Sorority Girls With Guns

by Cat Caruthers

Tiffany catches on and jumps in. “What if my salad had a hair in it and I ate it? What am I supposed to do, drink a bottle of Nair?”

  “No, no-“ the manager starts, but she cuts him off by standing up, jumping onto her chair, and banging a spoon against her water glass.

  Now where does she get off stealing my spotlight, the underhanded bitch?

  “Everyone, I’d like you to know that there was a hair in my friend’s salad, and there may be one in yours, so you should all go home and drink some Nair!” she announces.

  All of a sudden everyone in the room, even the half-hungover, half-drunk frat boys, has fallen totally silent.

  I realize, with horror, that once again, someone else has upstaged me. Tiffany, in her obvious ploy to get a free meal in more or less the same way I did, stumbled upon the viral video moment without even trying. Why is it so fucking easy for some people and not for me?

  As the manager assures Tiffany that all of our meals will be on the house, one of the frat boys drunkenly lurches to his feet and asks, “I just drank half a keg. Nair has alcohol in it, right?”

  As I’m trying, desperately, to think of a way to steal back the spotlight, Richard leans over and whispers to me, “Wasn’t it lucky you found a hair in your salad?”

  “Lucky?” Normally I’d have to feign unhappiness, but right now I really don’t have to fake it. “How is this lucky for me, Richard? Because I got a free meal?”

  “You and all your rich friends got a free meal – all because the balding manager wandered away from the desk he obviously sits at all day, into the kitchen where the food is prepared, and lost another hair right there in your salad.” Richard folds his arms and leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowing at me. And are those eyes blue! If he wasn’t such a fucking pain in the ass, I might actually be attracted to him.

  “If you’re implying that I did something to help that hair get into my salad, you’re completely wrong,” I snap. “And do I look happy? Tiffany is having a viral moment if I ever saw one, and no one who sees this video is even going to remember I was here. Now would you please shut up so I can figure out how to get the focus back on me?”

  Richard picks up his phone and flicks his thumb across the front, causing the red light to blink out. “The show’s over. You might as well stop recording too.”

  I realize he’s right. Tiffany, Morgan and the others are following the manager to the front of the building, where he is still profusely apologizing. The other diners are following suit, except that they’re stopping to pay for their meals. Suckers. With a sigh, I thumb off my phone, grab my bag and shove my chair back.

  “Can I ask you something? Now that we’re off the record?” Richard asks.

  I’m not dumb enough to fall for this one. “Yes, I really did find that hair in my salad.”

  Chapter Five

  It's been a shitty day and all I want to do is go back to my shitty, cheap motel room in the Motel One (so named, I'm sure, because they don't have repeat customers), take a shower and dig into the Oreo stash in my suitcase. Hey, I refrained from ordering the Oreo Bomb desert at the restaurant (mostly because it had about as many calories as five billion salads, but also because it was almost as expensive as the salad). And yes, the $2.50 plus tax I paid for the Oreos came out of my $500.

  Tiffany and Morgan have decided to go chasing after the frat boys, who are, apparently, throwing an epic party down at the beach. I've been to more than enough epic parties on campus, and when I get in a bad mood like this (which is at least once a day, on average), I really like to be alone. Also, did I mention I'm sharing a room with Morgan and Tiffany? Yeah, it's the only way we could afford the trip on our Richard-appointed budget.

  Speaking of Richard, he's going back to his room to watch our GluedToYou channel, where Tiffany and Morgan have promised to post frequent live video of the "epic party" to prove they aren't cheating. Which is silly, because someone else will already have provided the booze at this epic party, but if that's how Richard wants to spend his first night on vacation, he can knock himself out. Hopefully he'll also catch my public service announcement vid about LDD (Low Dollar Disorder), in which I explain the symptoms (irritability, bitching, moaning, craving expensive items) and treatment options (large amounts of cash).

  I'm almost at the door to my crummy motel room (which means I'm still outside, that's how much of a dump this place is), when I hear someone yelling my name. Thinking it's Richard, trying to pick another fight, I whirl around, ready to tell him he better not interfere with my chocolate ingestion mission.

