Sot Lapin

Lies. Manipulation. Revenge. Sex. All the components of any normal freshman year of college.

"I hate it when things don't go my way."      - Kathryn Merteuil

 

Senior year went pretty quickly. Now it seems almost instantaneous. Somehow time seemed to warp in between blinks.

“Welcome back from summer...seniors!”

Blink.

“Welcome back from Christmas break!”

Except they can’t say “Christmas” break, that’s not politically correct. They have to include every religion. So they correct themselves. “...I mean Holiday Break.” Only the atheists get left out; they have no holidays.

Blink.

“Welcome back from Spring Break!”

      Everyone is tan from their Florida Vacation. I’m not. I’m tired from a low-grade case of insomnia. I sleep, just not a lot. Everyone is happy and anxious to get out of this 4-year prison. I’m not. I’m terrified. The real world, it’s nothing like on TV.

      Blink.

      “Welcome, everyone to Graduation for the Class of 2007!”

      Blink.

      Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life.

      College. It’s intimidating. Here you’ll learn. Here you’ll live. Here you’ll make or break your life. It’s terrifying.

      Blink.

      “Welcome to Jacob Hall,” says the monotone RA, who seems like more trouble than he looks.

      Jacob Hall; my hall; our hall; all thirteen of us. 

Boxes, and Bedspreads, and Laptops, oh my!

Jacob Hall is filled with kids, and all of the junk we’re going to put in our rooms. All thirteen of us. Waiting for this stupid floor meeting to be over so we can arrange our rooms just perfectly enough to rearrange them in two weeks.

      We got the gist of what the RA was saying: no drinking, no drugs, no sex, no pulling fire alarms. I thought three out of four were obvious anyway.

      The floor was pretty normal. Small, but normal. The same as any high school class.

      There were the “jocks”: Steve, Ryan (my roommate), and Randy. Football, basketball, and baseball (respectively). They would debate which sport was more satisfying to play, and/or watch. I agreed with Ryan. But Steve was huge so I never said anything. 

      There were the “nerds”: Vader and Kahn. Those were nicknames, obviously. They would debate about whether Star Wars or Star Trek was better. Personally, Yoda and the Force beat Capt. Kirk and the Starship Enterprise any day of the week. But I never say anything.

      There were the “pretty girls”: Jenny, Steph, Maria, and Glenda.

      Jenny and Maria were the typical Italian-American princesses. Too tan, too much make up, and too much talking; they never shut up. I’m surprised they ate and slept, because it put a damper on their talking. They were nice though.

      Glenda was a theater major. So she was always very cheery and friendly. At times she could be a bit ditzy, but she was a nice girl.

      Steph suffered from UDS: Ugly Duckling Syndrome. Even though she was pretty now, in high school she hadn’t been. And this caused her to develop a personality. She was funny and easy to talk to. This made her the most attractive of the “pretty girls.”

      I talked to Steph a lot. I didn’t really fit in to a stereotype on the floor, so I didn’t hang out with everyone as much. We were all friendly. We had to be. But the only one I had anything in common with was Steph, so I hung out with her when I could. But for the most part I was a loner.

      Then there was Aviva and Tamar. These two had been best friends for “like, oh-my-God! forever,” as they would said in unison. They were roommates; had the same classes; slept at the same time; ate at the same time. Siamese twins don’t spend that much time together.

      Then there was Alicia. She was an odd one, to say the least. Steph was her roommate and this is what she told me:

      “This chick is really fucked up. So, the first night her boyfriend stays with her. It’s awkward right off the bat, because I’m a total third wheel.

“So, I go to the bathroom, and when I come back there’s a sheet around their bed, I guess so that they could have some ’privacy’...But it’s not like the sheet blocks any sound, so I’m forced to fall asleep to the soundtrack of them humping all night...Awkwardville- population: Me.

“But that’s not even the fucked up thing (no pun intended).

“After her boyfriend leaves in the morning, she starts to tell me about how he’s her boyfriend at home and how she’s going to have a campus boyfriend, and then another guy that’s not going to care about her other two boyfriends...”

A week later I found Ryan plowing her on his desk. That’s something they never show you in the brochure. 

