Filthy Royal

by Roxeanne Rolling

  From the top of the statue, I just laugh. Dave’s attempts at getting girls rarely fail to make me chuckle. I’d like to say he means well, but that isn’t true either. He just wants a fuck.

  “What the hell are you laughing at, Anchor? You think it’s funny that I invited her back to our place?”

  Dave tends to get angry really quickly. I don’t think he’s very secure about his ability with girls, and anyone questioning his ability is likely to wind up fighting him. Since we’re real bros, we don’t fight much. But there’s been a time or two when I’ve had to knock him the fuck out. What can I say?

  “Just keep doing your thing, man,” I say.

  “I’m headed home,” says the girl. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, please leave me alone.”

  “Leave you alone? What? You’re too good for me, or something? Look, just because you got all those books and all I got is swim briefs and an empty beer…well…”

  “Well, what?” says the girl. “You’re not making any sense. Let me go.”

  But Dave’s still standing in front of her, blocking her path. She tries to step around him again, but he steps in front of her again. He’s being a real dick. And it pisses me off. He did his thing. He said his line. He tried his best, and it wasn’t good enough. It’s time for him to move on and let her go.

  “Just let her go home, man. She’s tired, and you’re being kind of a dick.”

  “What’d you call me?” says Dave, growing even angrier.

  “I called you a dick,” I say, loud and clear. “Because that’s what you’re being.” I turn my head toward the girl, taking another drink from my beer as I do so. I’m pretty buzzed, but I still have my wits about me, unlike Dave, apparently. He never could hold his booze well. “Sorry about this,” I say. “He’s a nice guy at heart, but he can be like this when he’s drunk. He can’t hold his alcohol well.”

  The girl doesn’t say anything. But she gives me some kind of special look… I don’t know exactly what it means. She’s not saying, “Come, fuck me now. You’re the man for me.” She’s certainly not saying that. I don’t think she’s looking at me with the same disgust that she’s looking at Dave with, either, though.

  “Come down from there, you asshole,” says Dave, putting up his fists, and throwing down his empty beer can, crushing it beneath his foot.

  I jump down from the top of the statue in a single swift motion, landing agilely on my feet. Despite being buzzed, my muscles feel light, limber, and strong. “You want to go?” I say.

  “I’m going to get out of here,” says the girl, giving me one last look.

  “Fine,” says Dave, to her, in a nasty tone.

  “Don’t talk to her like that,” I say. I don’t even know her. I don’t quite know why I’m defending her so much.

  “Don’t act like you’re any better than he is,” says the girl, turning to me, her expression turning nasty. “You’re just another jock like he is. I don’t have much patience for types like you. You’re what, going to fight him, to try to impress me?”

  She gives me the nastiest look imaginable, far worse than the one she gave Dave. Then she disappears, marching off, not giving us another look.

  Dave’s still mad though, practically frothing at the mouth. “Dude, you totally screwed me there. I had that.”

  “You weren’t even close, bro. She hates you almost as much as she hates me.”

  “Why do you always have to cock block me like that? Just because you’re the captain, you think you should have all the girls? Just cause you’re the fastest, and you’re headed to the Olympics?”

  I can’t help it. It sounds too much like a compliment, and I smile, despite myself. “I’m not yet on the team,” I say, but I know it doesn’t sound the least bit modest. “Yet” really changes the meaning of the sentence. But, after all, I am pretty sure I’m going to make the team. That might even be an understatement.

  “I’m going to knock that shit-eating grin off your face,” says Dave, rushing at me, his right arm swinging.

  I step aside nimbly, dodging Dave’s punch with ease.

  He goes tumbling past me. I can’t help it, and I stick out my foot, tripping him.

  He falls flat on his face.

  Shit, is he knocked out?

  We have a meet coming up, and coach is going to kill me if Dave’s too hurt to race.

  “Dave!” I say, bending down and shaking him.

