Tousle Me (20 page)

“You dated him for like, four days,” she says flatly.

“But in heart days,” I weep, “it was so much longer.”

“What are they, like dog years?”

“I don’t know. It just sounded killa poignant.”

She pats my shoulder as I snivel into my pillow. “I think you should get cleaned up, and come to the frat party tonight.”

“Another frat party?”

“Yeah.” She pauses, scowling. “Did we get copy-and-pasted again?”

I take a second to think. “I don’t recognize much of this dialogue. I think we’re okay.”

“Oh. Phew.”

“Mmm.”

“Neeeigh,” says Sparkles from behind my laptop. The soft electropop jingle of a K-drama plays through the speakers.

“I don’t know if I should go near the west wing, Enid. That’s if I can actually get there in the first place with all the reporters around.”

She puts her chin in her palm and sighs. “I did see something on Fox News about the fetid corpse of Perez Hilton being airlifted away from hungry co-eds.” She leans over and nudges me. “Come on. You know you could use some fresh air. And liquor.”

“I’m in mourning. And once you go black, you can’t go back.”

“You’re impossible.” Then she does a little half-retch, and rushes off to the bathroom again. “But you’re coming tonight, whether you like it or—” RETCH, “not!”

“Shouldn’t you be resting up, or something?” I say cautiously. “You’ll be like a vector of disease in that frat house.”

She staggers back out again, looking greener than ever. “What, like half the dicks already there?”

“Sparkles?” I turn to the unicorn. “You mind if I go out tonight?”

“Neeeeigh.”

“He speaks a beautiful and forgotten language,” Enid says wistfully.

I nod, climbing out of my sodden shitpile of a bed. “That’s exactly what Channing said on Twitter.”

The frat house is bangin’ tonight.

Pi Pi Pi bunting hangs from the ceilings in their signature blue and white colors. Kegs and bottles of liquor litter the kitchen surfaces, and students cluster in corners, slurping their punch and complimenting each other’s Abercrombie t-shirts with a depressing lack of irony. Somebody just put some Manilow on, so the dancing has begun…but I’m not in a dancing mood.

“Cammie. Stop looking like someone just farted,” Enid urges. She’s changed into her pleather mini and a little tank top with no bra. The whore.

“But this is a frat house. Somebody probably just did fart.”

She rolls her eyes at me. “Come on. There’s Archer.”

As we make our way to Archer’s group of re-enactors, who are currently holding fort (get it?) at the pool table, I scan the room for Hunter. He’s nowhere to be seen. I guess that’s not surprising given that the media are still camped outside, Labron’s still in the slammer, and he’s got those cuts on his abs to recover from. Plus I didn’t check his heart at the door, like he asked—mainly because I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant, but also because God dammit, it’s mine now, and I’m not giving it back! Like Goodreads. He can take my life, my soul, everything—but he can’t take Goodreads. You know, unless he buys it back.

“Hey Cam-Cam! Enid!” Archer’s face lights up as he spots us. He sets down his pool cue so we can give him one of our tit sandwich three-way hugs. “Just like old times, huh?”

“Just like old times,” I say, trying to smile. Doesn’t work.

“You feeling better?” he asks Enid.

“Meh. A little.” She shrugs. A little make-up has brightened her skin, but her eyes are kinda vacant and her normally glossy lips are drawn. She looks like an embalmed Scarlett Johansson.

“And how about you, Cam-Cam?” He flinches slightly as he speaks. “How’s…things?”

“I’ve been better,” I manage, staring at the floor. “How’s jousting?”

“Awesome, actually. We’re gearing up for the campus all-star tournament next weekend.”

“You competing?” Enid asks.

“Hell yeah, I am!” He flashes his handsome grin. God, I wish Archer had a troublesome addiction, or at least more tattoos. “I’ve been practicing for months. Totally going to defend the frat’s title.”

“Do you have cheerleaders for jousting?” says Enid, looking hopeful. Enid was a star cheerleader back at high school. She’s blonde with big boobs, so it was The Law. “I could break out my uniform.”

“I think we have fair maidens waving their handkerchiefs from the bleachers,” he says, “in those pointy hats with scarves coming out of them.”

“Is that the technical term?”

“Yep.” He gives me a little nudge. “You going to come cheer me on?”

I glower at him. “Will it involve actually being cheerful?”

“Cammie’s got a dick up her ass,” Enid says dryly. “Since Hunter turned into a wreck and all.”

If only she knew how narrowly I avoided actually having a dick up my ass. But God, I’d give anything to have Hunter manipulate me into anal sex all over again, just to hear how husky his voice goes when he says it.