  But it's not Richard - it's Hoolio, the waiter.

  "Did your boss change his mind about comping our meals and send you to collect?" I ask, suddenly worried.

  "No, no, I was just...." He trails off, staring at his feet as if there was a mirror on each one. Okay, like I would stare at my feet if there was a mirror on each one. "I was just wondering if you'd like to take a walk on the beach with me? It's nice this time of night, and you obviously didn't want to go to that party with your friends and table eight."

  "Table eight? Oh, the drunk frat boys? I see enough of that back at home, why pay fifty bucks a night to watch drunken idiots?" What the hell, I am supposed to be slumming it. "Sure, let's go for a walk."

  "So, if you don't mind my asking, why are you friends with that group?" Julio asks. "You seem so different from them."

  For some reason, with the camera off and everyone else gone, I feel like making this my honest moment of the day. “I like hanging around dumb people because it makes me look smarter in comparison, all right? I also have friends who are, let’s say, not aesthetically fortunate. Want to guess why I hang around them?”

  Hoolio stops walking and turns to look at me. He’s actually not bad-looking, if you don’t look directly at the nose ring. “Are you serious? That’s really why you hang out with these people?”

  I’m starting to get a judgmental vibe from him, kind of like Richard Lite. “You’ve never hung out with someone because it made you feel better about yourself? Not once?”

  He shakes his head, the braids flapping behind him like birds that had too much to drink. “No, that’s not what I mean! Of course I have. I’m just surprised because you’re obviously very clever – you don’t need them for comparison.”

  That does a lot to make the judgmental vibe go away, and I’m actually starting to like Hoolio, so I decide to have a rare second moment of honesty today. “Well, there is another reason. Dumb, drunk people are very easy to manipulate.”

  “What is it you’re manipulating them out of? They obviously don’t have any more money than you do. I seriously doubt any of them are doing your homework. And I can’t imagine you’d have a romantic interest in any of them – except maybe that one guy. At least, he has the hots for you.”

  “What guy? You mean Charlie?” I’m thoroughly confused. “We went out once, but that was months ago. There was no chemistry. And the last couple months, he’s been all about Tiffany.”

  “Charlie?” Hoolio scratches his head. “Oh, the one your friend wanted to pay for her meal? No, not him. The other one. The miserable-looking rich guy.”

  “Oh!” I laugh at the thought of seriously dating Richard. “Him? You think he’s into me?”

  Hoolio shrugs. “I wait on a lot of couples, a lot of groups. I can always tell who’s into who, regardless of who came with who.”

  “And you seriously think Richard wants me?” It occurs to me that maybe that’s why Richard is so pissy about money. Does he remember what I said about it being a barrier between us? No, of course not – he’s dating Morgan, and she loves money, too.

  Hoolio shrugs, staring down at the sand as he walks. “He’s definitely interested. He’s not sure if he’s even on your radar, and I think he’s probably right.”

  I shake my head. “He annoys the crap out of me. I mean, he’s a good-looking guy, and his personality might be okay if he wasn’t so judgmental. But I can’t see myself dating someone wh
o’s constantly complaining about…” I trail off, realizing I can’t say anymore without outing the bet.

  “About what?” Hoolio snaps his head up and looks at me. “What’s his deal, anyway? He’s a rich guy, palling around with people like you and me.”

  “How do you know he’s rich?” I’m surprised that Richard’s doing such a good job faking it already.

  Hoolio shrugs. “I see all kinds working in that tourist trap. Lower-middle class, middle-middle class, upper-middle-class and beyond. You can tell, after a while.”

  “How?”

  “Lots of things. The clothes, the shoes, the hair. With girls, it’s usually the handbags – the fake ones are usually so bad you can tell they’re fake without knowing a thing about fashion. I don’t know what brand some of them are, but I know they’re fake.”

  “And guys? Richard?”

  “The shoes. Again, I don’t know or care about brand names, but the cheap ones look cheap from a mile away. Watches too, but not everyone wears one anymore – you know, with cell phones doing the same thing and so much more.” He grins. “But it’s not just that stuff, you know. Rich people have a way of acting – some of them are confident, like you. But some of them feel bad about their money – that’s Richard.”