  “Ghurgly burb,” says Dave, groggily, not making any sense, as I pull on his body, getting him so that he’s lying on his back, rather than face down.

  “Wake up, asshole,” I say, shaking Dave, and giving him a little slap on the face. “We’ve got a meet coming up. You can’t be passed out on the fucking quad.”

  “Asshole,” says Dave, finally opening his eyes fully. “You knocked me out again, Anchor?”

  I shake my head, holding back a smile. “You came at me, and you tripped over your beer can. I didn’t move a muscle, honest to God.”

  “You swear you didn’t touch me?” says Dave, giving me a quizzical look, like he doesn’t believe me.

  “Swear to God,” I say, helping him to his feet.

  He shakes his head like a wet dog. He looks pretty bad, but I’m hoping that in the morning he’s not going to have any visible bruises that coach will be able to see.

  “You look great,” I say, looking right into his blood-shot eyes, and his drunk-ass blotchy face. “What do you say we polish off a couple more beers, and finally get to work on this statue?”

  “You still want to steal the statue?” says Dave. He looks…submissive. That’s the only way I can explain it. I know he’s tired and hurting. Figuring out how to somehow cut down and haul away a massive stone statue is the last thing he wants to do. Who the hell knows how much this statue weighs? But he’ll do it for me.

  I nod.

  “All right,” says Dave, shaking himself a little, trying to sober up. “Let’s do it. Let’s fucking do it!”

  2

  Allison

  “You’re the best reporter we’ve ever had, Allison,” says Professor Beaumont. “Not to mention the most competent editor-in-chief ever. In all my years, I’ve never seen anyone else like you. Your articles are already more sophisticated than the vast majority of the stuff that comes out of the regular mainstream press. Plus, almost ten of your articles have been picked up by the larger newspapers. That’s almost unheard of for a student writer.”

  I smile, trying to look modest, but Beaumont knows me too well.

  “Now I know you’re hoping to go work for The Journal when you’re done here.”

  “I think The Journal would be good. I really want to be an investigative reporter. You know, being out there in the field and everything. I want to be in the thick of it. I really want to be exposing corruption… You know, serious stuff. There’s not much of a chance to do it here on the campus paper.”

  “Well, you’ve done a great job. I mean, you exposed the use of old food products in the cafeteria. The administration is still upset about all that.”

  I laugh. “They should be,” I say.

  Professor Beaumont is probably my best friend here on campus. I’ve always been so focused on my studies and my journalism work for the campus paper that I’ve never had much time for friends. Most of the other girls are just worried about hooking up with the jocks, and about looking pretty, or being liked by their sorority sisters. I guess you could say I’ve been sort of a loner. But it’s just that I’ve always been mature for my age, and hanging around adults seems more natural. Beaumont and I see eye to eye on a lot of issues, and even though he’s the advisor to the student paper, he feels more like my peer sometimes.

  “The thing about it, Allison... Well, let me start again. Look, I know you’re going to be asking me for a recommendation.”

  I nod my head. He’s my advisor after all. Who else would I ask a recommendation from?

  “And like I sa
id you’ve been doing an excellent job. Better than any other student ever. But I never lie on my recommendations, not even just a little bit, and that’s why my letter will carry more weight than from any other journalism professor, practically in the whole country. And in truth, I don’t think you’ve yet reached your full potential. And if you want to work for The Journal, you need to come in ready to go, already developed into a full-fledged journalist.”

  “I’m not fully formed yet?” I say, my mouth hanging open a little in shock. “I thought you said I was doing a great job. What in the world am I doing wrong?”

  “It’s not that you’re doing much wrong,” says Beaumont, leaning back in his desk chair, and putting his corduroy-jacketed arms behind his head, as if he’s getting ready to give me some sage advice. I didn’t think Beaumont was like this. I didn’t think he was like the other professors, who are always trying to act like they’re giving sage advice.

  “Then what the hell do you want me to do?” I say, my tone of voice growing angry, despite my best efforts to contain it.