On the first day Ryan said to me, “I’m going to get with that Alicia-chick.” 

That’s why I call him Babe Ruth: he called his shot.

And finally there was Christy. I felt bad for Christy; we all did. She was more homesick than all eleven of us combined. The first two days of Orientation Week she spent in her room crying. 

On the third day she finally came out of her room, eyes bloodshot and puffy from crying too much, wrapped in a blanket. She looked around at all of us, sitting around the common room. When her eyes got to me though, her dam of self-control finally broke, and the tears streamed down her face.

Apparently, I was a carbon copy of her ex-boyfriend. Her ex-boyfriend of three years. Her ex-boyfriend of three years, who had broken up with her the day before she moved into the dorm. 

I would never do that though, I’m a nice guy.

In college, sleep was the same: minimal. 
People partying. People from different time zones. People with coke habits. They keep you up. And I have an 8 a.m. class. That’s something they never show you in the brochure.

There’s one night, though, I finally have a chance to sleep. Ryan is out of the room and in Alicia. 

I’m in my bed. I’m dreaming about driving on an exploding bridge. I’m fast asleep.

Then I feel something move at my foot. I’m off the bridge and back on my bed. And so is Christy. She’s wrapped in her security blanket, and sniffling.

“Can I sleep here tonight?” she asks.

“Um...”

Blink.

Welcome to Awkwardville- population: Me.

“Sure,” I say. 

She lies next to me in my cramped, single bed. In what seems like the longest two minutes of my life Christy whimpers herself to sleep. And I’m left there thinking:

“This is something they definitely don’t show you in the brochure.”

Blink.

“Welcome to Math 201.”

You don’t panic. Even though you’re in the wrong class.  

You don’t panic. Even though missing a class could ruin your scholarship. You don’t panic, because it’s your first day of classes, and you definitely don’t want to be that guy. 

You don’t panic. Even though you’re not supposed to be in “Math 201,” you’re supposed to be in “Analytical Geometry.” And you start to look around the room to see if this is happening to anyone else in the room. It’s not. But then again, you’re not supposed to panic.

The professor then calls your name from the attendance list. Shocked out of your panic attack, you raise your hand.

Then the professor says, “Welcome to Analytical Geometry.” 

You don’t panic.    

Blink.

      “Hello, I’m your new Resident Advisor.”

      Another Jacob Hall meeting. All thirteen of us in the hall. Two weeks into the semester and in front of us stood someone I had seen before. 

In fact, I had seen her with our old RA.

      He broke his own rule: no sex. My room was directly across from the RA’s and one day I saw her walk into his room. 

      A few minutes later I started to hear the creaking of bed springs and the moans of a fake orgasm. A few minutes later she walked out fixing her hair, and screwing the fake smile off of her face. When she saw me though, she smiled a real smile, winked, and then walked away.

      This happened a couple more times during the week: she’d walk in, a few bland, “Oh baby”s later she’d walk out, smile at me and wink.

      I couldn’t believe that the monotone RA could get a girl as pretty as her. 

She looked like every high school prom queen; every Miss America; every girl that men wanted to f**k and women wanted to look like.

Most girls are jealous of another girl because they want her dress in their size; you’re jealous of this girl because you want her life in your size.

      Then one night I was woken up by the white noise of a walkie-talkie. I looked up at Ryan. He’d woken up too. 

      When we opened up the door we saw police. They were in the RA’s room. 

      The RA was down the hall though, being read his rights by another police officer. Next to the police officer was another police officer holding a very large bag of very potent weed.

      The police stopped rummaging in the room, when one of them called out, “Found it!”

      Soon the very proud officer came out of the RA’s room with another very large bag of white powder. 

Coke.

      He broke his own rule: no drugs.

      Needless to say, after the police led the RA out of Jacob Hall, he didn’t come back.

      That’s why the Prom Queen was standing in front of us now, selling us her fake smile. 

      You can always tell when someone is faking a smile, it’s in their eyes. Their mouth says, “Hi, so nice to meet you.” But their eyes are saying, “I’d much rather be somewhere else right now.”

      If you see stark teeth and hollow eyes, that person would rather not be speaking to you.

