Morgan Nicole Green is an emerging writer from Abington, PA. She earned her MFA from SNHU’s Mountainview MFA program. She loves pizza, television, and dogs. She is currently working on her novel Learned Behaviors. Follow her on Twitter @morgnicole.
Saturday morning, you walk home in yesterday’s freakum dress with thigh-high boots, hardened mascara, faded lipstick, and the hair of a toddler. Your tracks look like they’ve been in for months, not weeks. You stop for a moment when you notice your reflection in one of the glass doors of Tucker Hall, and you wonder if Kate or Bianca is awake inside. Not likely.
On the other side of the door one of the dorm rooms opens and a lacrosse body emerges. He looks wholesome. There’s something about them wafer-thin lips that gets you going. They just scream khakis, socks-n-sandals, tie dye outfits at festivals. You know, coffee shops, screaming problematic things at overpriced video games, and humble bragging that every medium rare steak they make is the best they’ve ever done.
He jumps. You jump. Some call you paranoid, others empathetic. You think that paranoia and empathy are two sides of the same coin. Lacrosse tilts his head, probably waiting to see if you’ll pull out a keycard. Maybe he’s seen you here before. It’s practically your second home. You spend more time here, drinking with your friends, than you do in class.
Lacrosse gestures nonsensically, a nonverbal apology for jumping. You think, Don’t be sorry, baby, you should be scared. You roll your eyes to show you’re fine. You pull two makeup wipes from your purse and make circles until yesterday’s face is in your hands.
You toss the wipes in the bin and swerve in the other direction until you’re out of sight. You plug in headphones and blast Rihanna. After a death match between your hair and the “satin” tie, you scramble what you can into a bun. Satin your ass. Would you be safe at a crime scene if weave hair was left behind? It’s human hair, after all. It would trace back to someone. It’s a wonder that there aren’t more weaved killers, shedding other people’s hair at the scene of the crime.
It’s a fifteen-minute walk from last night’s den of hedonism. Crossing campus is pretty demoralizing because of the signage in the windows of the dorms and the various symbols etched and drawn on the walls and chalked on the pavement. You and your friends like to play games like Count the Confederate Flags, How Many Swastikas Can You Find in Charlie’s Campus Café, and Guess Who Captured the BLM Flag This Time. But this walk back can count as exercise for the week.
You ducked out before yesterdude had the chance to offer you a sweater. All the princes in all the movies offer sweaters. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of coming up with a lame-ass excuse to kick you out. I’ll text you, he said. That’s what they all say. Men are scrubs. No, you won’t, you told him before you walked. He actually compared bad sex to a movie. If you see a bad movie, you don’t stop watching movies, you just watch another movie. Yeah, you’ll remember that on your next cold walk back. Your butt vibrates. It’s a text from Kate:
Kate: What you being for Halloween?
You: RiRi
Kate: Reba McEntire?
You: Who the fuck
is Reba McEntire
Kate: Who the fuck is RiRi
You: Rihanna
Kate: That’s so cute
You: Who are
you being?
Kate: I’m Britney bitch
You: Bianca?
Kate: Selena Gomez
You: Wait what?
After digging around in your purse, you fish out the sixteen-ounce Tropicana and vodka. You need something to distract you from the cold. Vodka’s your favorite sweater. Your handbag is your emergency kit. It contains alcohol, face wipes, eye drops, blunts in doob-tube under fake tampon wrappers, real tampons, a foldable rain poncho, keys, a Blow Pop, and your student ID. The sun’s just starting to rise so it’s not yet seven a.m. The sky reminds you of the red, white, and blue rocket-looking popsicles that Mom used to buy you from Giant. She assumed they were your favorite and maybe they were at some point, but they tasted as cheap as the box they came in. Still, like most things, you accepted them out of habit.