  “Look, Allison, I’m just trying to get you to be the best reporter you can be. You’re graduating in six months, and it’s time to take the next step. Being a journalist means you sometimes have to investigate things that aren’t your…personal interests, things that you don’t necessarily have a personal interest in. For instance, our college is running on swimming, as you know. Many colleges get their money through football, soccer, those kinds of sports. We’ve never been that kind of college. But we’ve won nationals in swimming four years running, which is completely unheard of.”

  “What’s your point?” I say, my gaze narrowing, my tone sounding harsh, even though I’m trying to keep in neutral. I don’t like the way Beaumont is lecturing me like this. We’ve always been more like friends. Sure, he was a big deal back in the day. He worked as an investigative reporter for ten years, exposing some of the biggest political corruption stories of the decade, before retiring to become a professor. But that doesn’t mean he knows everything. I’m the one who’s running the student paper after all, not him. I’d like to think that after two years being editor–in-chief, I know what I’m doing. I know where the stories are.

  “You run the student paper for the college, and the college essentially runs on swimming and swimming money. You haven’t done a single story on swimming, or the industry behind it.”

  “You want me to do a sports story? I thought you were always telling me to do serious stories. You’ve even made fun of the sports readers.” My face was growing hot and probably red.

  Beaumont gives me a piercing look, as well as a sneaky smile. “You’ve always been a good listener, Allison. But I don’t think you’re seeing what I’m saying, the message behind the words. Remember, in journalism there’s always a story behind the story.”

  Suddenly, it’s like a light bulb clicks in my head. I smile too, a big smile. I realize what Beaumont’s saying.

  “I want you to go out of this school with a bang, Allison. There’s a big story here, and it’s not the typical press releases that the school makes you publish about the upcoming swimming meets. I know you hate doing those, and don’t even bother rewriting them. You just print what the administration gives you.”

  “I never could get into sports,” I say, my smile growing, because I realize what Beaumont’s about to tell me.

  “Me neither,” says Beaumont. “But you know what I’m about to say, judging by the smile on your face. I want you to do some real investigative reporting. Get close to the swim team, and find out their dirty secrets. Publish those secrets with the ruthless writing style you’ve been cultivating all these years. The college will never be the same, and you’ll graduate with fire works. If you do this story right, every big paper in the US will be clamoring to hire you.”

  “Won’t I get in trouble? What if I find out something really bad? I don’t think the college is going to look too kindly on me if I expose something really nasty about their prize Division I sports team. Will I even be able to graduate?”

  “Since I’m not only the advisor to the paper, but your regular senior advisor, I’m the one with the authority to sign off on everything, including your graduation. You’re not going to have any problems graduating, not with me on your side. Anyway, your GPA is what…”

  “3.9,” I say. “Would have been 4.0, except for that general gym class all the freshmen have to take.”

  A 3.9 doesn’t surprise Beaumont in the slightest. He doesn’t bat an eyelid. He knows me too well.

  “Won’t you be in danger of losing your job, Professor Beaumont,” I say. “I mean, knowing me, I’m going to get the dirtiest story I can find…I’m sure there’s something there. I just have a feeling that the swim team doesn’t play clean.”

  “I’m tenured,” says Beaumont, leaning further back in his chair. “Now go get them, Allison. Use everything we’ve gone over in our journalism classes.”

  “Thanks, Professor Beaumont,” I say, getting up to leave, grabbing my library bag that’s stuffed full of books.

  “Oh, Allison, one more thing,” says Beaumont, as I’m walking out the door. “If I were you, I’d focus on one swimmer in particular. He’s the one they’re always talking about, and he’s the main reason the swim team’s won nationals the last for years.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I forget his real name, but they call him Anchor.”

  “Anchor?” I say with some disgust. “Sounds like a typical idiot jock nickname.”

  Beaumont just smiles knowingly as I leave his office, practically tilting all the way over to one side, from the weight of all my books.

