Walk of Shame

by ANDREA SMITH

  “Must every other word out of your mouth be profane?” she asked; her magnified brown eyes bored into his. The chick was plain. No, strike that. The chick was pathetically plain. In fact, she couldn’t be any plainer if she tried.

  There were several moments of silence.

  “Oh, that wasn’t rhetorical?” he asked sweetly, spreading his long legs out in front of him. He slouched down even further in his chair.

  “Honestly, Weston, I’m being paid good money to tutor you in this class. Perhaps your father’s money doesn’t mean much to you, but why waste it if you’re not even going to try? You have a test coming up next week and, based on your quiz score, it’s doubtful you will pass. And this is, after all, your second time around in this class.”

  Fuck if she hadn’t brought up a sore subject with that last remark. He wondered if she’d had some covert conversation with his father; her words had a ring of familiarity.

  He sighed and shrugged. “Give me another book to read then. I can get it done over the weekend and ask Lindquist to test me on that one instead.”

  She stood up and turned her back to him, grabbing an eraser from the ledge under the chalkboard. She started viciously erasing the quiz questions for which Weston had evidently bombed. “No,” she replied decisively.

  “No?”

  “Don’t sound so incredulous, Mr. Matthews. I know it’s not a word you’re accustomed to hearing, but it is just the one syllable, and here’s a tidbit for you: it sounds and means the same thing in English, French, and Spanish.”

  Smart ass.

  “Why are you such a smart ass, Penny? Does it make you feel superior showing off your genius, huh? Does it make up for the obvious lack of cock in your life?”

  And now he knew for sure that he had hit a sore spot with the walking encyclopedia. She undoubtedly needed to be thoroughly fucked by someone with a Teflon dick.

  “Don’t like the sound of ‘no’ at all, huh? Go figure frat boy. But your trash talk doesn’t faze me. You can’t switch your book syllabus without my approval, and guess what? I’m not approving.”

  Psycho nerd bitch.

  “Look,” he said, now totally exasperated with her bitchiness, “I need to pass the test. You’re my tutor, so what are you going to do about that? I mean, hell, you’re being paid well like you said.”

  Weston watched as the magnitude of what he’d just said sunk in. Once it had, he found himself the recipient of the rogue eraser she had just flung at him, barely missing his head as he ducked.

  “I’m being paid to tutor you, not take your place in the classroom!” she hissed.

  Weston took a long moment to look at her.

  Penny Lane.

  He thought to himself, “Who the fuck named their daughter after a god damn Beatles’ tune? Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes… He couldn’t argue with that what with her looks and her damn voice!

  He took inventory: short mousy brown hair; dark brown eyes that were magnified by the ‘coke bottle’ glasses she wore and had to constantly slide back up her nose with her fingers. Her face was devoid of make-up, her fingernails absent of polish, and she had just a slight overbite. He wouldn’t have classified her as a total “Bucky Beaver,” but some orthodontia had not been forthcoming in her adolescence. But it was her wardrobe that totally flipped him out. He dismissed the fact that it appeared she shopped for clothing at a Goodwill store, but what the fuck was with the conservative, body-hiding garb? Was she Amish?

  Her breasts were non-existent underneath her bulky turtleneck sweater, and though the rest of her body was slender, she had a tummy roll that was kind of uncharacteristic for the rest of her build. He couldn’t really tell what her legs looked like because the jean skirt she was wearing damn near went to her slim ankles. Her shoes were “sensible,” reminiscent of what his grandmother might wear.

  What the fuck was her story? Lesbian maybe? Considering the university was private and expensive, she obviously had the financial means he would have thought. Even that shit could have been overlooked, but her nasally voice grated on his nerves more than anything else. And that was something she clearly couldn’t do anything about.

  Weston knew he was shallow, but at least he had class enough to admit it.

  He finally broke the silence again. “Listen Penny Lane,” he sang to the melody of that old song. “I realize that you and I aren’t going to find common ground here because, you see, unlike you, I do have a life, social and otherwise. So let’s cut the shit. What do I need to do in order to pass this mother fucker next week?”