  Okay, now I see what’s happened. Richard’s rich-hating crap is rubbing off on his rich-guy act and coming off as rich-and-ashamed. I’ve known plenty of those, and I see how the two could be confused.

  But what to tell Hoolio? He’s smarter than any guy I met at the university, which isn’t saying much. I can’t tell him the truth, but I kind of like him and don’t want to lie to him about everything.

  “You’re right about Richard,” I say, feeling like I’m walking a tightrope. “He really disapproves of wealth, especially conspicuous wealth. But it doesn’t stop him from wearing brand names. It just makes him…hang out with people of a different economic bracket. But that means that he doesn’t really fit in anywhere…so I guess that’s probably why he has such a stick up his ass.”

  Hoolio nods. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

  “I kind of feel bad for him,” I say. “But I’m not interested in getting together with him.”

  “That’s good to know.” Hoolio stares out at the ocean and keeps walking. Playing hard to get – I hate to admit it, but that turns me on more often than it should. In my defense, Hoolio is kind of offbeat-way hot. And, he actually pays attention to me when I talk. Most guys just stare at my boobs and mumble neutralities. Or they try to ply me with alcohol, unaware of how ineffective it is on me.

  I definitely want to keep spending time with Hoolio, but I need to shut down his path of inquiry. “Enough about me and my friends,” I say. “Tell me something about you. Like, is Hoolio really your name?”

  “It’s what my shirt says.” He shrugs and points at my chest. “Is Lady Gaga really your name?”

  I am, after all, wearing my favorite Lady Gaga t-shirt. “No, but I am every bit as talented a singer as she is.”

  We’ve reached the end of the pier now, and the moonlight would be romantic…if Hoolio’s nose ring wasn’t throwing such a glare in my eyes. It occurs to me, as Hoolio takes a step closer, that I’ve never actually kissed a guy with such a big nose ring. The little studs, sure, small rings, but this is one of those huge double-nostril numbers that would look cruel if it was stuck in a bull’s nose.

  Here’s the problem: I really, really hate my own nose, because it’s long and beakish and absolutely my worst feature. I would get it fixed in an instant, but the truth is that I really don’t trust doctors. You have one quack send you on one horrifically bad trip – we’re talking the sort of thing I’ve heard old people wax poetic about when recounting what little they remember of the sixties – in a failed attempt at anesthesia and you never mess with that shit again.

  So, how this affects the problem at hand – I have a long nose and Hoolio has a big, honking nose ring and he’s leaning in for the kiss and I decide to just turn my head so I don’t awkwardly clunk his nose ring. Apparently he’s already thought of this, because he leans his head to the side too, and too late I realize that we’re going to miss. I end up catching the corner of his mouth with my tongue, and that’s about it for that kiss.

  “Kissing with this nose ring takes some practice,” Hoolio says, and I can see his face getting red in the moonlight.

  “Okay, just hold still.” I stand up on tiptoe – Hoolio, like most people in the world, is a lot taller than me – and kiss him, just long enough to leave him wanting more.

  The next step, for me anyway, is always to bounce back to hard-to-get immediately. “I’ll see you around,” I say, and start walking back toward the hotel.

  As I predicted, Hoolio runs after me like a dog going after a tennis ball. “I’ll be working at the restaurant during the day, but I get off at five.”

  “Sounds nice.” I keep walking.

  “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

  I continue walking, but slow my pace so he can keep up. “I don’t know. I’ll have to check with my friends. We’ll probably spend the day together, hanging around the beach or something.”

  “Well, if they ditch you for a party tomorrow night, maybe we could hang out,” Hoolio says.

  I shrug noncommittally. “Sure, if I’m free.” I pull his phone out of his shirt pocket, enter my number, and hand it back to him. “See you around.”

  Chapter Six

  "I'd like to thank my friend Tiffany for her support, but all she ever did was tell me to give up on getting famous and find a rich guy to marry. I'd like to thank my friend Morgan, but she once told me I had as much chance of getting my own reality show as the Grumpy Cat had of being in a good mood. I'd like to thank-"

  "Shade!" Morgan is screaming at me and shaking me out of my awesome dream. "Wake up! It's an emergency!"

