Devious Minds

by Germaine, KF

  “How is that my fault?” I rose up out of the tub and grabbed a towel. “With all respect, Coach, the kid needs to grow a pair. He’s not going to get far if he allows himself to be pushed around all the time.”

  “It’s your fault because you like her… or love her… I don’t know,” he growled. “I just know she gets under your skin like I’ve never seen, and you take it out on Porter.”

  Whipping the towel around me, I stepped out of the tub and laughed. “Sydney Porter is horrible. She’s the devil. I don’t love her. I want to throw her off a cliff every time someone says her name.”

  “You can’t stand her, yet you’ll interrupt her date with Sharbus to take her clubbing until 6:00 AM?” Coach snapped, standing up from the bench.

  My eyes grew as wide as Fernando’s waistband, which is enormous by the way. I was speechless. Sydney told Coach about Sharbus?

  “Yes, Peters, she told me the whole story. Didn’t paint you in the best light, but once I heard Nick’s name, I knew you’d done the right thing.”

  “That was for Jack,” I hissed, grabbing my bag from the floor.

  “If it was for Jack, then don’t punish him, Peters. Morale is important. He’s been droopy on the field this week, and if he doesn’t pick up soon, I’m coming after you.” He moved toward the pit door. “Remember, you toss to that kid. If he looks bad, you look bad.”

  As I stumbled with the grace of Frankenstein’s monster toward my front porch, I noticed Fernando sitting in the moonlight, sipping on a Frappuccino. He looked absurd. A three hundred-pound beast of a man, rocking in a wicker chair, drinking something covered in whipped cream.

  “Did what you wanted,” he said quietly, shifting his eyes from side to side. “Is it safe to talk here?” He lifted his head and perked up his ears, listening for noise.

  “Yes, idiot.”

  I’d sent Fernando to the library to do some recon on the Freudian Sluts orgy situation. My plan was to go myself, but Coach was on my ass and I couldn’t make it in time. Of course, I didn’t tell Fernando what he was actually looking for. I told him there was a secret alumni group (I called them the alumminati) who meet in the study room to discuss the football game concession food. He wasn’t interested at first, but when I told him the rocket dogs (our famous Northern bratwursts) were in danger of extinction, he started hyperventilating, and I had to rub his back as he wept.

  “Don’t worry.” Fernando winked and opened a flap of his jacket, exposing his penis. “I took care of the problem.”

  My eyes were burning. “Eww, Fernando, I don’t want to see your goddamn dick.”

  “No, Peters.” He cupped his mouth and hushed out, “I stole this.”

  “What?”

  Fernando lifted his member from the ample folds of his pants and took a bite. “It’s a rocket dog,” he said and closed his eyes as pure ecstasy washed over his face.

  “Where’d you get a rocket dog?”

  He lifted an eyebrow and took a massive sip of his girly drink.

  With a line of whipped cream over his lip, he said, “I broke into the stadium frozen storage unit. Billy, the janitor, always leaves his keys on the doorway ledge of his office. I saw him put them there once during halftime.”

  He nodded, giving me a sly smile. “So I came across fourteen boxes of frozen precooked rocket dogs. One hundred dogs in each box.” He pointed to a line of bushes adjacent to the house. “We’re set. We’ve got fourteen hundred. Don’t worry, Peters.”

  Following his finger, I saw the edges of white boxes sticking out clear as day between the shrubs.

  “Fernando, what the hell? That is not what I wanted you to do. You were supposed to go to the library.” I let out an annoyed growl and grabbed the rocket dog out of his hands. “I wanted you to report back on what you saw.”

  “I did,” he replied, pulling another rocket dog from his pocket. “There was only a note on the door and three chicks. They were freshmen, so they couldn’t have been alumni.”

  I leaned against the rail and took a bite. “Three chicks, huh? Anything else about these chicks? What were they wearing?”

  “Clothes.” He slowly nodded as if this were an interesting discovery. “One had a real nice cashmere sweater on and some black flats with gold buttons. I think my sister Carla might like a pair. The girl had wide feet, and so does my sister. Fat feet—that’s the Cruz curse.” He stopped to think. “And vestigial tails… Not me… but never mention it to Carla.”

