We drive home through stunted silence. I’m sure Molly is secretly doing the happy dance at what a live idiot I am—and I can’t think straight to formulate two words because she happens to be right.
I drop her off at the entrance to the bed and breakfast.
“Molly?” I call to her just as she’s ready to slam the door.
“Yes?” She gives a sweet smile, looking all of twelve in the process.
“Do yourself a favor—wait for someone special. Trust me, he’s not roaming the halls of your high school. And if he were, he wouldn’t be sleeping with some girl named Tracy, or Stacy, or anybody else. He’d only have eyes for you. Don’t give away something you can never get back, save it for someone you love and who really loves you, too.”
Molly sighs, expelling an entire plume of smoke from her lips.
“Yeah, whatever.” She slams the door with a marked finality and runs toward the glorified hotel.
If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I was starting to believe in something that just a month ago I would have bet was nothing but a myth.
Love.
I guess it really does exist.
Yeah, whatever.
Cruise
The snow bears down on us as we make our way into the Cineplex 10 where our respective dates are waiting. Kenny looks hotter than hell in her denim jacket, skinny jeans, and heels, but unfortunately, judging by her blue limbs and purple lips, she’s about to turn into the world’s cutest Popsicle. I did happen to notice she’s lacking in the winter coat department. If I didn’t need every dime to eat I’d help her out. Might just do that anyway.
“So who’s Pen bringing?” She glows as she looks up at me.
A cold chill tingles through my spine at the idea Kenny might have thought she was my date.
Pennington speeds in this direction before I can rectify the situation with Monique hot on his heels. Her hair flows down her back like a flame, and she’s wearing those thigh-highs she’s famous for. I’ve seen her in them at least a couple times with nothing else but a smile.
Shit.
“Oh my gawd!” Monique lunges at me with a running start and hikes her legs around my hips. She leaves me physically spinning, already dry humping me in the foyer of the theater. “I have missed you!” She pokes her finger in my stomach before dipping down to my crotch. “But I’ve missed you even more,” she sings.
“Whoa!” I set her down, almost afraid to glance at Kenny. Her lids hang low. I can’t tell if she’s pissed or about to cry. She wraps an arm around Pennington, and it’s only then I notice they’ve both accessorized with their matching purses. Something about it rubs me the wrong way, even if it was accidental.
“I guess it’s me and you, Pen,” she says it sultry, like she means it and begins to nibble on his ear. Her teeth graze over his earlobe, and she cuts me a glance before moaning into the endeavor.
My stomach clenches just witnessing the unholy encounter. That should be my fucking ear.
Shit. This isn’t going as planned. And what the hell did I plan anyway? Driving her wild with jealousy so she could hone in on any feelings she might have for me? And now Pen and his extra-curricular cartilage are getting all the attention.
“Let’s do it.” I pull Monique in by the shoulder and lead us over to the ticket counter.
We all agree on a horror movie, The Damned and the Restless. I suppose I’m the damned tonight for shoving a perfectly good Kendal Jordan in my horny little bro’s direction. Monique would be the restless in this equation since she’s already felt up my crotch a half a dozen times, no matter how hard I try to evade her efforts.
“I’m buying.” Pennington volunteers like its some heroic effort on his part. Nothing like being financially emasculated by Pen to further toss the night into the crapper.
Kenny looks over her shoulder at Monique and outright scowls. For a second I think the claws are going to show, but Kenny reverts and twitches out a charitable smile.
Do I detect that Kendall Jordan is, dare I say, jealous? My adrenaline kicks in at the prospect. I sling an arm over Monique’s shoulder, inspiring her to snuggle in deeper. I believe this is feeding in beautifully to my original misguided intentions. And, since we’ve already met up with the green-eyed monster before getting out the gate, I’d say the evening is off to a pretty damn good start. I’m hoping at the end of the covetous rainbow lies a pot of golden affection. And right now there’s nothing more I want than Kendall Jordan’s affection.
I gaze into Monique and moan. “Popcorn?” I’d hate for Kenny to miss the real show, the one in which I accidentally drive her into my arms. I jab an elbow into Kenny. “What about you? I’ll spring.”
Her perfect pink mouth falls open as she takes in the body slinked around mine.
“Pennington, what do you think?” she asks, latching onto him, with her long slender arms and my insides explode in a ball of acid.
“For you?” He slips his hand around her waist far below her hip, and I see her fidget, trying to keep him from hitting pay dirt. “I’d buy the left side of the menu if you wanted.” He dots the sentiment by planting a kiss in her ear.
Who the hell kisses someone in their ear? Idiot.
Pen loads us all up on enough junk food to proficiently rot the teeth out of our skulls before the movie’s over. I specifically told him I didn’t want any. The last thing I want is to look like a charity case, but it’s me who ends up hauling all the crap to the theater.
Kenny leans into Monique. “You guys mind if we sit by you?”
My heart thumps a little faster at the idea of Kenny wanting to sit together.
“We can trade Gummy Bears and Sour Patch Kids.” Kenny nods at the sexual python currently strapped to my hip as if this confection-based currency were the sole purpose of securing proximal seating arrangements. And sadly, it very well could be.