      But of course she’s Miss America. It doesn’t matter how chipper her voice is, or how many molars we can see, she’s automatically cool.

      “I hope to get to know all of you,” she scans the room, and when she gets to me her eyes are no longer hollow, “very well.” And she winks.

      Blink.

      It’s raining. It’s pouring. And the honors student sitting next to me in my “Religion 101” is snoring. 

      Sheets of rain bang on the window as my professor drones on about something no one cares about. If someone made a rainmaker mimic today, it wouldn’t be made of wood with rice in it; it’d be metal and full of marbles. 

      A crazy blonde in the second row is shaking her foot. Except that Blondie doesn’t shake it vertically, like most people. 

No. Blondie shakes it horizontally. Which makes it look like her body is convulsing, but no one pays any attention to it. She looks like a bobble-head in reverse. Her body swivels back and forth, but her head stays perfectly still. 

The way her body is moving, if she had a seizure right now, no one would pay attention to it.

      Class is over in five minutes and it’s obvious the rain won’t stop for a while. It’s raining. It’s pouring. And thunder claps wakes the snoring honors student sitting next to me. 

Class is over in four minutes and it’s obvious no one wants to go outside. A few people are prepared with rain coats and umbrellas. 

Class is over in three minutes and every girl wearing flip-flops looks like they’re about to cry.

Blink.

There’s a rubber-band on my doorknob. The only thing I want to do right now is take a nap and there’s a rubber-band on my doorknob. 

After I accidentally walked in on Ryan and Alicia, we established a system. A rubber-band is a “Do Not Disturb” sign. So, when there’s a rubber-band on the doorknob I can’t go in. And the only thing I want to do right now is sleep.

“Hey, you,” comes out of the door the RA’s room. Miss America is sitting in there.

“Me?” I ask. She nods and waves me into her room.

“What’s your name?” she asks with a real smile on her face. I can see two molars.

“Um...” I say, wondering why the 4-year Homecoming Queen is talking to me.

“Cute name.” When she speaks everything is in the sexiest tone possible. “I’m Johnna Myers.”     

I flash to a High School gym, with a Principal, in a tuxedo, on stage with a microphone.

“And your Prom Queen is,” he says. “Johnna Myers.”

Applause. Applause.

Cheer. Cheer.

Then I’m back in her room.

“So,” she says. “I see your roommate has a little girlfriend.”

“Um...” I say. “Not really. He’s the guy that doesn’t care about the other two.”

“What?”

“It’s a long story,” I tell her.

“What about you?”

“Huh?”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asks. She moves to sit on her bed.

“Um...” All of a sudden I feel very uncomfortable. “No.”

“Oh, really?” I can see four molars. “What year are you in?”

“I’m a...um...freshman.”

“Oh, you’re a baby. No wonder you’re so cute,” she says and I’m too stunned to come up with something to say back. I can only:

“Um...”

“You’re funny,” she giggles. Then she gets up off the bed and walks over to me. She’s a full head shorter than I am, but she’s so intimidating, I might as well be staring down King Kong. Very coyly she says, “Awww, are you afwaid of me?”

You don’t panic. Even though Miss America is talking to you. You don’t panic. Even though she’s obviously flirting.  You don’t panic. Even though you’re most likely on some hidden camera show right now.

“Um...”

“You’re too cute not to have a girlfriend.” And she kisses you.

Blink.

Welcome to the Frat House. Welcome to the party. 

For the past couple of weeks, Johnna has been taking me to party after party, “showing me off,” as she calls it. Apparently I’m “too cute not to show off.”

Right now, Johnna is off somewhere talking to her friends and I’m sitting on a couch being a good little boy-toy.

It’s a definite change. 

Before, on a regular Friday night, I used to sit in my dorm room and try to catch up on sleep or sit in the common room and talk to Steph until we’d fall asleep on uncomfortable sheets of blue plastic that college passes for chairs. I used to be a nice guy.

Now, on a “Johnna Myers” Friday night, I’m sitting on a dirty, frat couch, next to a guy who’s too drunk to drink. Which is a little sad; but as sad as it is, it’s much funnier.