  I drew in a breath, trying not to lose my patience with this simple fool. Maybe I should have been upfront with him and we could’ve avoided the fourteen hundred bratwursts not so cleverly hidden in the bushes.

  “You said there was a note?”

  “Yeah, a note. They were just standing there looking at it. It was taped to the study room door. So I walked up behind them and snuck a peek. It said: Attention! Psych 101 study session for Deana, Carole, and Astor has been canceled tonight. Your position, although very flexible (#yoga), has been compromised. Best regards, S.L. Please accept the attached Starbucks gift card and my sincerest apologies.”

  I slammed a fist against the porch rail as Fernando continued. “So then the girls looked pale as ghosts, ripped the note off the wall, and bought me a Frappuccino.”

  He lifted his drink and sucked the rest down in one long, disgusting slurp.

  Dammit. Sydney must be scurrying around, covering her ass. She’d probably already reached the dean by now. Spanky’s podcasts were now mysteriously missing off the station’s website. There were only three plays left: me, Jack, and the Shrieking T’s.

  Even if Sydney corrected all her wrongs, there was one thing she couldn’t fix—Jack Porter’s virginity. He was my ticket. Out Jack as a virgin and expose Sunday Lane… or get him laid and raise his morale.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Back in high school, I could leave a message written in Cantonese on a mini Post-it note in the feminine napkin disposal of the women’s restroom, and within two and half minutes, it would have been deciphered, read over the loud speaker, and a special edition of the school paper would have been distributed.

  Unfortunately, college is no different.

  “I’m so stupid!”

  I rushed inside my dorm room to find Allison lying in a fetal position on her bed. Her long hair was drenched in tears and snot. Sitting up as I entered, she yanked our shared box of tissues off our shared nightstand and snorted into one, releasing a trumpet-like sound.

  As she looked at my face, her mouth twisted into a deep scowl. “Oh God,” she sniveled out. “I can’t look at you. You look so much like him.”

  She stood from the bed and pointed a finger at the door. “Get out.”

  I had no idea why she was crying, but she looked hilarious. She was wearing Hello Kitty pajamas, her makeup was smeared all over her face, and there was half a wine cooler on her side of the nightstand. If this was Allison during a psychotic break, I could sleep with both eyes closed tonight.

  “Allison, what the hell is going on?” I peeled off my light-pink cardigan (yes, light pink. I’ll get to that in a minute). “I look like whom?”

  “Jack,” she screamed, tossing the now-empty box of tissues at my head. “You look like that womanizer, Jack Porter.”

  A huge, gaping hole formed in my chest because Allison Meyers had just sucked out every inch of my sanity. The world had flipped on its axis.

  Jack Porter is a womanizer.

  Jack Porter, who slept with a stuffed mouse he called Uncle McSqueakers. Jack Porter, who still maintained a subscription to BoysLife: Boy Scout Magazine. Jack Porter, whose side hobby was floral arranging (he’d done two weddings).

  Allison stopped her hysterics for a split second, regarding me with curiosity. “You look nice. You curled your hair. Why did you curl your hair? And are you wearing a cream-colored shirt?” She squinted at me through her one un-swollen eye.

  “That’s not important, Allison.” I came around her side, wrapped an a
rm around her waist, and sat her down on her bed. “You’re what’s important.” And I don’t want to tell you.

  “Why would you think my brother is a womanizer? You must be crazy.” I rubbed her head, and she snorted into my chest.

  Looking at me with red, mascara-streaked eyes, she bellowed out, “Because Theresa told Beth, who told Amy, who told Lisa, who told Jennifer, who told Katharine—”

  Okay, I needed a flow chart. “Told them what?”

  “Katharine said Theresa Denton, that little slut whore, is going to have sex with Jack tonight because he’s apparently soooo gooood at sex and his tongue is lengthy and smooth like buttery saltwater taffy, and his penis is so long and wide it always resides in two zip codes. Always.”

  Now, a normal sister would be horrified hearing these things about her brother. And I would definitely be reaching for the nearest garbage can to barf in if I didn’t know with one hundred percent certainty they were false. How did I know this rumor was false?

  I started it.