Archer cringes. “Is it wrong that I kind of like it now he’s quiet? The reporters are annoying, but he’s not douching around the common rooms anymore, at least.”

“He doesn’t douche around,” I grumble. “He is
damaged.
”

“Sure he is,” Archer says, visibly uncomfortable.

There’s a burst of murmuring from the hallway, and then a tall, familiar guy makes his entrance, slapping high-fives on all the guys. His tattooed arms bulge from a black vest.

“Rabies Maddox?” I say, surprised. “Is he even in this frat?”

“Yep. And he’s here to take part in the contest,” Archer replies.

Everyone’s in this frickin’ frat. I turn to Enid. “Contest? You didn’t mention that earlier, did you, hmm?”

“Everyone know what tonight is,” she scoffs. “It’s the annual Pi Pi Pi turducken bobbing contest—like I’d miss this.”

“Tur-what-nicken?”

“Turducken,” she says, like it’s obvious. “Turkey stuffed with a chicken stuffed with a duck.”

“Isn’t that kinda hard to bob with?”

“It’s fucking huge,” Archer says gleefully. “Nothing sorts the men from the boys like turducken bobbing, Cam-Cam.”

He drapes an arm around both me and Enid, and walks us into the conservatory, where a mini pool has been set up—like the size of a hot tub, but without the heat or bubbles. Eight fat turduckens, roasted brown, line a buffet table on one side. Fat Frat Boy, who is wearing another checked shirt to compliment his goatee, stands to one side, gesturing to another guy who appears to be some kind of assistant.

“This is different than apple bobbing,” Archer explains, ducking so Enid and I can hear him over the music. “You don’t just bob for as many as you can—it wouldn’t work that way. Pulling a turducken out of the water with your teeth is hard because of the weight of the water; one wrong move and you just end up with a mouthful of loose turkey.”

“Wow.” I squint at the pool, which Rabies Maddox is now circling. A girl with muddy blond hair clings to his arm. “So this game takes a while, huh?”

“You get one minute to snare a turducken,” Enid says. “Hardly anyone manages it, but if they do, the turduckens are weighed and the heaviest wins.”

Archer nods. “There’s always at least one casualty. Dr Emuson usually stands by, but he’s…out of action, I heard.”

Oh crap. I’d totally forgotten about that, as well as my thrush test results. Now I want to scratch just thinking about it. Kudos to Archer for bringing it up and thus restoring continuity.

I glance up at Archer. “So are you competing tonight?”

He pulls his arms forward, cracks his knuckles. “I might be. You like that idea, huh?”

“I’m in need of amusement.”

“She’s in need of a lot of things,” says Enid, breaking away from us. “I have to barf. Nearest bathroom?”

“Down the corridor. On the left,” Archer supplies. “Try and hold on until then, yeah?”

She claps a hand over her mouth, beginning to retch as she runs.

“Enid’s got the green apple splatters early, I see,” he observes.

“Huh?”

“You think a pool full of turduckens is hygienic? This time tomorrow, our bathrooms will be like something from the
Walking Dead
.” He says this almost proudly.

Ew.

We watch as the bobbing station is set up, gossiping about campus stuff, Sparkles von Fancypants, and Archer’s upcoming tournament. Hunter isn’t mentioned again, which is a massive relief because I’m not sure I could keep the tears in. The back wall of the conservatory is lined with cupboards, and that alone is enough to get my pulse all frothy with panic.

Enid returns with a couple glasses of punch. “I got goodies on the way back,” she announces, pressing them into our hands.

Then it occurs to me. “You do not have a
bug
,” I say accusingly. “You’ve been…turducken bobbing!”

She flushes as much as someone with food poisoning can manage. “Uh…maybe?”

Archer’s brows dip together as he has his own little eureka moment. “Last night, when they were practicing over by the park—oh my God! Enid. Why are you hanging out with the Hentai club?”

“Great. Now [i]
you’re
slut-shaming me, too.” She downs the whole glass of punch in about ten seconds, guzzling like a hungry child. Then she stands back with a proud, challenging look on her face.

Said look is wiped off said face in another ten seconds when she hurls the whole lot back up over the sofa. Archer and I just stand there, watching the pink mess sink into the fabric as Enid’s shoulders jerk up and down. The sour stench of vomit hangs in the air.

“Gross,” I say. Where’s Labron when you need him?

“Uh, Enid? You okay?” Archer starts toward her, but she lurches out of his grasp.