He’ll start to lift the cup and miss his mouth. Then he’ll put the cup back down, start to lift it again, and give up halfway up to his mouth. Five minutes later he’ll repeat and almost throw-up.

A little bit later he turned to me and said:

“Y-Y-Y-Ya know...you...you are a luck-lucky guy, guy. Becaaauuuse Johnna is like the....the QUEEN...around here. She might as well be...own this place. Beckcauzzz she could like...like...like do any aaanything and geht away with it.”

I didn’t believe him, I mean he was too drunk to lift a cup, how could he be able to have a coherent thought. But every drunk used to be smart.

Blink.

There’s a rubber-band on my doorknob. The only thing I want to do right now is make Johnna happy, so there’s a rubber-band on my doorknob.

But of course, I can’t see it, because it’s on the other side of the door. 

The skinny girl that just lost her virginity is lying next to me, fast asleep. A nice Southern girl, from a nice Christian family; daughter of a Preacherman. Poor thing never stood a chance.

While doing some homework the night before, the Prom Queen, Johnna Myers, came into my room and started kissing my neck. 

“Hey, baby,” she said. I hated when she called me “baby,” but I don’t say anything.

“Not right now Johnna, I have to do this paper. And there’s no way I’m going to finish it in time.”

“Oh, c’mon, baby,” she says in that sexy way, when she needs me to do something for her. Like move her furniture, or help her with her chemistry homework. “You have a full, two days to do this paper, and I really want you to come to this party with me tonight.” She kisses my neck some more.

She made a good point. And how can I say, “No,” to Johnna Myers. So I end up back on the dirty couch of the Frat House.

Sometimes I really hated Johnna. She’d be in love with me one minute; then the next minute we’re around people and she wants nothing to do with me. 

We go to a party, she neglects me.

I’m a latchkey boyfriend. 

It’s been like that for two months. I don’t know why I put up with it still. But how can I say, “No!” to Johnna Myers.

Then all of a sudden she’s on my lap.

“Come with me,” she says and takes me by the hand. She leads me into a room and we’re alone. 

I know we won’t have sex here (she doesn’t like to anywhere but her room), so I start to wonder what we’re doing here.

      “Baby,” she says in that sexy way when she needs me to do something for. Like go out and get her shampoo (“Don’t forget the conditioner!”); or walk her to her next class. 

Or sleep with another girl.

“WHAT?” I scream calmly.

“It’s just one night, baby.”

“Wait...You want me to what?-why?”

“Because, baby, this girl has done some not-nice things to people I know,” she was patronizing me. Talking to me like you would a little kid; talking to me like you would a boy-toy. “And I want to get her back.” 

There it was. Our third strongest, basic human instinct. Companionship. Sex. Revenge. And somehow Johnna Myers had found a way to combine all three.

 An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. And a night for whatever this poor girl had done.

Five minutes later, I’m chatting up Kathleen Studs down on the dirty frat couch downstairs.  I had her at, “Hello.” A nice Southern girl, from a nice Christian family, daughter of a Preacherman. 

Sure I didn’t want to do it. But how can I say, “No,” to Johnna Myers.

Sure Kathleen was a little hesitant to come back to my room. But of course, I’ve been dating Johnna Myers for two months. That’s like taking a crash course in “Seduction 101.” 

“Oh, baby,” Johnna says. “You’re too cute not to be able to do this.”

Poor thing never stood a chance.

      There’s a rubber-band on my doorknob. 

And when all is moaned and done, she drops the bomb:

      “I’m so glad my first time was with a nice guy like you.” 

When she’s fast asleep I start to panic. 

Oh my God, I think, Johnna knew this girl was a virgin, and didn’t tell me because she knew I wouldn’t do it then.

Why did I do this?

Why couldn’t I say, “No!” to Miss America?

Then she walks in. A real smile on her face. Here to accept her tiara. Here to be crowned the Queen of Mean.

“Great job, baby,” she says walking over to my closet. “You could hear her down the hall last night.” She was fiddling with something in my closet.

The only thing I can do is stare up at the ceiling and say:

“Why didn’t you tell me she was a virgin?”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yes, you did.”

“You’re right,” she giggles. “I did, but then I knew you wouldn’t have fucked her brains out then, silly. Looks like you really tired her out, baby.” I hated when she called me baby.