This is a small liberal arts school in the middle of nowhere, but you like it. You seem to matter to the teachers who don’t take themselves too seriously. Between double majoring and minoring, there’s enough good to outweigh the bad. This is the type of campus where you never have to worry about getting lost; the type where you’ll get passive-aggressive emails reminding you that ‘mental health days’ aren’t protected by the attendance policy. This is also the type of campus where drunk strangers will ask if you were the girl who jerked off “Zezza” at Soccer’s party. Apparently, he likes “dark meat.” You’ve got two choices: call them racist and ask what the fuck that has to do with your honey-caramel ass or roll your eyes and walk away. Either way, they’ll still think you did it, even if you don’t even know who the fuck Zezza is.
You make several pathetic attempts to settle into bed without waking Emily before giving up and pulling your blanket down to the carpet.
There’s a Snapchat from your friend Bianca.
Bee [Bianca]: Kate said you’re going as RiRi for Halloween?
[You]: Yea, she said you’re Sel Gomez?
Bee: Puta! No, I’m Selena Quintanilla
You: Ooooh that makes more sense, the JLO version or OG
Bee: OG Always! JLo says she’s from the Bronx but does nothing to support us. Don’t compare me to her.
You: Let her live her life, South Park roasted the shit out of her
Bee: True, you should go as Aaliyah
You: I’d love to, but I can’t get my hair straight in time. Plus, I don’t have a middle part or a perfect body.
Bee: That’s because you’re Slim Thickums. Do it anyway.
You: Fat Chance
Around five, you’ve had a good day’s sleep, and you’re getting ready in Kate and Bianca’s room while she’s in the shower. You’re halfway through mashing your breasts into your new front-clasp bra when you hear the key turn. You turn your back to the door, bend to the floor, touch your toes, and wiggle your ass for the benefit of whoever is standing in the doorway.
“Yaaaaas Mami.” Bianca claps as she says this and mimics throwing twenties in your direction. She wears a sequin bralette, flowy white button-down, and black high-waisted jeans, an homage to Selena. All she needs is red lipstick and a Brazilian blowout for total verisimilitude, but she’d never consider either because the sweatiness of a party would destroy her hair and no guy would want to wear lipstick after a kiss. There are rules.
“You look hot, Bee!” you gush.
“And this is why you’re my favorite!” She blows a kiss in your direction. You’ve never been anyone’s favorite anything. Before you get the chance to question if she’s for real, Kate kicks the cracked door open clumsily, with her caddy in one hand, toothbrush hanging from her mouth.
“Sup, Chuck?” It comes out like “suhh huaa” but you have been friends since freshman year, so you can understand her mumbling. It’s rare to have a friendship so long-lasting. Typically, you shed friends like hair. You always told yourself it was better that way. Split ends stunt your growth, so it’s better to trim every couple of months.
“You better not take ten years to get dressed. I’m tryna go pregame with this dude from my Aesthetics and Interpretation class,” Bianca warns.
“Ew, a writing major?” Kate groans, making a face. “Does this mean all his friends are going to be pretentious?” She had a point. During freshman orientation, when you told the group your favorite book was The Heart of a Woman, your future advisor said that Maya Angelou couldn’t write her way out of a paper bag. You almost mentioned that she was your namesake, but you didn’t need another reason to be boxed in by external assumptions.
“I’m a writing major,” says Bianca, “and Maya’s a minor. Do we seem pretentious?” They both look to you, as usual, to be the tiebreaker, peacemaker, the median, the gray.
You shrug. “Not gonna lie, B, if I hear one more pimple-covered weirdo in Home Improvement jeans and a flannel try to talk to me about ‘writing drunk like Hemingway’…”
“Okay, okay, then I’ll go, and we can meet at Track in like two hours?” Bianca asks. A few people from the track team rented a house up on Orange Street, but it’ll be a long walk without the Drunk Bus. The Drunk Bus only came on weekends. Terry, the driver, lost his son in a drunk driving accident, so he works for the school part-time driving from campus to bars to the streets filled with off-campus housing. You never got how he stomached it. Was he a masochist or a hero?
