Brutal Precious
Page 32
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“I love you,” I whisper to the empty curb.
-10-
3 Years
51 Weeks
6 Days
Yvette is not impressed with my new diet.
“Are you eating…doritos with ice cream?” She asks.
“My mind is strong but my flesh is weak,” I mutter through a spoonful.
“Well, at least you’re eating something,” she throws her hands up. “What happened to the Isis who could put away an entire large pizza on her own?”
“She got bored,” I say. Yvette looks appropriately scandalized. “Of eating! Not of pizza. God no. The only people who get bored of pizza are evil at their core. Or Italian.”
“How’s the war-wound holding up?” Yvette collapses on her bed. I pull my sleeve up and inspect the blood-stained bandage on my forearm with a shrug.
“The nurse gave me antibiotics that taste like butt, and I have to change the bandage every two days, but so far it’s like a walk in the park. If said park was covered in infectious zombies and landmines. Kieran got the worst end of the deal – dislocated noses hurt like a bitch.”
“Yeah, but they’re quicker to fix. Only hurts for a second.”
“Oh yeah? How do you know that?”
“I got in a fist-fight,” She says proudly. “At a concert.”
“What concert?”
“Does it really matter? I think you are missing the point here, the point being that I have also dislocated my nose.” I stare at her until she groans and mumbles; “Taylor Swift.”
“You went to a Taylor Swift concert?” I screech.
“I was taking my little sister!” She shrills defensively.
“Why does it sound like a cage of birds in here?” Diana winces as she walks in.
“Di, she’s making fun of me,” Yvette whines. I courteously flip her off.
“If you met me at the pizza place like I asked,” Diana sniffs. “You wouldn’t be here, getting made fun of.”
Yvette groans and rolls off the bed, rifling through her closet for a jacket to wear. Diana sits on the bed beside me, all smiles.
“Hey you.”
“Don’t look at me I’m hideous.” I whisper, shoveling more soggy doritos into my mouth. She laughs, and smooths her fluffy blouse that makes her impressive rack all the more bouncy.
“And what are you doing on this lovely Friday night?”
“Eating. Sleeping. Sacrificing a goat to Mantorok, the God of Corpses.”
She looks over at the stack of fake blood packets on my desk and raises an eyebrow. “Riiiight.”
“Those are for a sociology experiment!” I defend. “Called ‘See How Many People Run Away From Me When I Squirt Fake Blood At Them’. Prediction: Many.”
“Okay but…just don’t get punched out, alright? Getting a new injury every weekend is sort of a new thing with you and I’d like for it to kindly stop forever.”
“You and me both.”
Yvette flaunts her army surplus jacket, Diana and I applaud. They’re gone before I can blink, Yvette crowing about pepperoni and jalapenos. My stomach makes a disagreeing noise, and I put the ice cream bowl aside and bring out my laptop. I get on Skype, looking for Kayla’s photo, but she’s offline, the little gray inactive dot taunting me.
It’s nice Diana’s worried. It’s only been a few months, but she and Yvette treat me like they’ve known me for years. Sometimes it makes me feel better, but right now it only makes everything feel worse. It makes me miss Kayla more. I hadn’t gotten to tell her about what happened that night at The Back Door, but part of me doesn’t want to. Part of me hesitates blabbing everything like I usually do. What would she think of the fact I took molly? I didn’t tell Diana or Yvette. I haven’t told anybody. Would she be disappointed? Would she hate me? I’m still disappointed in myself that I took it. And she wouldn’t be happy to hear about Jack, and how we’re practically strangers now. And I know for a fact she’d hate my stories of making out with any dude who looked nice at frat parties. She wouldn’t understand it. I’d just disappoint her. My life isn’t exciting and romantic like hers.
There it is again. Jealousy. I swallow it whole and try to convert it into exactly what it is – poop.
I get up and stretch, tracing the bandage on my arm lightly. Jack touched me there, and it’s stupid to think about, but sometimes in the quiet moments I touch the same place and wish things were different. But tonight is not the night for self-pity. I pull on shorts and a loose t-shirt and stuff a sidebag full of the fake blood packets, some gum, forceps, and a credit card.
Tonight is the night for revenge.