  My eyes open and my brain, still half-asleep, attempts to process the situation: I am not on stage accepting my first of many Grammys. I am in a dumpy motel room with cigarette holes in the hideous bedspread and rust spots creeping across the brass lamp on the nightstand. And Morgan is standing by my bed, shaking me awake and screaming that there's an emergency.

  "What's...happening?" I have trouble finding my words before I'm awake. That would be before I have my coffee. "Are they having a sale on Miss Me skinny jeans?"

  "No, this is serious!" Morgan yells. As my brain starts to function, I realize that she must be right. The thing about Morgan is that she always looks perfect - her hair, her makeup, her clothes. Nothing ever fails to match. She never has a hair out of place.

  Well, she never did until now. Her hair is uncombed, tumbling in dark waves around a pale, makeup-less and totally unnatural-looking face. (It takes Morgan at least three layers of makeup to reach a "natural" look.) She's wearing a terrycloth bathrobe and one slipper.

  I wrack my brain for what could cause Morgan's uncharacteristically uncaring behavior. "Did you lose your phone charger again?"'

  "No, I'm about to become a viral internet sensation in the wrong way - and it's all your fault!"

  Now I'm definitely awake. "You didn't accidentally post a vid to one of the other social media sites, did you? You know GluedToYou won't give us any money if it turns out the clip was previously published to another-"

  "I accidentally made a sex tape last night and it's all your fault!"

  I stare at Morgan. "You...forgot to turn off your phone before you and Richard had sex?"

  She looks at the floor, which is covered in a tacky shag carpeting that looks like it's seen better days - like the seventies. "Not...exactly."

  "With someone other than Richard?"

  Morgan sighs heavily. "I've told you before, there's nothing between me and Richard. We just like to talk."

  "So he won't be upset if he sees this sex tape of you and...?"

  "Just because I don't have a boyfriend who'd get jealous doesn't mean I want the world to see me in a sex tape!" Morgan yells, s
o loudly I think she's trying to advertise the damn thing. "I'm applying to medical schools this fall. I can't have some tawdry sex tapes floating around!"

  "So you accidentally recorded yourself and...I'm guessing some guy at that party you went to?"

  She shrugs. "His name's Biff."

  "Please tell me you're kidding."

  "Do I look like I"m laughing?" She's pacing the room now, wearing a track in the filthy green shag.

  "So how did the video get away from you? Did Biff steal your phone or something?"

  She stops pacing, hands on hips and stares down at her bare feet. At least her pedicure still looks perfect. "No, I still have my phone. But this morning, I was looking at the videos I made yesterday after I stopped the live feed, in case there was anything interesting I should post. And I found this vid of me and Biff, which I deleted immediately. But then I was looking through my sent texts to see if I sent Biff my number, because I was wondering why he hadn't called me yet-"

  I consult my own phone as I reluctantly climb out of bed. "It's only just barely ten o'clock, Morgan. The guy probably isn't awake yet." Unlike me, Morgan is a morning person - she willingly gets up at 5:30 most mornings. Sometimes on the weekend she sleeps in until seven.

  "Well, anyway, I was looking through my sent texts and I saw one with a video attachment sent at a little after midnight last night."

  I squeeze toothpaste onto my toothbrush and prepare to face the ickiness of a dumpy motel bathroom sink. "I'm guessing you had a few drinks last night."

  She shrugs. "A few. But I remember coming back here to go to sleep." She points at her rumpled bed. "I got back around twelve-thirty. The text was sent around midnight, before I left."

  "So you think Biff emailed himself the video while you were...stumbling around the room picking up your clothes?"

  She chews her lip. "Yee...aah."

  I stick my head in the bathroom, spit in the general direction of the sink and duck back out. "But you don't know he posted the vid, or that he's going to. Maybe he wanted it for his own personal enjoyment later."

  "Ick." Morgan crinkles her nose, but then she adds, "I hope so. But I'd feel better if we got the video back from him."