  She flounced back down in her seat, and opened a file, handing him an assignment sheet. “First of all, re-read The Land Before Her, and here is another sample test for you to complete without looking at the book,” she warned. She then handed him another sheet with an essay attached. “You’re probably going to need to turn in extra credit after you complete the exam. Professor Lindquist provided this additional essay by the same author. If you read and summarize the compelling points of it, it will add five points to your exam grade. Trust me, you’ll need those points.”

  He pulled the essay out, and glanced at the title. Fuck! It was by the same author. “Dancing Through the Minefield: Some Observations on the Theory, Practice, and Politics of a Feminist Literary Criticism.”

  He looked up at her quickly; his eyes widened in disbelief. “Are you shitting me?” he asked, totally blown away by the fact he now had to read a thick essay by the same author that created the snoozer book he had to read. “Are you seriously shitting me?” he repeated.

  She opened her briefcase, and gathered the rest of her files and papers on the desk, placing them neatly in the various pockets inside. She snapped it shut, and then looked over at him with a smug smile. “I wouldn’t do that,” she crooned, “you’re my favorite turd. See you Tuesday at three. I’ll give you another sample test then. Good luck on your studying this weekend, Weston.”

  And with that, she traipsed out of the study room and Weston heard the sound of her flats slapping against the concrete floors of Wilson Hall.

  It seemed to Weston that he had just dozed off when a loud pounding on his bedroom door startled him awake. “Yo, Weston, come on man! We’ve got our DD lined up and the chariot awaits us.”

  He looked at the clock. Shit, it was after nine. He’d slept for three hours. “Hang on, Marcus. Jesus Christ, I just woke up.”

  Marcus Holt was his closest friend and frat brother. Since it was Friday, Marcus had most likely conned Drake or Alex to be their designated driver tonight. Weston saw no reason not to drag his ass out and do the weekly bar crawl with them.

  Well, there was one reason to stay put. Obviously it was to cram all weekend, re-take the new quiz Penny gave him for the terrible book, and then read and summarize the important points of that fucking essay for extra credit.

  Though that should have been Weston’s priority, he was hard-pressed to turn down a night out partying and the potential for a hook up.

  Besides, Sundays were for cramming in his world. Made perfect sense.

  “You coming?” Marcus yelled as he headed down the stairs.

  “Give me two minutes, dude,” Weston hollered out, launching himself off the bed and into the bathroom to brush his teeth and splash water on his face. He rubbed a hand over the stubble along his jawline, and debated momentarily whether or not he needed a quick shave.

  Nah.

  Chicks liked the stubble. He dried his face and then ran a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. It was dark brown, nearly black, and thick with a bit of a natural waviness to it. His mom always told him he was the picture of his father. She meant it as a compliment, he was sure, but it wasn’t received that way.

  Almost time for a trim, he thought, turning away from the mirror. He pulled off his tee shirt and grabbed a clean black one from the dresser, pulling it down over his head, and pushing his arms through the short sleeves. He flexed his muscles and watched them bulge, and then laughed at his ow
n vanity.

  Good to go.

  Weston bounced down the stairs just as two of his frat brothers were heading out the door. “Where we headed first?” he finally thought to ask as he hit the front porch behind them.

  “Going into Bainbridge. Meeting the other guys at a place called Big Daddy’s.”

  He’d heard of it. Lots of the Ratliff chicks hung out there. Quite a soiree of nerdy chicks he guessed. “Seriously? Why?”

  “It’s simple, Weston. We need to expand our horizons.”

  He shrugged as he loped off the steps.

  “Might be different if you fuck some pussy with an IQ for a change,” Marcus quipped, shoving Weston backwards.

  “And you’re one to talk?” he challenged. “I seem to remember your last puck bunny. Boobra? Her IQ was the same as her tit size I think.”

  Marcus shook his head and chuckled at Weston’s comments. He couldn’t argue with what he had said, but Barbara was actually a sweet girl. It just hadn’t worked out to be anything serious. Anyway, Marcus’ hookups were much fewer and far between than his best friend’s. Sometimes Marcus wondered if Weston purposely avoided girls that might have potential for more than random sex. He seemed to be drawn to the bitchy snobs, for which there was certainly no shortage of in Bainbridge. “Yeah, I guess there is something to be said for intelligence. Kind of sexy, really.”