“Guess I’m wearing Converse then,” Kate whines, her toothbrush still trapped between her jaws. God forbid, Connecticut Barbie goes one party without her heels.
“Kate, shut up,” you say. “You’re a giraffe, I don’t even know why you need heels. Those floors are disgusting, and these boys aren’t that tall. You’ll live.”
Bianca laughs and hands you a Bud Light Mang-O-Rita. “You’re not you when you’re sober, Maya.” You weren’t sure if you had more patience when you were drunk or if you were just better at tuning people out. Either way, you feared your attitude would chase them away and you weren’t in the mood to start over.
“We’ll meet you there,” you say. “That’ll give Britney over here more time to get ready.”
“Yay,” says Kate, toothbrush removed.
You get busy chugging the Mang-O-Rita. Bianca walks over to open the window and you shiver as the breeze slaps you in the back like it’s calling you a good sport. She gives you a sympathetic look and lights her cigarette. You don’t dare ask, but you’ve always wondered if she smokes because she likes it, or if she does it for a boy. If you were doing it, it would be the latter for sure.
Kate tells you to wear your gray sparkly crop top tonight. She winks and grabs your boobs for emphasis because your friends have no boundaries, which you find surprisingly comforting. There were no appearances or worries of oversharing. Here you lay in your own disorganized chaos bliss with your very best friends. What you’ve always wanted. Well maybe not wanted. Never mind.
Bianca coughs from the short distance of the window after taking a drag. You toss her your spray can of Febreze to cover up the cigarette smell after she closes it. “Alright bitches, I’m out.”
“Peace out girl scout,” you say.
“See you later alligator,” Kate says at the same time. The two of you giggle.
Bianca kisses her deuces before putting ’em up and dipping out.
You smirk as you look in the mirror. You’re wearing the type of shirt that acquaintances in friends’ clothing will pull up because they’re “just looking out for you.” You love Kate and Bianca because they understand that you spent $42.95 on this bra, plus $7.99 shipping and handling, so every-mother-fuckin-body ’bout to see it. Bianca only wears thongs and Kate dresses like she’s forgotten she’s cold all the time. The world’s your oyster.
“You almost ready, Britt-Britt?” you ask. Part of the reason you love Halloweekend is it gives you permission to not be yourself, even if only for a little while.
“Yes, Riri, I just need to see the bottom of this mad dog.” You look at your three Bud Light ’Rita cans crushed and forsaken on the floor.
“You need help, babe?” you ask, tipsier than J Kwon. The alcoholic in you smirks. You think you’re clever, bitch, don’t you?
“Sure thing, Chicken Wing.” The two of you hesitate as the two of you register the implications of “Chicken Wing.” You shrug. Four drinks later, you’re wasted.
“Let’s go.” Your hands and ass clap to emphasize your point.
You and the crew like to catch fly guys, but you spit them out afterward. Too hard to swallow. You’re not a bad person. When you were twelve and witnessed your brothers’ flings and situationships coming in and out of your house, you never imagined you’d be one of those girls. You know, getting fucked and fucked-up every chance you got. As if the women were the problem.
You wake up next to your latest conquest. After checking under the covers, you realize fire crotches do in fact exist and chuckle softly to yourself. You and your friends had been dying to know. As usual, you don’t remember anything from the previous night. Nothing much that happened after “Chicken Wing.”
“What’s your name again?” you ask him. You look at different objects in the room, everywhere but at him. You begin to jerk him off to speed his departure.
“Tyler.”
Why does that name make your skin crawl like there are actual tarantulas?
. . .
You’d never been so drunk that you failed to recognize a friend before. At this point Brett was nowhere to be found. Everything happened so fast. One minute you’re talking to Jackie about why Brett would dance with another girl the night after you hooked up and then you blink. Jackie’s gone. Brett’s gone. There’s a different cup in your hand.