Granted, as I walk through the sunset-washed campus with happy couples clinging to each other and excited, dolled up girls on their way to parties, I have the minor revelation that I probably shouldn’t be doing this. I brush the nonsense off – of course I should be doing this. Doing possibly illegal things that would get me kicked out, such as breaking into Professor Summers’ office and sending him a message, is going to be hells more fun than sitting around another frat party waiting to die slash furthering my reputation as a slut. People stare. But then again, people have always stared. I smile and wave.
I’ve done my own independent study on Professor Summers’ – asking around parties didn’t exactly make it hard to find the girls who he’d previously harassed. He’d do it quietly; dropping reflective pens, coming up behind them after class and pinning them to chalkboards, asking them to come in on Saturdays and offering A’s for a handjob. He’s one hundred percent scum. And the worst part? He doesn’t look like scum. He’s almost cute – mousy hair, a thin beard, blue eyes. But the worst people rarely look like the worst people. I learned that from Avery.
Professor Summers’ office is in the Fowler building, which is about as ironically fitting as we can get for a Friday night in a Midwestern college town. Fowler closes at seven, but I manage to sneak in at 6:50 and hide in a bathroom. The janitor comes around checking the stalls, and when she asks me to leave I groan and empty a blood packet into the toilet. It makes a satisfying plop noise, and she sighs and tells me to get out when I can.
I hiss in victory as she shuffles with her cleaning cart down the hall. I pack everything up and flush the evidence before tiptoeing out of the bathroom. I pass Ferguson’s office, and then Vacroix’s, and as I turn the corner -
My ringing phone scares my intestines out of my anus.
“You scared my intestines out of my anus!” I pick up.
“Where are you?” Kieran asks on the other end, the distinct muffled boom of bass in the background. “You said you were coming to Rho Alpha Alpha tonight, but I can’t find you.”
“I am currently engaged elsewhere. Minus a ring. And a bachelorette party.”
Kieran’s quiet, then his voice lowers. “Isis, you aren’t doing what I think you’re doing.”
“I’m not, don’t worry!” I chirp.
He groans. “You are. You totally are. You’re gonna get busted, and thrown out. Just forget about Summers and come to the party!”
I check the time on my phone. “Oh my, is it that time already? Shut up o’clock? I must go, farewell sweet jocky prince.”
-10-
3 Years
51 Weeks
6 Days
Yvette is not impressed with my new diet.
“Are you eating…doritos with ice cream?” She asks.
“My mind is strong but my flesh is weak,” I mutter through a spoonful.
“Well, at least you’re eating something,” she throws her hands up. “What happened to the Isis who could put away an entire large pizza on her own?”
“She got bored,” I say. Yvette looks appropriately scandalized. “Of eating! Not of pizza. God no. The only people who get bored of pizza are evil at their core. Or Italian.”
“How’s the war-wound holding up?” Yvette collapses on her bed. I pull my sleeve up and inspect the blood-stained bandage on my forearm with a shrug.
“The nurse gave me antibiotics that taste like butt, and I have to change the bandage every two days, but so far it’s like a walk in the park. If said park was covered in infectious zombies and landmines. Kieran got the worst end of the deal – dislocated noses hurt like a bitch.”
“Yeah, but they’re quicker to fix. Only hurts for a second.”
“Oh yeah? How do you know that?”
“I got in a fist-fight,” She says proudly. “At a concert.”
“What concert?”
“Does it really matter? I think you are missing the point here, the point being that I have also dislocated my nose.” I stare at her until she groans and mumbles; “Taylor Swift.”
“You went to a Taylor Swift concert?” I screech.
“I was taking my little sister!” She shrills defensively.
“Why does it sound like a cage of birds in here?” Diana winces as she walks in.
“Di, she’s making fun of me,” Yvette whines. I courteously flip her off.
“If you met me at the pizza place like I asked,” Diana sniffs. “You wouldn’t be here, getting made fun of.”
Yvette groans and rolls off the bed, rifling through her closet for a jacket to wear. Diana sits on the bed beside me, all smiles.
“Hey you.”
“Don’t look at me I’m hideous.” I whisper, shoveling more soggy doritos into my mouth. She laughs, and smooths her fluffy blouse that makes her impressive rack all the more bouncy.
“And what are you doing on this lovely Friday night?”
“Eating. Sleeping. Sacrificing a goat to Mantorok, the God of Corpses.”