  Weston immediately thought of his tutor from hell. Maybe he should hook Marcus up with her if scholarly pussy was what he wanted. He quickly wiped that thought from his mind.

  Even Weston couldn’t be that much of a prick.

  Chapter 3

  “Got three orders of wings – make'em Napalm, and an onion loaf, Grady,” I holler, heading back behind the bar to fill the drink orders. Beers of course, imported beers. The nectar of college jocks. I pull three frosted mugs from the cooler, and place them on a tray, along with the three bottles of beer and head over to Table 26 where the guys are sitting, watching something on one of the dozen or so plasma screens plastered on the walls throughout Big Daddy’s.

  I recognize one of them as Marcus Holt, one of the star jocks on Hardwick’s hockey team. Eva follows the team and is forever pointing out Marcus in the paper or when she stalks his Facebook page. She has a major crush. The other two aren’t familiar, but I figure they’re all on the team. Rich, egotistical assholes.

  As I head back with the beers, I see the table count has now increased by one. Another jock has joined the group. Well, well, well. If it isn’t the well-known goalie/manwhore of Hardwick’s hockey team, Weston Matthews.

  Hah!

  I place the tray of beers on the table, and my eyes lock with Weston Matthews’, but only briefly. His dark grey eyes start the elevator assessment - moving down then back up again, stalling at my tits. Yeah, my girls are more exposed than what I would typically allow, but the fact that a white, tie-front crop top, along with black shorts are the signature ‘Big Daddy’s’ work attire, there’s little I can do about it. It goes against my grain, but I need the job.

  “Well, I see we have added one to the party of three,” I say, trying my best not to sound irritated by the newbie who is still eye-fucking me as I set each beer in front of the others. “What can I get you to drink?”

  “Got milk?” he murmurs, huskily, his eyes still staring at my chest, and a grin spreading across his five o’clock shadowed face. He has a rakish appeal, which I’m sure serves him well with the female coeds. His thick dark brown hair is tousled, from the wind or maybe from something else, but he rocks it for what it’s worth no doubt. Immediately his buddies roar with laughter, except Marcus who is sitting to the left of him. He gives him a jab in the ribs.

  “Don’t be an ass, Weston,” he snaps, “at least not this early. We’re not getting booted out of this place our first time in. At least not before we eat anyway.”

  Nice.

  “Lighten up, Marcus,” Weston says, still grinning. “I can show my appreciation of the female anatomy without being an ass, can’t I?”

  “Doubtful,” I murmur, not bothering to hide my irritation now. I have the tray tucked under one arm, and I’m tapping my fingers against it impatiently. “Heineken?” I suggest since that’s what the others ordered.

  “Jack and Coke,” he says, his gaze now fixed north of my tits. “Can you repeat that so I’m sure you got it right?” His eyes are on my lips now.

  What an asshole.

  I lean down, my eyes boring into his and whisper throatily, “Jack and Coke. Anything to eat, or would you like to see a menu?”

  He now shifts under my scrutiny. I know the type. I’ve worked here long enough to pretty much figure out the male psyche. He’s a frat boy, jock, wealthy of course, no scholarship required for this blue blood stud. He no doubt gets more than his share of college pussy. His eyes flicker to my name tag.

  “Peyton,” he croons, “nice name. How about you bring me an order of whatever these guys are having. I’ll make it easy on you. Just add one to the order of three, okay?”

  I stiffen, “Okay, so I guess that makes it what? Four?” I say slowly, looking at him innocently for affirmation, while I nibble on the end of my pencil. His eyes are watching my lips and he clears his throat, running his hands down his jean-clad thighs.

  “You’re awesome, Peyton,” he replies with a smile. “Very good, babe.”

  I turn and walk back towards the bar, hearing the sound of masculine chuckling, and knowing that at least one set of eyes are watching my backside as I do.

