The Slam (11 page)

I worked my tongue around my spoon, savoring every last morsel. “Sure,” I said at last. “Maybe just pop in and pop out.”

By the time we were back on campus grounds, it was already dusk. The sun was sinking behind the clouds and our shadows were lengthening across the sidewalk.

All of a sudden, a guy popped out of the bushes, wrapped only in an orange sheet.

“My metamorphosis is complete!” he yelled to no one in particular. “I am a beautiful butterfly!” Then he tossed the sheet to the ground—revealing the fact that he was completely naked underneath—and ran off into the pink sunset.

“You smell that?” Miguel said with a merry laugh. “Pledges.”

I opened my mouth and was just about to say something when Miguel screamed, “Look out!”

In the nick of time, I hopped over to the left, neatly sidestepping a cyclist.

“Drunk bikers.” Miguel shook his head. “But I
do
love drunk biking,” he admitted a moment later. “It’s like drunk running, only better.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“Drunk biking feels like time traveling. Usually when I arrive at the destination, I have no idea how I got there.” He nudged me playfully. “You should try it sometime.”

“Hah!” I smirked. “One new experience at a time is all I can handle. I’m already trying something new with this dress.”

“
Gurl
, you know you look
foyyyyyyne
in that dress!” he enthused. “Trust me, you’re
muy, muy, muy caliente!”

“Really?” It was my first time wearing a dress and suddenly my own limbs became unfamiliar, my movements uncertain.

“Just loosen your shoulders,” Miguel instructed. “You’re too stiff… too robotic. Relax! Chill!”

“Okay,” I said, jogging on the spot. “I’ll try to.” Galvanized into action, I began rolling my neck and stretching, shaking out my legs and arms, trying to relax. Trying to be chill.

“Yes,” Miguel said encouragingly. “Be cool. Be fluid. Loosen up. You
got
this.”

“Right,” I said, letting my arms hang loosely by my sides. “Be cool, okay. I got this.”

I only took a few steps down the sidewalk before Miguel snorted with laughter. “No, no!” he cried, splitting his sides. “You’re doing it all wrong.”

“What am I doing wrong?”

“You’re overdoing it. You’re hunching and swinging your arms too much. You look like an orangutan.”

“An orangutan?” I stared in horror. “Are you telling me my gait resembles that of an orangutan from the Indonesian rainforest?”

He threw his head back and laughed, obviously finding it a little more amusing than I did.

Oh sure, chortle away, laughing boy Miguel.
Chortle away. As if that is any help to me at all.

“Miguel,” I said in all-seriousness. “It would be helpful if you tell me exactly how to correct my gait.”

“All right,” he said, schooling his features into a more serious expression. “The key, my love, is to do it fluidly. Subtly… subtle movements.”

“Considering there’s a big difference between ‘a lot more subtly’ and ‘a little bit subtly,’ can you please define subtly?”

“A lot more subtly,” he said. “A
lot, lot, lot, lot, lot, lot
more subtly.”

With renewed resolve, I gave a crisp nod and tried again.

“Too robotic!” Miguel stifled a laugh. “Now you’re walking like that stiff and fussy protocol droid, C-3PO.”

“Bugger. Cobbles. Bollocks. And… and balls!” Squaring my shoulders, I marched down the sidewalk, becoming increasingly more miffed at myself with each step. “I could give a toss. I’d rather strut around looking like C-3PO,” I said hotly. “I’ll take
that
over an orangutan any day of the week.”

“Suit yourself,” Miguel said coolly.

“So how big is this party?” I huffed and puffed, picking up my pace.

“You’ll see,” he said evasively.

When we were a block away from the chapter house, I said, “How many guys live there?”

“Forty. But Sigma Chi has around sixty-nine members.”

Minutes later, my stride hitched and my jaw slackened when we arrived at the scene. “Oh, what fresh hell!”