Kathleen was a deep sleeper; she didn’t wake up at all.

“What are you doing in there?” I asked Johnna, who was still doing something in my closet.

“Getting the tape out of the camera.”

“Oh......WAIT, WHAT!?” I jumped out of my bed, throwing Kathleen off of my chest in the process. Sure she hit her head on the wall, but she’s a deep sleeper, so she didn’t wake up.

“You filmed us!?”

“Of course, I did. How else am I going to blackmail this girl?”

“Blackmail!? Since when are you blackmailing her? I thought this was just revenge.”

“Well, the blackmail is part of it. How am I supposed to get revenge on her if I can’t threaten to send the loving Reverend and Mrs. Studs a video of their sweet, little Kathleen being a dirty, little s**t?” she said giggling. “The things that girl said last night, I wouldn’t have believed she was raised Christian.” 

I flash to seeing Johnna Myers sitting in her room. She’s listening to her boy-toy have sex with a nice, Christian girl that’s screaming obscenities like a sailor; she’s smiling a real smile. I can see her wisdom teeth.

Then I’m back in my room, and Johnna’s walking over to my bed. There to accept her tiara. There to be crowned the Queen of Revenge. Kathleen is still fast asleep, as Johnna sits on the bed.

“She looks so sweet, doesn’t she?” she says calmly and coolly, stroking Kathleen’s head. The evil mastermind inside her is starting to come out:

“So serene; so happy. She’s just had an amazing night that she’ll never forget.

“I wonder what she’s dreaming about right now. Maybe her family; maybe home; maybe you.  Little does she know that her whole world is about to come crashing down around her.” 

It was at that moment that I realized that you never cross Johnna Myers. Because Johnna Myers doesn’t cry, she gets even.

Miss America started walking over to me again. 

“Now wake her up, and throw her out,” she said. “I’ll be outside waiting for her.” 

She kissed me on the neck and then walked to the door. Walking to accept her tiara. Walking to be crowned the Queen of Mean. 

“Oh and be in my room in fifteen minutes. Listening to you two all night got me all worked up,” she says in the sexiest way possible.

Sure I didn’t want to do it. But of course, I’m “dating” Johhna Myers and she controls my life.

I get Kathleen out of my room, as quickly as possible; she never found her underwear. Before she leaves, she tries to kiss me but I deflect it saying:

“I haven’t brushed my teeth yet.”

Then she says, “Call me,” with a real smile on her face.

“Sure,” I say, with hollow eyes.

A minute later, I hear the muffled sobs of Kathleen being told never to f**k with Johnna Myers or she’ll send a tape of a nice, Christian girl doing some not-so nice, un-Christian things.

I used to be a nice guy. 

Blink.

Another girl. Another rubber-band. Another thing they don’t tell you about in the brochure. 

Another night of revenge. Another night of being Johnna Myers’ sexecutioner.

The girl that’s lying next to me now, I don’t even know her name. She’s become one of the many girls I’ve had to sleep with on Johnna Myers’ behalf.

In a few minutes Johnna Myers will walk in with her Queen of Mean smile on. And tell me to wake up the girl lying next to me. She doesn’t even wait till their outside my room anymore.

I wake them up and then she drops the bomb:

“Don’t f**k with me!” she says.

Because Johnna Myers doesn’t cry, she gets even.

They cry though, most of them do. Some start to laugh that nervous laughter, like it’s a big joke. 

But the ones that get me are the one that freeze. The ones that just stare, like someone just died. The ones that just stare and look at me, like I killed someone.

Before, on a Friday night, I would go to a frat party and sit on a dirty, frat couch. Then I would wait for Johnna Myers, Queen of College, to show me off to her friends, because apparently I’m “too cute not to show off.”

Now, on a Friday night, I’m chatting up some freshman, or sophomore, or occasional junior, who’s gotten on the wrong side of Johnna Myers. Then there’s a rubber-band on the doorknob and I’m in bed, being voyeured by the video camera in my closet; with Johnna Myers across the hall smiling her stark white smile, getting all “worked up.”