Do you...with me? You see a mess of familiar brown curls but you’re somehow unable to connect the dots. The blue lights on the dance floor blend like the backdrop of a city and suddenly pale arms are around your waist. They’re frail and hairless so obviously not Brett’s.
Hey Not-Brett. That’s what you’ve decided to call him. Everything felt dizzy and it was a struggle to stay up.
Maya, it’s me. Tyler.
Bed. Everything felt heavy, you found it difficult to speak. You blinked again. Suddenly you’re falling. Time slows as you prepare to hit the sidewalk, but he catches you. Now he’s kissing you and you’re not sure how all this happened. You blink again. You’re in his bed.
. . .
This Tyler has that rasp in his voice that people get when they first wake up. It’s almost sexy. His eyes are closed and he’s grunting. He turns redder than his hair and starts to sweat. For some reason you find yourself thinking about the last four things you ate as if they’re about to chase their way back up your throat. What’s wrong? Why do you feel like this? There’s that inner voice again.
His entire body seizes for a moment before he comes. Order a pizza on his card, one voice urges you. Fuck that, get Ed Sheeran the fuck out of here, another says. Nicknames are easier to stomach, make things less real. He begins to pant. It’s like you’re back at the gym, avoid eye contact and get the job done.
“You’ve got magic hands, babe.” He whispers this as if it’s a secret.
“You say that to all the girls.” You wipe your hand on your sheets. You make a move to get up and he stops you with a kiss. You shudder at his morning breath and he mistakes it for pleasure.
“You’re funny,” he says, denying nothing. “Want me to help you out?” He lifts an eyebrow towards your lower half, then kisses your neck.
“I’m good.” Which in your terms means “as if he could.” You break away from him and your soiled sheets and head toward the dresser. You lean against it for support.
“How exactly did this—” You point back and forth, between the two of you. “How did this become a thing?”
When he sits up, he makes no attempt to cover anything, and you find yourself wondering if it’s arrogance or comfort that makes him feel like he owns the place. Truth be told, you’re not sure if that bothers you or turns you on.
“You walked up to me and asked if the carpet matches the drapes.” Drunk Maya, Princess Charming, Queen of Chaos.
“So cliché,” you say, rolling your eyes, giving him a small smile.
“I think it’s cute.” You immediately regret that tiny shred of vulnerability you let slip out. Your mom’s favorite thing to remind you growing up was that you weren’t cute. Cute implies you get away with everything. You’re no villain, just an “innocent bystander.” You lost that innocence the moment you left home. You look down and notice that you’re still half-naked and immediately throw on the Eagles jersey from the top of the dresser.
Then, fortune smiles. Your phone is buzzing on your nightstand, and even from a few feet away you can see that the picture on the screen is of your mother. Normally, you would let her go to voicemail, to discourage her from calling you in the morning, but this is just what you need to send this guy on his merry way.
“Hey, sorry,” you say. “That’s my mom calling, so.” He looks at the phone and nods. He looks a little wounded as he lifts off the sheets and goes hunting for his pants. Good. Get lost.
“Maya,” your mother says, “I’m worried about you.” The boy is gone but before he left, he said goodbye with his full voice, like an idiot. You can tell that your mother heard him. She knows there was a boy in your room first thing in the morning. This is the voice she used back when she found that vibrator from Spencer’s when you were thirteen.
“Worried? Why?” You try the cute thing, knowing it won’t work.
“How many guys have you slept with? Are you dating any of them? Have you been using protection? Is this why you asked for the pill? I thought it was for your period. What are their names? How old are they?” She says all this in one breath.
“Mom.” You warn. Her little interrogations are a trigger.
“I’m worried about you. Are you seeing anyone, Maya? How did you meet these guys? Are they all from school?” You take a deep breath. You didn’t even answer the first set. It made her questions feel rhetorical and you were in no mood for the inevitable lecture. You know what’s next in this dance, don’t do it, Maya.
