Laurel
“Laurel, please, please, please tell me you saw that poster hanging in the quad today.”
My cousin Alexandra leans forward with both arms on the table, food on the tray in front of her, sly smile stretched across her dark, gothic lips. Though it’s Monday and we’ve both just come from classes, my cousin’s lips are painted crimson red, as if she’s just come from a night of clubbing. Black hair flat-ironed. Brown eyes lined with black kohl. Brows defined.
We look nothing alike, she and I—not even close. So different in appearance, even though our mothers are twins. In fact, if you stood us side by side in a lineup, you’d never put us together as related.
Alexandra is tan; I am pale. Alex is short and curvy; I’m tall and willowy. She has black hair while mine is red—and not just any shade of red; my hair is dark and flaming like a brushfire, wavy and wild.
The fact that we’re attending the same university and have three more semesters of these little weekly lunch dates she insists on is not lost on me. Alex takes everything I say and reports back to her mother, who then calls my mother, who then calls me.
It’s so annoying, and it never fails.
I have to watch everything I say, or it gets repeated. Partying too hard, drunken nights out, guys I hook up with? Repeated.
Absentmindedly, I dig a spoon into my blueberry yogurt. Stare down into the white cream to hunt down fruit before glancing back up. Lick my spoon. “What poster?”
I may or may not have seen it.
Alex rolls her eyes; it drives me insane that she’s so condescending, but arguing with her is futile.
“The green ones with some guy’s picture on it. It’s hill-ari-ous.”
I shrug, uninterested. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
“Are you living under a rock? Let me show you, I ripped one down.” She leans at the waist, unzips her backpack, and produces a single sheet of wrinkled green printer paper. “It’s some kind of ad to get a guy laid. Get Rett laid, see here? Is that not hysterical?”
“So hysterical,” I deadpan with a neutral expression.
Alex swipes back a lock of her jet-black hair. “The guy is so not cute he has to put an ad up around campus for sex.”
“Just because there’s a flyer up in the quad doesn’t mean he can’t get laid. Maybe it’s a fraternity prank—has that thought occurred to you?”
“It’s not rush season. Why would anyone do that?”
Oh my God, is she serious? Because guys are morons, that’s why.
She drones on, staring at the paper in her hands. Gives her head a shake. “Not this guy, look at him—he’s a real barker. You’d have to put a bag over his head to get me to fuck him.”
“Jesus Alex.” I shush her even though it’s kind of funny. “Keep your voice down.”
“Well look at him, Laurel! I wouldn’t fuck him, would you?” She tilts her head and studies the sheet of paper, biting down on her lower lip. Slides it across the table, bumping the sheet into my water bottle. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
My cousin’s smug voice drifts across the table along with the mint green flyer.
My nimble fingers pluck it from the tabletop, smooth out the wrinkles. Blue eyes study the poorly photocopied image that was obviously fingered too soon after printing—ink is smudged in three places.
Even so, the grainy copy doesn’t detract from the eyes staring back at me. My stomach flutters.
Holy crap, I know this guy.
My eyes fly over the words someone has sloppily written with black Sharpie marker: Are you the lucky lady who is going to break our roommate’s cherry? Him: socially awkward man with average-sized penis looking for willing sexual partner. You: must have a pulse. He will reciprakate with oral sex.
Text him at: 555-254-5551
Holy shit—Get Rett Laid is Dine and Dash.
Before I can reread it, Alexandra impolitely snatches it out of my hand with a flick of the wrist. Flips her hair.
Smirks knowingly.
“Well?” Her question is laden with impatience only she can get away with. “Would you do him?”
No, I would not do him.
My lip curls. “Uh, hell no.”
“Yes! See what I’m saying? Wouldn’t it be funny though,” she muses, “if one of us sent him a text and made him think we were going to screw him?”
I point my spoon in her direction, pointing out the obvious. “Do you know how many texts that guy has probably gotten? Tons. He’s probably changed his number by now.”
I know I would if my friends did that shit to me.
One of her black brows rises. “Only one way to find out.”