“I’m fine. Just wish I could keep the Goddamn liquor down,” she grumbles. “Lemme…get some tissues, or something.”

I guess the contest is about to begin because suddenly, the room really starts to fill up. Fat Frat Boy puts a crate in front of the pool, jumps up, and motions for his assistant to switch the music off. The crate groans beneath him.

“Ladies, gentlemen…aw, who am I kidding?” He pauses as the crowd of students burst into rounds of good-natured chortling. “Jerks, ho bags and douche captains—it’s fucking illegal turducken bobbing night!”

I lean in to Archer as the crowd cheers. “This is illegal?”

He gives a nod. “In thirty two states.”

“We have four competitors tonight,” Fat Frat Boy goes on. “Our reigning champion, Rabies Maddox, is first up to the pool. Then we have Pi Pi Pi’s very own virgin bobber, Archer Riddick!” He rolls the
r
asp in Archer’s name just enough to make it sound dodgy, and Archer can’t help but wince.

“Goddamn it,” he mutters.

“It’s okay. I know you’re not an archery dick.” I give his firm bicep a squeeze.

“And I know you’re not a cannibal hick,” he says fondly, his crooked smile kicking in. He wraps an arm around me again, and I stand close to him, enjoying the warm feel of his ripped torso. He smells like green tea and candied walnuts, the extra special festive kind. My body may still belong to Hunter, but hey, he broke up with me, so that’s kind of delusional. I shall work on this delusion while watching strapping young guys half-drown themselves in DNA soup.

“We also have Big P!” says Fat Frat Boy, gesturing to a very small, skinny ginger dude whose name is evidently ironic. People cheer, and he grins madly.

“Hentai Pete,” Archer hisses in my ear. “He may look small, but the bobbing is all about core strength.”

I’m not really sure how a guy that short will be able to reach the turducken in the first place.

“And finally, a last minute entry from a surprise but formidable foe.” Fat Frat Boy slows his voice to build tension. “Boys and girls, please give a warm and sticky Pi Pi Pi welcome to Captain Purity!”

Captain Purity bursts in through a skylight, his black cape blazing behind him as he lands on his feet like a cat—which is fitting, when you think about it, because he’s devoted his life to defending pussy (and bobbing for huge roast birds). All around us, students whoop, and the good Captain takes a little bow. His emo bangs are as dishevelled as usual, and his face is serious. Ninja serious.

Then the murmurs ripple.

“Oh my God, it’s Captain Purity…”

“The caped cuntsaver…”

“Coming to our aid before we get AIDS!”

“Dude needs a hobby,” Archer says, sounding slightly perturbed.

“Oh, he has one,” I say. “He sketches. He’s quite good, actually. He did Sparkles and really captured the vacant whimsy of his eyes.” I don’t mention that his other hobby is boning Enid, but I guess it’s not like Archer would care.

Captain Purity spots me in the crowd and narrows his eyes. I glare back. Yes, dumbass, I’m the one with the evil unicorn that is apparently in danger of accidentally skewering a vag.

Fat Frat Boy steps down from his struggling crate. “Okay peeps, let’s get this show on the road. Rabies! Get your pussywhipped ass up here and throw in the turduckens.”

The audience begins to chant and stomp as the huge roasts are hurled into the water. They don’t even float—they sink to the bottom, turning the water cloudy with lard as they go. I join in with the chanting, though I’m not really sure what they’re saying and it sounds a bit like pig Latin.

“This is crazy,” I say to Archer.

He winces. “You think this is nuts? You should be here on turfucken night.”

“Is that even a thing?”

“Oh yeah.” He purses his lips. “Surprisingly, only illegal in like, three states.”

“Huh.”

Rabies is having issues with his drool problem—I guess all that tasty turkey can do that to a guy. The surprisingly plain girl on his arm cleans him gently with a napkin, gives him a kiss, and pats him on the head like a puppy. Fat Frat Boy walks behind him and ties his wrists together amid shouts of tired bondage jokes.

“Come on, dude!” someone calls. “Get stuck in!”

Fat Frat’s assistant holds up his cell phone. “I’m starting the timer. Three, two, one…”

Counting backwards? What strange sorcery is this?

“GO!”

Rabies falls to his knees by the side of the pool, bends right over at the waist, and shoves his head beneath the water. Spectators ooh and ahh, though the room is surprisingly quiet as the battle of the turducken warrior rages forth. Several times, Rabies resurfaces to violently spit a mouthful of turkey at his wife. With only ten seconds to go, the room is silent with tension and the assistant begins counting down.