  As I walk through the campus, I think over all the work I have coming up. The school work won’t be too much of a problem, but I do need to devote some time to it, which is going to be tricky, since this new swimmer project is going to require not only a lot of planning, but a lot of ‘on scene,’ time.

  I know myself, and I know that if I’m going to do it, I’m going to have to do it right. That’s just the way I am. I’ll be spending a lot of time at swim meets, and probably hanging around the swimmers, to get a feel for who they really are. Professor Beaumont is almost certainly right—there’s no way there isn’t a juicer and dirtier story here than the image that the college wants to promote, which is squeaky clean and painfully boring.

  The adrenaline is already racing through me. It’s the thrill of the hunt. As much as I hate sports guys, and sports in general, this is going to be my first chance to do a real piece of investigative journalism. Not only will this ensure my place at one of the top papers in the country, after graduation, but it will help prepare me for what’s to come.

  Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve imagined myself working abroad in far away lands, filled with people speaking strange languages, wearing strange clothes. I knew I’d be there to do something good, to help people by exposing the corruption that as a kid I already knew existed around the world.

  This swimming expose is going to be a chance to get out some of my frustrations at jocks and sports guys, and also the whole college sports institution. I think of my interaction with those swimming “bros,” yesterday night, as I was walking back to the library. They looked so incredibly stupid, so moronic, yet so caught up with themselves and how cool and tough they were. I think they ended up fighting each other as I was leaving, probably trying to impress me.

  I’m aware of the fact that one of them was hot. Quite hot actually, but what I’m acutely aware of is that I’m not letting myself really be aware of that fact. It’s like I have something blocking my desires. I know on an intellectual level that he’s hot, and that I’m perhaps just a little bit attracted to him, but I’m not letting myself feel his hotness, or feel my desire. At least I’m aware that I’m caught up in my intellectualizations of everything, rather than my emotions. Anyway, I’ll have time to sort that all out once I get out of college and get my first
real job, hopefully for The Journal, if this expose piece on the swimmers goes well. I’m imagining something really big, really dirty, exposing these college jocks for what they really are. I mean, do they really think they have any kind of future after college?

  3

  Anchor

  “Holy shit,” I say. I can’t believe it. I really can’t believe it. “Are you serious?”

  “Very much so, Mr. Belver. “We’d love to have you on the training team starting this coming summer, right when you graduate. We’re just going to send out another scout at the next meet to make sure you’re still swimming as excellently as when we last saw you… And just so you know, the deal isn’t completely sealed. The scout is going to need to see that you’ve made some improvements on the finer points of your form, like what we talked about last time.”

  I don’t think the words are coming through clear. He’s saying something about finer points, about it not being a done deal, but all I’m hearing is that I’m going to the Olympics next year. No office work for me after college!

  “Holy shit, I’m going to be a famous swimmer,” I say.

  “While we are very excited about the possibility of having you on the team, Mr. Belver, I want to stress that, like I said, the scout is going to need to see some improvement in…”

  “Gotcha,” I say. “No problem at all. It’s all been worked out already. I think I’m in the best shape of my life right now. I broke a personal record last practice during a mock race.”

  “That’s excellent to hear, Mr. Belver, but just remember, it’s not a closed-and-shut deal yet…”

  “Awesome, thanks so much,” I say. “I’ll let my coach know that the scout’s going to be there at the next meet.”

  “Very well, Mr. Belver. I’ll let you go now.”

  I close the phone and let out a whoop. “Yeee-haaw,” I yell, the sound echoing through the room I share with Dave in the swim house. The swim house is right on the edge of campus, although technically it’s not campus property. It’s a house that’s been passed down from a long line of swim team members for the past decade. The landlord is just some old guy who lives out of state, which is perfect, since he’s never around to bother us, or complain when we have parties. Of course, since the house has been inhabited by nothing but swimmers for the last decade, it’s completely filthy.