“Alex, the last thing I want is some pissed off wrestler masturbating to my selfies.”
Alex perks up—she’s a total jock chaser and a sucker for athletes of any variety, cute or not. “How do you know he’s a wrestler?”
I give a diminutive shrug. “I think I recognize him. I saw him this weekend, getting a prank pulled on him by his friends. They were all wearing wrestling shirts and stuff so I just assumed.”
Alex leans forward, intrigued. “Pulling a prank on him? Like, how?”
“Dine and dash.”
“Damn.” Her pert nose screws up. “How many guys were there?”
“I don’t know.” I do a mental calculation. “Fifteen?”
“Oh shit.” She’s quiet for a few seconds. “I wonder if he’s new.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Dine and dash, these flyers…sounds like they’re hazing him.”
I nod slowly. “Yeah, that’s what Donovan was thinking.”
“You should definitely text him. Give him a proper welcome him to U of I.” She winks.
“Ew, no. Alex, I’m not texting him.” Because then he’d have my number and heaven forbid he texted me back.
“Why not! It would be funny.”
“I know it would, but the last thing I want is some weirdo pervert getting my number. What if he becomes obsessed with me?” I toss my red hair. “God, can you imagine?”
My mind strays to the guy in the parking lot, big and angry and swearing at the sky. With that hoodie pulled up over his hair, he was the poster boy for psychosis.
No, thanks, I’ll pass.
“Let’s ask the Magic Eight Ball.” My cousin giggles. “You can’t say no.”
It’s hard not to roll my eyes, but I manage. “Please do not tell me you carry that stupid thing around in your backpack.”
“Heck yeah, I have it in my bag.” My cousin winks again. “For moments like this.”
All right, so when we were in eighth grade, Alex was given a Magic Eight Ball for her birthday, and ever since, she uses it to make almost all major life decisions. Should I date Spencer Doyle? All signs point to yes. Should I go to the University of Wisconsin? Don’t count on it. Should I go bungee jumping with six random strangers I met on spring break? Outlook good.
That damn eight ball has gotten us into trouble more times than I can count. It had us sneaking into an underage dance club when we were seventeen and getting busted. Borrowing our grandmother’s Buick for a joyride without her permission before we had our licenses. Going skinny-dipping with that loser Tommy Martin after a field party in high school and getting caught by the farmer who owned the land.
All signs pointed to yes.
All ideas got me grounded.
“Alex, stop using the Magic Eight Ball to make life decisions for you.” Us. “You’re not a kid anymore.” We’re young adults now.
“But it’s fun.” She ignores me, digging deep into her backpack, rooting around. Produces the round black orb that’s become a staple in her life. I roll my eyes when she begins stroking it like a gypsy caressing her crystal ball.
“Magic Eight Ball, should Laurel send a text message to this Rett person who so badly needs to get laid?”
She flips it over, waiting patiently for the triangle inside to settle, floating in the blue water or whatever it is they put inside that stupid thing. It floats, lilting from side to side, finally settling face up.
I lean in, curious to know my fate. “Let’s see.”
“Yes.” Alex beams, palming it and thrusting the tiny window in my face. “Better get your phone out, loser.”
“Ugh,” I groan, resigned to my fate. “Fine.”
I take the flyer from her a second time, run my finger along the words. Fixate on the ten-digit number at the bottom. Type it into my phone.
Glance up. “Just so you know, I’m not sleeping with some stranger.”
My cousin laughs. “Have you suddenly become a born-again virgin?”
“Alex, I have some standards, and this guy…” I give him a cursory glance as I finish poking in his digits. The image, most likely pulled from the wrestling website, shows him sitting stiffly, nose in the air. Shaggy hair. Hooded eyes. Thick neck.
Not my type.
Not even close.
“This guy is so far below my standards it’s not even funny.” I toss my red ponytail over my shoulder. “Besides, I stopped having casual sex.”
Alex scoffs. “Are you judging me ’cause I made Dylan leave his apartment to get chicken nuggets so I could have sex with his roommate, Johnathan?”
“Shut up.” My brows go up. “You did that?”
