“Hands up! Don’t shoot!”
We did three circuits of the main floor and then exited through the metal detector, chanting the whole time. It felt great to step out of the library into the chilly October night, everybody high-fiving and congratulating everybody else, the moonlight shining on Amber’s hair as she hugged me.
*
When I got back to the room, Zack was lying on his bed with these huge DJ headphones clamped over his ears. I wanted to tell him about the protest, but he yanked off the headphones and sat up before I’d even had time to shrug off my backpack.
“Dude,” he said. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Would you ever hook up with a fat girl?”
“I doubt it,” I said. “That’s not really my thing.”
“Yeah, but what if there’s a fat girl you really liked? Would you hook up with her?”
“Is this for a class?”
“No, I’m just curious.”
“Depends.” I sat down on my bed, directly across from him. “If she’s one of those plus-sized models I might.”
“Not a model. Just a regular fat girl. But she’s pretty and has a great personality.”
“Are you trying to set me up with someone?”
“Dude, I’m asking you a simple question.”
He sounded annoyed, which was a little unfair, since I’d already answered him twice.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll hook up with her. Why not, if she’s as great as you say?”
Zack nodded approvingly, like I’d finally given the correct answer.
“Okay, so you hook up with this girl a couple of times and it’s fun as hell, but totally casual. No strings. But then one night she starts crying, and you’re like, What’s wrong? And she’s like, Why don’t we ever go out in public? Are you ashamed of me? Is it because I’m fat? What do you say then?”
It was all so obvious, I almost laughed in his face.
“Dude, are you hooking up with a fat girl? Is that where you go at three in the morning?”
“No,” he said, in that same put-upon tone. “This is a completely hypothetical scenario.”
“All right,” I said. “Speaking hypothetically, I’d probably say, Bitch, maybe if you dropped a hundred pounds we could go to the movies. In the meantime, could we get back to the blowjob you were giving me? I’m tired and I have to meet my asshole roommate for breakfast in the morning.”
“Dude, that’s so mean. She can’t help it if she’s fat.”
“Not my problem, bro.”
“Wow.” Zack looked impressed. “You’re an even bigger dick than I am.”
“Thank you,” I said. “You wanna get baked and watch some Bob’s Burgers?”
“I could go for that,” he told me. “But I can’t stay up too late. I’m tired and I gotta meet my asshole roommate for breakfast in the morning.”
“That’s funny,” I said. “So do I.”
We bumped fists and Zack broke out his weed, and pretty soon we were lit and laughing our asses off, talking shit about my hypothetical ex-girlfriend, the fat girl who’d been fun for a while, until she turned all weepy and started getting on my nerves.
The Confident One
When Eve invited Amanda out for a drink, she hadn’t meant it to be a date. It was a casual social thing, two colleagues hanging out after work, getting to know each other a little better. And it wasn’t even Eve’s idea. All she’d done was belatedly accept an invitation that Amanda had extended more than once, and that she herself had felt guilty about declining. There was no hidden agenda; she was just being polite, making amends, and giving them both something to do on an otherwise empty Friday night.
And yet it felt like a date, which was weird, because Eve didn’t date women. Of course, she wasn’t dating any men either, though that was only for lack of opportunity. If a man had asked her out, she would have happily said yes, unless it was creepy Barry from Gender and Society, who, unfortunately, was the only man expressing any interest at the moment, with the possible exception of Jim Hobie, the chatty bartender, though all he’d done was offer her a free drink, which hardly qualified as a romantic overture, and which, in any case, she’d declined.
But if tonight wasn’t a date—and it definitely wasn’t—then what accounted for the fluttery feeling of anticipation she’d been experiencing ever since she’d marked it on her calendar? And why had she chosen to wear this silky green blouse that went so well with her eyes, and then unbuttoned it one button lower than usual? The answer to these questions, Eve knew, was as simple as it was embarrassing: she’d been watching too much porn, and it had infected her imagination, making her hyper-aware of the sexual possibilities embedded in the most innocent situations. It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so pathetic.
“I meant to tell you,” said Amanda, who seemed quite clear about the fact that she wasn’t on a date. “The maple syrup guy can’t do the November lecture, so I’m scrambling to find a replacement.”
“Uh-oh.” Eve stretched her mouth into an expression of mock horror. “Sounds like a sticky situation.”
Amanda looked puzzled for a moment, and then made a sound that resembled a chuckle.
“Sorry.” Eve frowned. “Humor’s not my specialty. At least that’s what my ex-husband used to tell me.”
“Nice,” Amanda said. “I’m sure you appreciated his honesty.”
“Absolutely. He was full of constructive criticism.”
“Sounds like my old boyfriend,” Amanda observed. “He was very concerned about my weight. If he caught me with some Ben and Jerry’s, he’d pull the container right out of my hand. He’d say, I don’t want you to regret this.”
“Really?”
“It was all for my own good, you know?”
Eve wanted to say something supportive but not inappropriate about Amanda’s curves—that was one good thing about the Milfateria, it had given her an appreciation of the sexual appeal of all sorts of body types—but they were interrupted by a couple of middle-aged frat boys who wanted to know if the stool next to Amanda’s was free. The guy who asked was jolly and bloated, with thinning blond hair and an alarmingly pink complexion. He made no effort to disguise his interest in the hand grenade tattooed on Amanda’s left breast, only partially obscured by the neckline of her dress.
“All yours,” she told the guy, scooching toward Eve to make room. Their knees bumped together, and Eve felt the subtle electric jolt you sometimes get from accidental contact. Amanda shifted again, undoing the connection.
“Ted—that’s my ex—used to tell me I was a bad storyteller,” Eve continued. “He said it was like a Victorian novel every time I went to the supermarket.”
That didn’t sound too bad to Amanda. “I like Victorian novels. At least I used to. I haven’t read one since college.”
“They can be kind of daunting,” said Eve. “I’ve been meaning to start Middlemarch for the past year or so. Everybody always says how great it is. But it never seems like the right time to crack it open.”