Hundreds of people were spilling out of the massive house. Beers were being shot-gunned on the porch, drunkards were tapping a second keg on the lawn, there were people drinking on the roof and hanging out of windows.

“Yep,” Miguel said calmly, standing with his hands in his pockets. “That’s where the party’s at.”

Chapter Eleven

ADELAIDE

The moment I set foot in the frat house, a haze of alcohol and hormones assaulted my senses. The floor was so sticky it almost snatched the soles off of my shoes; the music was so loud I could hear the bass thumping in my chest.

People were hooking up in corners, two couples were pressed up against the stairwell and there was some grinding action going on.

In the middle of the room, a girl was dancing half-naked on a coffee table, twirling around like a spindle of kebab-shop meat.

A handful of people were doing a line of something on that same table—of what exactly, I wasn’t sure.

“Adderall.” Miguel said over my shoulder. “That’s what they’re snorting.”

“Have you tried it?”

“Yeah,” he grunted. “But I have ADHD so it just makes me feel normal.”

“Why do they do it?” I asked.

“Why else?” he answered. “To get high. To add to their buzz.” He tsked. “It’s become a trademark of frat boys and sorority girls. Tragic really. I just think it’s wasteful and unpleasant.”

As we picked our way through the throngs of people, we passed by two guys who were having a minor tussle over a giant burrito.

“That’s Cheech and Chong,” Miguel pointed out. “They’re perpetually stoned and you’ll never catch them apart.” Then he proceeded to point out all the popular ‘brothers’ in the frat house, giving me a brief rundown on them. “That’s Valentine over there.” He gestured in the direction of a lothario who was trying to chat up two girls at once. “They call him Valentine ’cause he thinks he’s a ladies man.” A pause. “He’s
not
.”

A burly guy shouldered past us, spilling beer over Miguel’s shoes. “Fuck, Gary!” he yelled. “Watch it!” When Gary was out of earshot, Miguel said, “His name’s not Gary. But everyone calls him Gary ’cause he acts like a fucking Gary.”

I nodded earnestly even though I had no idea what a typical ‘Gary’ acted like.

“And that’s Quad,” he said, pointing to a shirtless guy sporting a visor.

“Quad,” I mused aloud. “As in quad like the fourth with a ‘IV’ after his last name?”

“Nah.” Miguel shook his head. “There’s like fifty guys with an ‘IV’ and ‘III’ after their last names in Sigma Chi. They call him Quad ’cause he’s got four balls. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. I mean, how could you not want to confirm something that crazy? Who really knows if they’re renegade overgrown cysts or some kind of growth? All I know is they looked like balls to me. Trust me, Quad has four fucking balls.”

“Charming,” I said.

Meanwhile, Quad was in the middle of a striptease.

I quickly averted my gaze. Other than Channing Tatum, I found all male strippers exceedingly gross.

“And that’s Goat dancing next to Quad. That guy is an epitome of
‘I don’t have a personality so I grew a beard to compensate
.’” Miguel rolled his eyes. “I fucking hate man-bun wearing hipsters with their stupid lumberjack beards.”

The man does protest too much
, I thought.

“And,” Miguel went on, “that guy in the corner checking you out—that’s Cox. He gives all the girls the
creepy Uncle feels
.”

Cox grinned cheekily at me.

Ugh. I cringed inwardly. He
was
giving me the
creepy Uncle feels.
“And they call him Cox because?”

“It’s his last name. And why would you call someone named Cox anything else? Stay away from Cox and stay away from Eugene,” he warned. “They treat their bodies as laboratories for exotic pharmacological experiments and you never quite know what to expect when you’re around them.”

“Eugene,” I repeated pensively. “Finally!” I cried. “A Greek letter man without a nickname. What’s the story behind that?”

“His first name is humiliating enough.”

“Oh.”

“And that’s Steve.” He gestured to a guy lighting up a joint. “Fuck, Steve! And that geezer next to him is Gramps. He’s been a member longer than anyone can remember. I think he’s a seventh year, but no one really knows for sure which pledge class he’s from.”