“Duh. I’ve been trying to hook up with Johnathan forever. You knew that.” If she rolls her eyes one more time, they’re going to get stuck up there. “He finally caved to the power of the chicken nugget.”
“Why don’t you just break up with Dylan?” That seems like the easiest solution.
“Because Johnathan isn’t ready for a relationship yet.”
“Then why are you wasting your time hooking up with him?”
“Because, Laurel,” she sneers with disdain. “Johnathan is president of his fraternity and his parents are loaded.”
In case you haven’t figured it out yet, Alexandra is attending college for her MRS degree, not for an education; her sole goal in life is to be a trophy wife and appear on the Real Housewives. For real.
“Anyway,” she drones on. “We’ve gone completely off the rails here. You’re supposed to be messaging this Rett loser. Magic Eight Ball says so.”
“All right, all right, all right—but if he starts stalking me or falls in love or won’t leave me alone or whatever, I’m blaming you.”
“You are so full of yourself,” she scoffs.
“So are you,” I volley back, tapping out a quick message to this random wrestler.
Hey Rett, is it true that you need to get laid?
Hit send.
Less than thirty seconds tick by before I get a reply.
Rett: Fuck off.
I rear back in my seat a little, surprised. Whoa. Right out of the gate he’s going to be a defensive asshole?
Jeez, screw you.
Me: You don’t have to be nasty.
I say this knowing he’s being put through the wringer by his teammates. I wonder what else they’ve done to him in the past few weeks that I couldn’t possibly know about, wonder how many girls have texted him since the flyer went up.
After three minutes of waiting, Rett still has yet to offer a reply. Irritated that he’s ignoring me, I send him another message.
Me: How many texts have you gotten in the last 24 hours?
Rett: Did I not just tell you to fuck off?
Me: Is it so hard to answer a simple question?
Rett: Who the hell is this?
Me: Puh-lease, like I’m going to tell you my name.
Yes. I type it like that.
Rett: Then do me a favor and lose this number.
Me: Did it occur to you that I might have felt a connection to you when I saw your picture on that green sheet of paper?
Rett: Nice sarcasm bitch.
Yikes. Someone isn’t happy.
Me: How do you know I’m female?
Rett: I don’t, but either way, you’re a giant prick. How’s that? Happy now?
Me: Calling me a bitch wasn’t necessary.
Rett: Neither was texting me. Get a fucking life.
Me: Weird, that’s what I said about you.
Rett: Oh, I need a life?
Me: If you had a life, you wouldn’t be hanging flyers up all over campus, begging for attention.
I’m saying this to get a reaction from him, knowing none of it is true. A niggling twitch hits my belly—one that feels a little like guilt—and works its way into my subconscious. I know something about this guy my cousin doesn’t: this boy is being hazed by his friends and probably didn’t hang those horrible flyers himself.
But whatever.
It’s still not necessary for him to be a jerk. If he knew what I looked like, his tone would be completely different, I’m sure of it. He’d be kissing my ass.
I give my long red ponytail an arrogant flip.
When he doesn’t reply to my barb, I huff, feel my face heat, convinced it’s turned an unflattering shade of pink.
“Why do you look so pissed off?” Alex glances up from her phone when I sigh. “Your face is bright red.”
“’Cause this guy is being a dick.”
“Asshole.” Alex nods knowingly. “Figures.”
Stop ignoring me, I type. How do you know I didn’t text you because I felt bad your face was hanging all over campus?
His next comment is biting.
Rett: I said fuck. You.
Shit. What if he thinks I’m insulting the way he looks? I mean, I’m kind of a bitch sometimes, but I’m not purposely trying to be mean.
Me: I didn’t mean it as an insult.
Rett: Don’t care. Whoever you are, take a fucking hike.
Me: Maybe I’m beginning to like boys that play hard to get.
Rett: Jesus Christ, take a goddamn hint.
Me: See now, here’s the thing: if you really wanted me to go away, you would have stopped responding by now, or blocked my number.
I know I’m right about one thing: he’s interested enough to keep texting me.
