabbed my arm, trying to pull me onto the dance floor. “Let’s dance.”
I shook my head. It would make Sinister’s day if I actually enjoyed her music. “Waiting for my boys.”
Katharine bobbed to the music, regarding DJ Lesbos with honest respect. “She’s good. Like really fucking good.”
“She’s all right,” I said, crossing my arms as Katharine left my side to join her friends. I would do everything within my power to stay off the dance floor.