We made our way into another room where a round of beer pong was already in progress. “Wassup, Miguel!” someone yelled.

Miguel grinned broadly. “Jergens!” he yelled back. “Suuuuup.”

“Jergens,” I murmured. “As in the lotion?”

“Precisely,” Miguel replied. “Story is someone walked into his room and found a huge empty bottle of Jergens on his bed. Considering his past, let’s just say it’s not because of chapped skin and cracking elbows.”

“So…” I raised my voice over the loud, thumping music. “Who else do you know here?”

“Buck,” he said. “That’s him over there drinking in the corner. Buck’s a rich redneck. His family owns the lease everyone wants to hunt on. And,” he added, “that dude downing half-finished beers is Janitor. He cleans up after everyone, meaning he’ll eat all the leftovers after the party and take any girl upstairs who’s desperate enough.”

“Ew.” I wrinkled my nose in distaste.

“And that big guy over there with the man-boobs, bumpin’ and grinding on the dance floor—that’s Biggie Smalls. He’s pretty chill. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out how he gets so much play with those childbearing hips. I swear, out of all the guys in this house, Biggie pulls the most chicks.”

“Why do they call him Biggie Smalls?”

“Can’t you tell?” Miguel said drolly. “His left boob is a D cup, and his right one’s an A.”

“That’s so mean,” I said in a shocked tone. “Having different-sized breasts is perfectly normal. In fact, asymmetry—where one body part like a foot or a hand, is a slightly different size or shape from its partner—is relatively common in humans. And as for breasts, empirical studies have shown that the hypersensitivity of the immune system’s left side leads to sixty-five percent of women having a larger left breast.”

“And,” Miguel went on as if he hadn’t even heard me, “that’s Gator behind the turntables. He’s a backwoods redneck, but he’s saved this house thousands of dollars by fixing up a ton of shit. It’s probably against nine different building codes, but no one really cares.”

All I could do was nod and survey the scene around me.

That’s when I spotted Ender sitting on a leather sofa that was tucked away in a corner. Girls were literally perched on the ends of furniture just to be near him.

It was all rather bizarre, really.

Some were circling him like vultures around a carcass.

Others were doing a quick boob-adjust before going up to talk to him.

One after another they made a play for his attention.

It was all very musical chairs, I observed.

But without the fun.

Or the carnival music.

“Ah!” Miguel caught me staring at the circus. “Ender is quite the big man on campus. Star athlete. Captain of Sigma Chi. Hot, popular, not to mention fucking loaded. What can I say? The girls
do
love him.” He smirked. “I mean, look at them over there, throwing themselves at him and having their very own
Fifty Shades of Grey
moment.”

“What happened to feminine wiles?” Irritation crept into my voice. “What happened to subtlety? Where is their pride? Honestly,” I said disdainfully. “Have a bit of dignity!”

Miguel turned to me and arched a brow. “You sure your feelings are still platonic?”

“Yes,” I said staunchly, but a slight seed of doubt slipped in my mind.

Now I wasn’t so sure anymore. For reasons I couldn’t even begin to explain, seeing him with all those girls left me feeling hollow and perturbed.

Does this mean it’s no longer platonic
? I wondered, feeling increasingly vexed.

Meanwhile, the ladies were still fawning over Ender and he was being his usual moody, brooding self.

What a complete boiled cabbage!

But it pleased me to no end that he greeted their fawning in his usual way—with a scowl and an abrupt dismissal.

“You have nothing to worry about,” Miguel remarked dryly. “Ender barely ever registers their lolling tongues and open mouths. He’s so used to women being reduced to total imbeciles in his presence.” He shrugged. “I can’t say I blame them. Ender is simply delicious. And I heard he’s hung like a rhino.”

“A rhino?”

“A rhino.”