She looks over at the stack of fake blood packets on my desk and raises an eyebrow. “Riiiight.”
“Those are for a sociology experiment!” I defend. “Called ‘See How Many People Run Away From Me When I Squirt Fake Blood At Them’. Prediction: Many.”
“Okay but…just don’t get punched out, alright? Getting a new injury every weekend is sort of a new thing with you and I’d like for it to kindly stop forever.”
“You and me both.”
Yvette flaunts her army surplus jacket, Diana and I applaud. They’re gone before I can blink, Yvette crowing about pepperoni and jalapenos. My stomach makes a disagreeing noise, and I put the ice cream bowl aside and bring out my laptop. I get on Skype, looking for Kayla’s photo, but she’s offline, the little gray inactive dot taunting me.
It’s nice Diana’s worried. It’s only been a few months, but she and Yvette treat me like they’ve known me for years. Sometimes it makes me feel better, but right now it only makes everything feel worse. It makes me miss Kayla more. I hadn’t gotten to tell her about what happened that night at The Back Door, but part of me doesn’t want to. Part of me hesitates blabbing everything like I usually do. What would she think of the fact I took molly? I didn’t tell Diana or Yvette. I haven’t told anybody. Would she be disappointed? Would she hate me? I’m still disappointed in myself that I took it. And she wouldn’t be happy to hear about Jack, and how we’re practically strangers now. And I know for a fact she’d hate my stories of making out with any dude who looked nice at frat parties. She wouldn’t understand it. I’d just disappoint her. My life isn’t exciting and romantic like hers.
There it is again. Jealousy. I swallow it whole and try to convert it into exactly what it is – poop.
I get up and stretch, tracing the bandage on my arm lightly. Jack touched me there, and it’s stupid to think about, but sometimes in the quiet moments I touch the same place and wish things were different. But tonight is not the night for self-pity. I pull on shorts and a loose t-shirt and stuff a sidebag full of the fake blood packets, some gum, forceps, and a credit card.
Tonight is the night for revenge.
Granted, as I walk through the sunset-washed campus with happy couples clinging to each other and excited, dolled up girls on their way to parties, I have the minor revelation that I probably shouldn’t be doing this. I brush the nonsense off – of course I should be doing this. Doing possibly illegal things that would get me kicked out, such as breaking into Professor Summers’ office and sending him a message, is going to be hells more fun than sitting around another frat party waiting to die slash furthering my reputation as a slut. People stare. But then again, people have always stared. I smile and wave.
I’ve done my own independent study on Professor Summers’ – asking around parties didn’t exactly make it hard to find the girls who he’d previously harassed. He’d do it quietly; dropping reflective pens, coming up behind them after class and pinning them to chalkboards, asking them to come in on Saturdays and offering A’s for a handjob. He’s one hundred percent scum. And the worst part? He doesn’t look like scum. He’s almost cute – mousy hair, a thin beard, blue eyes. But the worst people rarely look like the worst people. I learned that from Avery.
Professor Summers’ office is in the Fowler building, which is about as ironically fitting as we can get for a Friday night in a Midwestern college town. Fowler closes at seven, but I manage to sneak in at 6:50 and hide in a bathroom. The janitor comes around checking the stalls, and when she asks me to leave I groan and empty a blood packet into the toilet. It makes a satisfying plop noise, and she sighs and tells me to get out when I can.
I hiss in victory as she shuffles with her cleaning cart down the hall. I pack everything up and flush the evidence before tiptoeing out of the bathroom. I pass Ferguson’s office, and then Vacroix’s, and as I turn the corner -
My ringing phone scares my intestines out of my anus.
“You scared my intestines out of my anus!” I pick up.
“Where are you?” Kieran asks on the other end, the distinct muffled boom of bass in the background. “You said you were coming to Rho Alpha Alpha tonight, but I can’t find you.”
“I am currently engaged elsewhere. Minus a ring. And a bachelorette party.”
Kieran’s quiet, then his voice lowers. “Isis, you aren’t doing what I think you’re doing.”
“I’m not, don’t worry!” I chirp.
He groans. “You are. You totally are. You’re gonna get busted, and thrown out. Just forget about Summers and come to the party!”
I check the time on my phone. “Oh my, is it that time already? Shut up o’clock? I must go, farewell sweet jocky prince.”