Then in the morning they look at me like I just killed somebody and the only thing I can think is:  

I used to be a nice guy.

Blink.

      I’m on my way back to Jacob Hall. My parents just dropped me off from Thanksgiving weekend.

      It’s Sunday, and Johnna Myers’ friend, Zach, runs up to me:

      “Hey, I need to tell you something.”

      Zach was the only one of Johnna’s friends I could stomach. He wasn’t stuck up like the rest of them. Whenever I would hang out with Johnna and her friends, I always knew that I liked Zach the most out of all them. He told the funniest stories I think I’ve ever heard in my life. 

      “Look I’m not supposed to be telling you this. I usually don’t. I didn’t to all the others,” he says.

      “Others?”

      Zach goes onto explain to me how Johnna does this every semester: she finds a new freshman; makes him her new boyfriend; and uses him to “f**k every s**t on campus she doesn’t like.” 

Apparently the Prom Queen has done this every semester since sophomore year. And she gets away with it because these girls are too afraid to say anything, and her boyfriends are too enchanted to say anything.

      “But how?”

      “Did your first RA look like a coke-head?”  

And it all made sense. 

That’s why she slept with him.  So she could plant drugs in his room. That’s why he was taken away. So she could be Jacob Hall’s RA. So she could make me her boy-toy.

It all made sense: get the lonely kid with hardly any friends. He’s the perfect choice.

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask Zach.

“Because, out of all the other guys that Johnna has used, you’re the only nice one. All the other guys- complete dicks.”

“What happened to them?”

“Well, isn’t it obvious?  They don’t go here anymore. Some of them quit school, too woe stricken from the break-up of Johnna Myers. Some of them transferred. I think one even might have offed himself. 

“There not here anymore, because they all thought they had it made: hot girlfriend that lets you have sex with other girls. What could be better? 

“But you, I can see that you hate it. I can see that you hate her. So I just thought you should know that she will drop you. She’ll drop you hard right around mid-terms, so you’ll be all broken up and possibly flunk out.”

I knew I always liked Zach.

Blink.

It’s Saturday night. 

Johnna Myers is under the impression that we’re going to a frat party. The Queen Supreme is under the impression that I’m going to have sex with a sophomore who tried to get her caught cheating on an exam. 

Poor thing never stood a chance. Or at least she wouldn’t have if Zach didn’t let me in on the Prom Queen’s overall plan.

For most of the week I’ve been trying to avoid her. It’s pretty hard, though, since we live across the hall from one another. 

      This morning she told me to meet her in her room later. And that’s where I wait like a good little boy-toy should, because Johnna Myers is still under the impression that I’m her boy-toy. 

      What Miss America doesn’t realize is that she’s nothing without her adoring public. What the Prom Queen doesn’t realize is that she needs a school more than the school needs her. What Johnna Myers doesn’t realize is that she needs me more than I need her. 

What none of them realize is that they’re just pretty girls, no more, no less. And pretty is just an adjective.

She comes back into her room:

“Hey, baby,” she says with hollow eyes. I hated when she called me, “baby.”

“Tonight were going out to a party,” she says. “And I need you to do me a-.”

“No were not,” I say bluntly.

Once you realize that Miss America is only Miss America because you care, that it doesn’t matter that she’s Miss America it’s pretty easy to say, “No.”

She looked at me like I had just killed someone:

“What? Why not?”

“Because I don’t feel like it. I don’t want to.  So, I’m not going to do it anymore. Is that a simple enough for you to understand?” 

I’m not angry about it. I never once raise my voice, or yell at her. Because I realize that I don’t care about Johnna Myers. I don’t think I ever did. She was just a pretty girl. And pretty is just an adjective.

Then she starts to beg. Ever seen a Queen beg? It’s hysterical.

“But, baby-“

“That’s another thing. I never liked when you called me, ‘baby.’ I don’t think you’ve ever called by my real name. I doubt you even know it.”

Silence. 

Ever seen a Queen blush in humility? It’s hysterical. I started laugh. 

She didn’t say a word. 

“Alright, good talk.” Then I got up and went over to her door. Before I walked out, and slammed the door, I looked back at her again and said:

“Oh and if you didn’t understand the subtext there: I’m breaking up with you.”

