“Don’t worry.” Fernando winked and opened a flap of his jacket, exposing his penis. “I took care of the problem.”
My eyes were burning. “Eww, Fernando, I don’t want to see your goddamn dick.”
“No, Peters.” He cupped his mouth and hushed out, “I stole this.”
“What?”
Fernando lifted his member from the ample folds of his pants and took a bite. “It’s a rocket dog,” he said and closed his eyes as pure ecstasy washed over his face.
“Where’d you get a rocket dog?”
He lifted an eyebrow and took a massive sip of his girly drink.
With a line of whipped cream over his lip, he said, “I broke into the stadium frozen storage unit. Billy, the janitor, always leaves his keys on the doorway ledge of his office. I saw him put them there once during halftime.”
He nodded, giving me a sly smile. “So I came across fourteen boxes of frozen precooked rocket dogs. One hundred dogs in each box.” He pointed to a line of bushes adjacent to the house. “We’re set. We’ve got fourteen hundred. Don’t worry, Peters.”
Following his finger, I saw the edges of white boxes sticking out clear as day between the shrubs.
“Fernando, what the hell? That is not what I wanted you to do. You were supposed to go to the library.” I let out an annoyed growl and grabbed the rocket dog out of his hands. “I wanted you to report back on what you saw.”
“I did,” he replied, pulling another rocket dog from his pocket. “There was only a note on the door and three chicks. They were freshmen, so they couldn’t have been alumni.”
I leaned against the rail and took a bite. “Three chicks, huh? Anything else about these chicks? What were they wearing?”
“Clothes.” He slowly nodded as if this were an interesting discovery. “One had a real nice cashmere sweater on and some black flats with gold buttons. I think my sister Carla might like a pair. The girl had wide feet, and so does my sister. Fat feet—that’s the Cruz curse.” He stopped to think. “And vestigial tails… Not me… but never mention it to Carla.”
I drew in a breath, trying not to lose my patience with this simple fool. Maybe I should have been upfront with him and we could’ve avoided the fourteen hundred bratwursts not so cleverly hidden in the bushes.
“You said there was a note?”
“Yeah, a note. They were just standing there looking at it. It was taped to the study room door. So I walked up behind them and snuck a peek. It said: Attention! Psych 101 study session for Deana, Carole, and Astor has been canceled tonight. Your position, although very flexible (#yoga), has been compromised. Best regards, S.L. Please accept the attached Starbucks gift card and my sincerest apologies.”
I slammed a fist against the porch rail as Fernando continued. “So then the girls looked pale as ghosts, ripped the note off the wall, and bought me a Frappuccino.”
He lifted his drink and sucked the rest down in one long, disgusting slurp.
Dammit. Sydney must be scurrying around, covering her ass. She’d probably already reached the dean by now. Spanky’s podcasts were now mysteriously missing off the station’s website. There were only three plays left: me, Jack, and the Shrieking T’s.
Even if Sydney corrected all her wrongs, there was one thing she couldn’t fix—Jack Porter’s virginity. He was my ticket. Out Jack as a virgin and expose Sunday Lane… or get him laid and raise his morale.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Back in high school, I could leave a message written in Cantonese on a mini Post-it note in the feminine napkin disposal of the women’s restroom, and within two and half minutes, it would have been deciphered, read over the loud speaker, and a special edition of the school paper would have been distributed.
Unfortunately, college is no different.
“I’m so stupid!”
I rushed inside my dorm room to find Allison lying in a fetal position on her bed. Her long hair was drenched in tears and snot. Sitting up as I entered, she yanked our shared box of tissues off our shared nightstand and snorted into one, releasing a trumpet-like sound.
As she looked at my face, her mouth twisted into a deep scowl. “Oh God,” she sniveled out. “I can’t look at you. You look so much like him.”
She stood from the bed and pointed a finger at the door. “Get out.”
I had no idea why she was crying, but she looked hilarious. She was wearing Hello Kitty pajamas, her makeup was smeared all over her face, and there was half a wine cooler on her side of the nightstand. If this was Allison during a psychotic break, I could sleep with both eyes closed tonight.
“Allison, what the hell is going on?” I peeled off my light-pink cardigan (yes, light pink. I’ll get to that in a minute). “I look like whom?”
“Jack,” she screamed, tossing the now-empty box of tissues at my head. “You look like that womanizer, Jack Porter.”
A huge, gaping hole formed in my chest because Allison Meyers had just sucked out every inch of my sanity. The world had flipped on its axis.
Jack Porter is a womanizer.
Jack Porter, who slept with a stuffed mouse he called Uncle McSqueakers. Jack Porter, who still maintained a subscription to BoysLife: Boy Scout Magazine. Jack Porter, whose side hobby was floral arranging (he’d done two weddings).
Allison stopped her hysterics for a split second, regarding me with curiosity. “You look nice. You curled your hair. Why did you curl your hair? And are you wearing a cream-colored shirt?” She squinted at me through her one un-swollen eye.
“That’s not important, Allison.” I came around her side, wrapped an arm around her waist, and sat her down on her bed. “You’re what’s important.” And I don’t want to tell you.
“Why would you think my brother is a womanizer? You must be crazy.” I rubbed her head, and she snorted into my chest.
Looking at me with red, mascara-streaked eyes, she bellowed out, “Because Theresa told Beth, who told Amy, who told Lisa, who told Jennifer, who told Katharine—”
Okay, I needed a flow chart. “Told them what?”
“Katharine said Theresa Denton, that little slut whore, is going to have sex with Jack tonight because he’s apparently soooo gooood at sex and his tongue is lengthy and smooth like buttery saltwater taffy, and his penis is so long and wide it always resides in two zip codes. Always.”
Now, a normal sister would be horrified hearing these things about her brother. And I would definitely be reaching for the nearest garbage can to barf in if I didn’t know with one hundred percent certainty they were false. How did I know this rumor was false?
I started it.
Last night, I came home to my own version of a Cantonese Post-it note on my door, but in badly scrawled English. Apparently, my dream wrecker was a two-year-old lacking fine motor skills.
Sunday Loser,
Nice trick with the Freudian Sluts, but try to get around this one. If Jack Porter isn’t laid by one of the Shrieking T’s by the end of tomorrow, it’s game over. Your precious running back brother (Brown-eyed Virgin) will be the laughing stock of Northern.
At first, I was impressed dream wrecker was able to fit all that on one Post-it note. It took me five minutes to read it. I had to turn my head and read along the edges and then follow a little drawn arrow to the sticky side of the note.