  Same shit, different day. It gets old but I’ve grown accustomed to it, though I can’t say it still doesn’t irritate the hell out of me at times. The later it gets, the more the alcohol turns flirtations into crude suggestions and, at times, grabby hands. I’ve slapped my share of those, and Max will personally make sure those that touch are tossed out and told not to come back.

  I tend to the other tables in my area, noting that whenever I pass Table 26, Weston’s eyes seem to be on me and whatever conversation he’s involved in ceases. It’s really starting to unnerve me.

  When I deliver another round of drinks to the table, along with their food order, Weston takes the opportunity to lean in close as I’m placing the last platter of wings in front of him. “You guys need anything else?” I ask, and I can hear the nervous lilt in my own voice, which is so not like me.

  “Nah, that should do it, hun,” the one named Alex replies. “You can cash us out.”

  “Hey Peyton,” Weston calls out, as I’m tallying up their bill. “Want to hear a joke about my dick? Aww, never mind. It’s too long.”

  His friends chuckle loudly, high-fiving him.

  I’m not amused.

  I shoot him a dagger, and don’t miss a beat. “Oh really? Well, do you want to hear a joke about my pussy?”

  Silence.

  He quirks an eyebrow suspiciously at me. He doesn’t realize it’s his turn to play the straight man here.

  “Never mind, Weston, you won’t get it.”

  I place their bill on the table and as I turn and walk away, the roar of their laughter gives me a bit of smug satisfaction.

  Later, as I start lifting the empty plates from their table, I see that under Weston’s plate he’s left a forty-dollar tip. On one of the twenty dollar bills he’s written, ‘Sorry I was an ass. Gorgeous chicks bring out the worst in me sometimes.’

  I stuff the money into the pocket of my shorts, and continue clearing the table, feeling the corners of my mouth turn up in a smile. At least he owns the fact that he’s an ass. But it’s gonna take more than forty bucks to earn my respect.

  Back at the apartment, it’s nearly one o’clock in the morning when I get in. Eva has gone out with friends, but left a note that Stuart got in touch with her after he couldn’t reach me to say he’d be in town Sunday afternoon and would be staying over until Tuesday morning. She left a sad face at the end of the note.

  Stuart gets on her nerves, I realize that and, in a way, I get it. I reall
y do. He knows that I don’t have my phone on when I work, and yet rather than text or leave a voicemail, he made it a point to convey this message person to person, as if that is the only way he trusts that I will get it.

  Let me back up. Stuart is my boyfriend. He goes to Western New England College in Springfield. We have sort of a semi long distance relationship. We met a year and a half ago at a poli-sci job fair at Mount Holyoke. I was working it and he was attending. He’s nearly finished with his Master’s degree, and already has a job waiting for him in D.C. with a lobbying group. That’s always been his dream from what he’s told me.

  Our dating has consisted of taking turns when both of us have spare time driving to either Springfield or Bainbridge depending on whose turn it is. We generally see one another twice a month. During the summer, we see each other once a week. And, to be honest, I’m not sure if seeing more of one another would be a good thing or not.

  We come from different places, and I don’t mean geographically, although we do, but more importantly, socio-economically. Stuart is the oldest of three from a well-to-do family from Chicago. His father is an attorney and his mother is a CPA. He is the oldest and the only son to boot, so he is the “heir apparent,” for all intents and purposes. His two younger sisters can’t hold a candle to his achievements and aspirations.

  Stuart is two years older than I am. He’s twenty-three to my twenty-one. His sister, Deanna, is twenty and married to her high school sweetheart, and the youngest, Sadie, is seventeen and going into her senior year of high school. According to Stu, she’s all about sports and boys. He refers to her as a “DDB.” (Dizzy Ditzy Blonde).

  Although Stuart is blonde, there is absolutely nothing ‘ditzy’ about him. He’s all business, but that’s not to say he can’t be social because he can, when the situation warrants it, which is why I know he will be perfectly suited to lobbying. He has an engaging smile, and possesses intensity for whatever he feels passionate about, which I’m pretty sure isn’t me.