  Last night, I came home to my own version of a Cantonese Post-it note on my door, but in badly scrawled English. Apparently, my dream wrecker was a two-year-old lacking fine motor skills.

  Sunday Loser,

  Nice trick with the Freudian Sluts, but try to get around this one. If Jack Porter isn’t laid by one of the Shrieking T’s by the end of tomorrow, it’s game over. Your precious running back brother (Brown-eyed Virgin) will be the laughing stock of Northern.

  At first, I was impressed dream wrecker was able to fit all that on one Post-it note. It took me five minutes to read it. I had to turn my head and read along the edges and then follow a little drawn arrow to the sticky side of the note.

  “I just don’t understand,” Allison wailed into my chest. With the absence of tissues, a waterfall of tears mixed with black streaks poured over my shirt, giving it a Rorschach effect.

  “I really like Jack. It’s all Katharine’s fault,” she said, forming a fist and shaking it at the ceiling.

  “Why is it Katharine’s fault?”

  “She told me to play it cool with Jack. She said, ‘Don’t show him how much you like him. You’ll look desperate. Kappa girls aren’t desperate.’” Releasing a long moan, she slammed back on the mattress.

  “I’m just depressed. I mean, we haven’t gone on any dates, but we meet in the library on Wednesday mornings. We have the same English class so we study together, and he always brings me one chocolate kiss.”

  Flipping over, she played with the edge of her pillowcase. “And on Fridays, I see him in the cafeteria at noon. He was always sitting by himself, so now I sit with him. We’ve been meeting there for five weeks, and now he has my salad already made for me before I even get there. Two chunks of chicken and a half-tablespoon of runny, not creamy, ranch dressing. Just how I like it.”

  She smiled. “And if I’m running late and he forgets to get a fork for me from the condiment counter, he sends me a text picture of my food with a caption: Do not eat if there are alterations to this food formation.”

  If I didn’t already feel like the worst person on the planet, what she said next upgraded me to the worst mammal in the universe.

  “And he waits outside my biology lab at night even though I don’t get out until eight thirty. He said he’s doesn’t like me walking home in the dark by myself.” She let out a long sigh. “Whenever it’s raining, he’s there with an umbrella, and he always holds it over me while he gets drenched.”

  She was grinning like an idiot now. “Remember when it was so cold last week?” She glanced over at me, and I nodded. “Well, he slipped one of my hands in his pocket to keep it warm. Then he wrapped his arm around me and rubbed my other hand.” Allison’s voice faded into a low mumble. “I know it’s weird because you’re his sister, but I wanted him to be my first.”

  Earlier that morning…

  The Shrieking T’s: Tina, Tiffany, and Theresa. Horrible girls, just horrible.

  The kind of girls a boy wouldn’t take home to Mom because they’d end up fucking his dad. That being said, my threat was black and white. If it didn’t happen, not only would I be exposed and ostracized by the entire campus, but Jack would be embarrassed and never speak to me again.

  Like clockwork, I saw the Shrieking T’s at the campus café on Thursdays when I walked back from class. It was their favorite place to pretend to eat. They each bought a bottle of water and picked at a shared piece of cake. I’d never seen them lift a fork to their mouths. The cake was crushed until it was unrecognizable mash, then tossed into the trash.

  “Hey there,” I said, plopping down next to Tina in their booth. I had borrowed a pink sweater from Allison and pulled the one cream shirt I owned from the bowels of my dresser drawers. “You guys are on the cheerleading squad, right?”

  “Yes,” Tina remarked, giving me a snooty onceover. “Why?”

  “Oh, good. I was wondering if you knew firsthand if Jack Porter was dating anyone?” I propped my elbow on the table and laid my chin in my palm, flashing them a brilliant smile.

  “Who are you?” Theresa snapped, checking out the diamond tennis bracelet on my wrist (also “borrowed” from Allison).

  I looked over at the sandwich bar and pulled a name out of my ass. “I’m Sanwicha Hamm.”

  Oh shit. I didn’t even think about them asking for a name. I’d have to give myself lashings later for my lack of preparation. To be fair, I’d only received the note last night. Even evil geniuses need adequate lead-time.