“Mom, I only promised I’d tell you about it if I got knocked up.” You did it. If only sarcasm burned calories.
“Don’t joke about that. It’s not funny.” You knew she wouldn’t find it funny, but all logic jumps out the door when mother dearest comes knocking.
“Mom, what’s wrong? What’s the big deal? I’m in college.” None of this is new.
She sighs. “There’s something you need to know about your father.” Well, except that. That’s new.
You have been sitting on the edge of your bed, but now you stand and pace. Your father is a subject the two of you never discuss. You’ve always assumed that he abandoned her and that she’s too heartbroken to talk about it. If this is all it took to get information, you’d have slutted it up much sooner.
“I never told you this. But I met him the night of Naomi’s wedding.” That must’ve been way back when. Your aunt is long since divorced, now it’s her brand. You would really like a drink just about now. Ideally a stiff vodka tonic, but even a humble Mang-O-Rita would be terrific. “I was jealous that my baby sister was pregnant and engaged before I was. I’d just finished my residency.” Your mother is an orthopedic surgeon at Johns Hopkins Hospital. “I felt lonely and confused. I imagine that’s how you feel.” She says the last part slowly, as if female sexuality were inevitably naughty or shameful. “Anyway, the night of her wedding I got very, very drunk.”
You find that hard to believe. You’ve never seen your mother down anything other than the occasional glass of wine at social gatherings. It’s always about appearance for her. Never give anyone a reason to talk. You think back to that time last month when you got so drunk you kicked a hole in someone’s wall because you’d mistaken it for the door. They called you Sparta for weeks.
“Your father said he was the third cousin of the best man or something like that, but I’m pretty confident he was just a wedding crasher. I found out a few weeks later that I was pregnant with you, but when I asked the best man, he said he didn’t bring anyone to the wedding. I never saw your father again after that.”
That sounds ridiculous. Like something out of a fucked-up modernized Greek myth. You aren’t sure how long you’re silent for, but after a while you say, “So, you’re saying I was born because of a one-night stand.”
“Well, technically yes.” You can tell from her voice you won’t hear any more details today. This angers you more.
“You got drunk and became a single mother overnight and now you’re lecturing me on safe sex and traditional morals because I told you I’m no longer a virgin?” Did she hear herself? The hypocrisy? You thought she didn’t tell you about your father because he was a piece of garbage, not because she was. Okay, bit harsh, she is your mother, and she did stick around when he didn’t, so you had to give her credit for that. Still, in the moment, it’s easy to forget these things when you’re shocked, and anger has always been your best defensive mechanism. The last time you were this openly upset in front of her, you were in braces, curled under your covers in your plaid cheerleading sweatpants. It’s quiet for a bit, neither of you were sure what to say after that. After a little while, the little girl in you asks: “So, does this mean I was a mistake?”
“Maya.” She sounds wounded. “I’m your mother. I love you. You know you’re the best thing that ever happened to me. With you, my life began.” You think back to home in Baltimore. She named your younger brothers Malcolm and Michael because she felt that you’d find comfort in the uniformity. Sometimes it helped, because they felt like your brothers; the three of you certainly fought like siblings. But every now and then you’d look at your stepdad, or Michael’s temper would flare up and he’d throw low blows your way about you not having a father, and suddenly you’d remember that you were an outsider, an “other.” It felt like you were walking around with something on your face. It felt like people saw it.
“I’m sorry I blew up at you. I just need to be left alone for a little while, okay?”
She can tell you mean it. “All right, Maya,” she says. “I’m sorry, too. I’m going to call you tomorrow. And be good to yourself. Do you hear me?”
You make promises and hang up. You reach under your bed and open the mini fridge that lurks beneath it. You can’t see under there, but your hand finds a four-pack of Mang-O-Ritas in the little hidden box of cold. It’s as if your hand is doing this on its own, and you are an observer, on your hands and knees, letting it do the thing it wants to do.