I lead us over to the middle right, my usual landing place. I don’t care what anybody says, it’s the best place to see a movie. I let Pen slide in first, then Kenny, and I’m quick to file in after her.
First of all, I’m not that into horror flicks. If really want to scare the crap out of myself, I’ll consult the file marked “student loans.” I nearly shit a brick the last time I looked at the running total.
Monique dips her hand under my shirt and slips those icicles she calls fingers inside. There’s nothing wrong with Monique. In fact, she happened to be at the gym when I was setting things up with Pen and overheard the conversation. She practically volunteered to be my date. I’ve slept with her at least twice, although the details are fuzzy. All I remember is her hair falling in my eyes while she rode me like a stallion.
The theater dims to pitch and I envision Kenny riding me like that—her long, glossy mane whipping me softly.
I move my jacket over my jeans in the event my spontaneous salute to Kenny, decides to cause a scene.
I look over and note she’s stealing sideways glances every chance she gets. Monique’s hand flops like a fish over my leg until it bounces onto my crotch, and I shift away in the event she feels inspired to help me release a little tension. I don’t need much deliberation to know I’m not going there again with Monique, tonight or any other night.
Kenny cinches her lips and slides toward Pen. His hand slithers over her shoulder, landing square over her tit like a freaking missile shield.
Crap.
My breathing grows erratic by the minute because I’m about to beat the shit out of my brother for feeling up my girlfriend.
Did I just call Kenny my girlfriend?
First, I’m talking love, and now I’m on the brink of some romantic commitment? I glance over at Monique—the lust-driven look in her eyes, her legs already parting with the invitation. I could have her if I want to. I’m sure there’s an empty corner or bathroom stall just waiting for the two of us. It’s obvious she’d be more than up for the challenge. But nothing in me wants to play that game again. It was empty, shallow, and felt like I was
The movie drones on and Monique begins gnawing at my ear, inspiring me to deflect her efforts. I have no clue what the hell is going on with the movie because all I keep thinking about is how the fuck long Pen is going to act like some human boob warmer.
Kenny looks over at me and catches my gaze. She glances down and makes a face at the vile limb in question until she delicately removes it from her person. I give a little smile as my entire body exhales with relief.
Monique dives her hand between my legs. I’d better douse this fire before Kenny tries to one up us in the movie make-out department and turns this into some kind of copulation relay.
“You mind?” I say it nice enough, but there’s never a good way to tell someone to stop trying to have sex with you.
Kenny leans toward me, and I shift in her direction until our shoulders rest up against one another. I drop my hand low, hoping she’ll do the same. Her fingers brush up against mine until we slowly interlace, and my heart races like a sixteen-year-old about to get lucky at prom. Holding hands in a dark theater with Kenny outweighs every public sex act I’ve ever committed. This was gratifying, satisfying, and intensely erotic all on its own.
I’m in love with Kenny.
There it is.
I’ve broken the worst promise I’ve ever made to myself, to never fall in love again. But Kenny is definitely no Blair. She’s a million times better. For once, I’m thankful things ended the way they did for me last summer, or I wouldn’t be sitting here holding hands with the only girl on the planet I want to be with.
She gives my hand a squeeze and rubs tiny circles over the top with the warm pad of her thumb.
Kenny Jordan is by my side, and all is right with the world.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was starting to have feelings for me, too.
8
Kendall
The Syllabus
Early Tuesday morning, on what will officially be my first day at Garrison, I pull back the curtain and catch a glimpse of the dark, angry sky. The brooding clouds, all dressed up and nowhere to go, lie stagnant overhead like a layer of black coals. The evergreens stretch their branches toward heaven in hopes to burst the pregnant sacks, but are impotent to the challenge, and the earth remains dry, thirsty for something that might never come.
The sun has no hope in a place like this. I’m not sure I can get used to a world without sunshine, but the snow, the friendly footprints of the birds and squirrels stamped throughout the roadside, more than make up for its loss. Then there’s Cruise. The way his smile widens when he sees me, those brilliant flashing teeth that would make pearls ashamed of their color, the five o’clock shadow affording him that perennial bad-boy look. He reduces me to dust and ashes without even trying. There’s no doubt Cruise Elton is unforgivably sexy. How I long for him to be mine. How thirsty I am for his body and soul to want me the way I desperately want him. I wonder if that shower of affection will ever come. If it will ever be genuine or just some lesson on how to score a homerun.
The double dating debacle runs through my mind. I’m such an idiot for thinking Cruise would ever want to be my date. But he sort of was in the end, and that’s all that matters. I can still feel his fingers relaxing over mine, warming me with his palm, the current that ran through us, alive and anxious. Cruise and his affection seem as innocent as a downed power line thrashing in a pool of water. Loving Cruise would only hurt in the end, cause irreparable damage if I’m not careful. But I’m not all that interested in being careful anymore.
I tumble out of bed and find a note on the kitchen table.
Have an early meeting. See you in class.
I’m pretty sure he meant at school. I doubt I have any classes with a graduate student.
I rush through my morning routine and put on the warmest clothes possible. It looks like a nuclear winter has set in out there. God, I hope those classrooms at Garrison have the heaters turned up full throttle.