Several long seconds pass and he still hasn’t responded. My cousin watches intently from across the cafeteria table, arms folded, expression serene, Magic Eight Ball in the center of the table like she’s a fortune-teller. Weirdo.
Impatient, I type out: Hey Rett, what kind of text messages have you been getting?
Rett: Use your imagination.
Me: Naughty ones?
Rett: Yes.
Me: LOTS of naughty ones?
Seriously, why the hell am I flirting with this guy?
Rett: Yes. Obviously.
Me: Like what—give me an example.
Rett: No.
Me: Oh come on now, don’t be a poo.
Rett: Do you ever take no for an answer?
Me: Rarely.
Rett: You’re really annoying.
Me: Maybe, but am I as bad as the other girls texting you right now?
Rett: Yes, actually.
Me: WHAT?! You liar, I am not!
Rett: Yes, you really are. I have ten fucking chicks texting me at the same time right now and I can’t shake any of you.
Me: Ever heard of that little thing called blocking someone?
Rett: A smartass, too, I see.
Me: A bit, and I’m impressed by your use of the correct TOO, and that you have your commas in the right spots…
Me: But seriously, you should be blocking these people. Have you?
Rett: No.
Me: Well you should—the last thing you need is a ton of jock chasers messaging you.
Rett: How do you know I’m a jock?
Me: I don’t, just saying, in case you are.
Rett: If I were blocking people, you’d be the first to go. You’re really annoying.
Me: You said that already. Besides, how am I being annoying?!
Rett: Are you kissing me right now?
Me: LOL kissing. What a fun idea, Rett.
Rett: Dammit. You know what I meant—you’re being annoying. You keep asking stupid questions and won’t leave me alone. For the record, my name is spelled RHETT. With an H.
Me: Then why is it spelled RETT on the posters?
I’m not sure why I care to have it correct, but I add the H to his name in my phone.
Rhett: My roommates are fucking idiots, that’s why.
Me: Sounds like it. Are they the ones who put up the green flyers?
Rhett: Obviously. Do you honestly think I would have done that shit myself?
Me: Maybe. Some guys will do anything for sex.
Rhett: Well, not me. I would never do that. I’m in a drought, not desperate.
Me: Ahh, so you DO need to get laid…
Rhett: You’re really crossing a line, do you realize that?
Me: Yes, but I’m protected by a cloak of anonymity
Rhett: What’s your name?
Me: Can’t tell you—cloak of anonymity, remember?
Rhett: Fine, play games. It was nice knowing you.
I bite down on my bottom lip and give Alexandra a side-glance.
“Now what’s happening? Tell me,” she urges. “You look like you swallowed a dirty, smelly cock.”
“He wants to know my name.”
“So? What’s the big deal?”
“Haven’t you heard of stranger danger?”
Alex shrugs her petite shoulders. “Make one up.”
“Good idea. Didn’t think of that.”
“You’ve never given a guy a fake name? Shit, I do it almost every weekend.”
My name is…
Pausing, I feel a smidge guilty. This guy has been treated like absolute shit by his friends, and now I’m about to lie to him—again.
“Why are you hesitating?” Alex asks. “Throw it out there. Give him a name.”
Grinning, I type in A-l-e-x, hit send.
Me: My name is Alex.
Rhett: Well Alex, c’était amusant, but I have shit to do
I sit up straighter. What the hell was that?
French?
Me: What did that mean??? Cetait amusant or whatever.
Rhett: Google it.
I sit there, staring at the words written in French, and shiver a little. Press down on the words to highlight them, copy and paste them into a translation search, hit enter: Well Alex, it’s been fun, but I have shit to do.
I stare at that sentence.
French.
The guy speaks French.
Rhett Whateverhislastnameis speaks French.
That is…
Really kind of sexy, if I’m being honest.
I fidget in my chair, biting down the smile caused by learning this new bit of fascinating information.
“Why are you smiling? What’s he saying now?”
I lift my head to meet her curious, calculating gaze. “He told me to fuck off and leave him alone.”
“Jeez, what a dick.”
“Yeah.”
But my wheels are spinning now.
At an alarmingly rapid pace.