“What I can say for certain,” I said, gazing at his dazzling physique, “is that the human body, given the right combination of DNA and physical activity, is nothing less than an exquisite miracle.”

“That we can agree on.” Miguel nodded reverently. And with silent reverence, we took a moment to appreciate the splendor that was Ender.

Bloody Oath! He’s as fit as a Mallee bull.

Moments passed before Miguel spoke again. “So what do you think of this party? Is it what you expected?”

“Not exactly.” I twisted my lips. “I thought I’d see people dressed in togas, yelling, ‘TOGA! TOGA! TOGA!’” And then I stopped myself. “Wait,” I cried. “I stand corrected. That guy over there is wearing a toga!”

“That’s not a toga!” Miguel’s chest moved in a silent chuckle. “That’s a post-hookup bed sheet.”

This was all so foreign to me and so very overwhelming.

Things got worse as we rounded a corner and sidestepped a guy passed out on the floor. “Erm,” I said apprehensively. “I think he might be dead.”

“Oh, he’s alive,” Miguel assured me. “He’s just pretending to be passed out so he can look up all the skirts.”

“Ew.” I barely contained a shudder. “How creepy. And how do you know these things?”

He shrugged. “You’ve been to one of these parties, you’ve been to ’em all.”

“Is there any food here?” I asked, looking around. “Can we get something to eat?”

“Of course,” he said. “I’m pretty sure there’s some pizza in the basement.”

Pizza! Now he’s talking!

We scuttled down to the basement where the air was stale and the music was louder. There was a metric ton of red plastic cups strewn around, keg stands, and people yelling, “SHOTS! SHOTS! SHOTS!”

The room spun around me. I tried to breathe slowly, to calm my senses, but my heart kept racing faster and faster until I felt as if it would burst from my chest.

“Miguel,” I muttered woozily. “I feel dizzy. I think I need to sit down.”

Grabbing a firm hold of my arm, he frog-marched me to the nearest couch and I sank into it with an agonizing groan. “Stay right here.” His eyes clouded with worry. “I’m gonna get you some water, okay?”

I concentrated on breathing and stared mutely at him. “Pizza,” I murmured at last. “Get me some pizza. Seven slices.”

“You got it,” he said. “Water and pizza.”

“Seven slices,” I reminded him.

“Seven slices,” he repeated my order before taking off, disappearing into the sea of people.

Moments later, a guy sporting a baseball cap joined me on the couch. “Hey, baby,” he slurred. “What’s your sign?”

Sign?
I blinked.
Does he mean road sign?

“Stop! Caution! No entry!” I blurted out.

He tried to say something, but the corners of his mouth began twitching madly.

Good God. I feared he was having a stroke. It was such a relief when he started slurring his words again. “You’re different,” he said.

“You’re drunk,” I said.

The poor guy sounded completely sloshed and his breath smelled like feet and Windex.

“By the way,” I said politely, pulling out my phone. “Do you happen to have the Wi-Fi router name and password for this place?”

“Sure,” he said amiably. “The Wi-Fi network is ‘It Burns When IP’ and the password is ‘Sugar Tits.’”

“Hmm,” I said, pressing my lips together and tapping my phone screen using one index finger. “Is there a space between Sugar and Tits?”

“I think so,” he mumbled.

“Thank you,” I said breezily. “That’s very kind of you to share it with me.”

“No probs,” he muttered. “Hey, if I can
haz
wireless, you can
haz
wireless.”

I smiled serenely.

Silence hung for a moment.

Though I so desperately wanted to browse on my phone (I was about to check WebMD for my symptoms), it appeared that he wanted to chat.

Where are my manners?
I smiled again and put my phone away.

“I’m Pubes, by the way,” he mumbled. Then he lifted his baseball cap. “See,” he said, gesturing to the tight curls on his head. “They call me Pubes because my hair looks like pubes.”

“Oh, how hideous,” I said. When his face fell, I hastily added, “Not your hair. I think it’s hideous that they call you Pubes.”