I step outside and the icy wind knifes through all four layers of clothing like a sickle hacking through weeds. My skin enlivens from the blowtorch effect. This is what I imagined love would be like, the beauty of the landscape luring you in then the surprise of the flames as you burn under the guise of your own foolishness.
And, as foolish as it sounds, I wish Cruise would step into that fire with me. God knows I’m looking forward to the burn.
I’d do anything to melt with Cruise.
Garrison University is a superhighway of bicycles, bodies, and brick buildings as tall and ornate as cathedrals. A tower sits in the center, erect, proud, and well, in every way a monument to all things phallic. A giant metal-framed globe sits on top, declaring it the tallest structure on campus. I gaze at it an inordinate amount of time and wonder how frightening it would feel to be perched on top of its skeletal frame, how fragile the world would look from that vantage point.
I move through the crowd and soak in the people, the luxurious landscape that puts to shame the tiny junior college I went to back home. The stone benches with students sitting beneath the trees, expensively dressed girls with tall leather boots, warm wool coats and supple leather handbags. I keep forgetting most everyone at Garrison is a child of privilege, save for the few like me who managed to score a scholarship. But I’m here. I’ve escaped the soup kitchen that was my mother’s home, the dreadful beat box neighborhood where she landed us time after time. And now, Morgan and I are both quasi independent, freeing my mother of the lead shoes we had been for the better half of two decades. Here I am at Garrison, officially on my own. It feels as if the very next step I take will usher me over the threshold into adulthood.
I love it here. I can finally breathe.
Then there’s Cruise, who perhaps is the best thing Garrison, Carrington, and Massachusetts as a whole have going for them, at least in my eyes. Everything in me soars at the prospect of seeing Cruise today, as if living together could never be enough.
Bodies begin to thin out, and the bicycles whirl by more spastic than before, so I hustle over to the liberal arts building for my first class of the day, gender relations. I hike my way to the second floor of an over-bright building. Everything looks new and immaculate inside with its glossy white walls and floors to match. The walls are devoid of the graffiti and informational posters I’ve grown accustomed to at my last school. The hint of fresh paint lingers in the air—the scent of pine cleaner layered just beneath that.
Room 228A. This is it.
I peer inside. It’s nearly full with row after row of students crammed behind tiny desks, the same ones they had at my old J.C. I’m not sure why this surprises me.
A girl swoops inside, and I slide in after her taking a seat in the second row. I hate sitting anywhere near the front. It’s the not-so-fun zone because everybody knows your odds of getting picked on go up astronomically. My backpack hardly fits at my feet, and I find this more than slightly irritating. For some reason I thought the forty thousand dollar price difference would add some square footage to my seating area.
The professor stands with his back turned to the class. He’s tall, dressed in a tweed jacket and brown cords—looks nice enough. He busies himself writing something on the chalkboard. Chalk. For sure I thought they’d have those interactive whiteboards gracing this institution of overpriced learning. My mother used to joke you could replace the S in Garrison with a dollar sign. It’s nothing but the best at Garrison, she would chime. But even my J.C. had the slightly more appealing whiteboards to tool around on.
The professor remains diligent in his primitive communication endeavor as a trail of dust snows down from his fingertips. God, he looks gorgeous from behind. He sort of reminds me of Cruise the way his hair narrows to his neck in neat waves. In fact, the way he just jerked his shoulder reminds me of a muscular twitch I’ve seen Cruise demonstrate on more than one occasion. I would know. I’ve been watching Cruise Elton like a freaking hawk these past three weeks. I memorized his nuances, studied them like it were a new field in science, his breathing pattern could keep me mesmerized for years.
He turns around and inventories the population until he lands right on me with that killer smile.
A breath gets caught in my throat.
Shit!
It is Cruise!
I straighten in my seat completely caught off guard by the fact I’ve secretly been devising a plan to sleep with faculty of all people. It feels innately dirty and oh so delicious all at the same time. I give a private wave before sinking in my seat a little.
“Love.” He steps away from the blackboard and reveals the word scrawled out in large block letters. “Welcome to Gender Relations. Professor Bradshaw is out indefinitely for the semester, and until he’s able to reprise his role I’ll be stepping in. You can call me Cruise or Mr. Elton if you feel so moved.” He glances up at me and the curve of a wicked smile ignites. “Master, if you like.”
Half the girls in class have a Cruise-gasam at the quasi innuendo.
A thin girl with a razor-sharp haircut leans in and whispers. “Can you believe this?” She looks completely unfazed by Cruise’s godlike qualities and sudden desire to be addressed in such an egotistical manner.
“Nope, I can’t believe this at all.” I give a wry smile, never taking my eyes off Mr. Elton.
God, he cleans up nice. He even shaved for the occasion—he’s wearing a tie and shiny brown shoes, which totally make him look official and everything. To think I came this close to raking up against one of my professors. Not that he’s a bona fide professor. He’s more of a sexy fill-in, but still.
A wave of heat spreads through me as he passes out the syllabus. He hands a thick stack to the girl seated to my left and one to me before moving on.
Gender Relations Spring Semester
Syllabus
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