  “Sanwicha Hamm?” Tiffany squinted her eyes and dropped her fork on the plate. “That’s a fucked-up name.”

  “I know, right? It’s been passed down through the family line. It’s a stipulation in my trust fund. But I go by my middle name, Paisley,” I said after spotting a girl wearing paisley pajama bottoms. Pet peeve of mine, pajamas in public. Have a little self-respect.

  “How do you know Jack?” Theresa asked, and that’s when I suspected if anyone wanted to “do” the socially inept Jack Porter, it was Theresa Denton. The girl scored a zero on the self-esteem scale, but I was betting she scored a ten on the infamous pussy scale.

  “Oh, we used to date in high school.” I let out a sad, long sigh. “I’ve just been missing him. I was with that QB on your team the other night, and I was just so disappointed. I mean, come on, right? Guy thinks he’s the king of world, but he’s got the stamina of a lit match. It’s there and then it’s not, right?”

  Tiffany and Tina shook their heads, but Theresa nodded, agreeing with my statement.

  I swallowed down the bile rising in my throat. These next words would burn a hole in my larynx, but I could tell Theresa was biting.

  “Jack was always so tender. He’d last for hours. Talk about a selfless lever.” My mouth went dry.

  “Lever?” Tiffany inquired. “What’s a lever?”

  What’s a lever? How did these people get into college?

  My traitorous mind was messing up my words. I know it’s wrong, brain, but do it for Jack. Do this for Jack.

  “Oh geez. I meant lover,” I choked out as part of my soul died. “I guess I said lever because Jack is so hard and wide that he can just like lift you up with his equipment.” At this point, I circled my open hand suggestively just outside my nether regions. “You know. Like a lever.”

  “Really?” Tina chimed in, thinking over my words as she licked the edge of her fork. “I would have never guessed. I mean, he doesn’t say much to us, just kind of walks to the opposite side of any room we’re in.”

  “I think he’s afraid his reputation will get out,” I said, picking up an extra fork and mashing along with them. “I mean, once it got out in high school, all hell broke loose, but I was always sad because I wasn’t his type, not reall—”

  “What’s his type?” Theresa interrupted, pulling my hand across the table. She was frothing at the mouth.

  “He likes blondes with a light spattering of freckles, strong eyebrow arches, a lower lip that’s bigger th
an her top lip, green eyes with a spike of gold around the edge of the pupil, and pug noses,” I said quickly, naming everything on her face.

  “That’s you, Theresa!” Tina squealed next to her. “Oh my God!”

  So after that, I told them I was going to find him tomorrow and profess Sanwicha Hamm’s undying love, and that’s when they dropped the doghouse bomb. Party at the doghouse tonight… Invite only… Jack would be there… Theresa would be there…

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “I’m rich,” Fernando announced as I walked into the living room.

  Chance had on his gamer set, rapidly pushing buttons on the Xbox remote. We both turned to look at Fernando. He was lying in his boxers across the couch, fanning himself with six crisp one hundred-dollar bills like an Arabian prince.

  “What are you talking about?” Chance spit out and flashed his eyes back to the screen where Scott Johnson had commando rolled around a shipping container with an AK-47.

  “Well, I went out to get the mail and this”—Fernando picked up a white envelope marked Micro-dick on the front—“was taped to the inside of the box.”

  I snatched the envelope from his hands and tore out the note inside.

  Didn’t know your parents were poor. I don’t steal from hardworking people, just clueless meatheads. XOXO ~Bitch.

  I didn’t know what to make of this. First, Sydney inadvertently got me released from Coach Samuel’s claws, and now she was remorseful for taking me for a ride? Did DJ Sinister really have a heart buried in that cold, black abdominal cavity? I had to feel bad about my death threat from the bus. Everyone heard me, and I knew Jack ratted on me to Sydney, but why did I care?

  Well, shit. Deep down, I knew why I cared. Coach was right. I was mildly obsessed Sydney. I enjoyed jerking her around because it meant she had to pay attention to me. Every time I saw that smug little mouth of hers, I wanted to kiss it. Every time she said something rude or annoying, I wanted to touch her until she shut up. Every time I saw her, I felt a mixture of heated rage and unbelievable desire.