She didn’t look sad. She didn’t look angry. She looked lost. For the first time in her life she, Johnna Myers, Miss America, looked ugly.

Blink.

“Welcome to Jacob Hall,” I said to the new RA moving her things into the room across the hall.

Johnna Myers had moved out. She was too embarrassed to look at me. 

Nobody dumps the Prom Queen; nobody dumps Miss America; nobody dumps Johnna Myers. 

But I did. 

And she knew all the power she had was gone. The power she had been building for three years: gone. 

It disappeared when I realized I didn’t care about Johnna Myers. It disappeared when I stole all the tapes she had. She never made copies, because she thought:

“Nobody steals from Johnna Myers.”

But I did.

I took all the tapes and found all the girls. I went to their rooms, apologized, and gave them the tapes. Some of them forgave me. Some of them slapped me in the face. 

When I brought Kathleen Studs her tape, she cried. Then when I apologized, she cried. Then I gave her the tape and she cried some more. When I started to leave, she hugged me.

“Call me,” she said, with a real smile and puffy eyes.

“Sure,” I say.

Blink.

It was Friday night and I was in my dorm room with Steph. Since I had dumped Johnna Myers, I had stopped going to useless frat parties and started hanging out with Steph more. I hadn’t really seen her at all since I had become a boy-toy, but she forgave me saying:

“You’re too cute not to be used.” 

Then there was a knock at the door. It was the Queen Supreme. She didn’t look like Miss America anymore. She didn’t look like a Prom Queen. She looked lost. She looked broken. She looked like she had been crying. But, Johnna Myers doesn’t cry, she gets even.

“Can I help you?” I said coldly.

In the past couple of weeks Johnna Myers had hit rock bottom. She was no longer the Queen of College. When I broke it off with her, I had started a chain reaction. Now no one adored her. No one respected her. No one was afraid of her. And she knew it.

Before, on a Friday night, Johnna Myers would be at a frat party, picking out her victims.

Now, on a Friday night, she’s alone in her single room, crying herself to sleep.

“I need your help,” she says sniffling.

Silence.

I slam the door in her face, and turn to Steph and say:

“And I used to be such a nice guy.”

Author's Note

Normally, I wouldn't post a story that's unfinished, but everytime I go over this this one I can't seem to like it as much as I want to. The ending is what gets me. It has to be funny, so if I didn't make you laugh, please let me know. Any other suggestions would be much appreciated.

Also, ignore any spelling errors, b/c in something this long there are probably a couple....did I say a couple? I meant probably a lot

Reviews

[MadasonBlue]

So the first thing I noticed when I got done with this was repitition--something I use a lot so am pretty familiar with.
I think it worked everywhere you used it, especially "I hate when she calls me 'baby'", because it reinforced the idea that all Johnna does is the same annoying thing over and over and what's so special about her again?

There are a few spelling and punctuation errors, but I don't think it's enough to actually take away from the quality of the story.

I did like the last sentence, where you turned a bad thing--"I used to be such a nice guy"--into a good thing.

I liked "Blink", too. It was a very efficient way of turning a long series of events into separate important scenes that came together well.

Great job.

[cloister]

That's about 80% awesome. :)

The other 20% would include:

* a slower build-up to the breakup and reversal at the end of the story. As it was, I felt the narrator flipped on Johnna too quickly. Zach warns him what's going to happen, and rather than react as might be expected, he immediately turns the tables on her. I think it would be stronger, more believable, if in between the two there was a scene where the narrator freaks out about the impending dumping, a "no! I can't lose Miss America!" feeling. Then give him something external that shifts his perspective so he realizes that actually, he doesn't _want_ Miss America anyway. I might suggest a scene with Steph where she delivers the "you're too cute not to get used" line (move it up to there; it's a good line, but it doesn't have any real power at the spot where you've used it, after all the drama is over), and he realizes she's hit the nail on the head and he doesn't want to be used like that.
* a shorter introduction to the cast of Dorm-mates. Most of them are never developed into characters who actually matter to the story--that is, they don't affect the plot at all--and as such they're just clutter. Just there to set the scene. You can do that a lot shorter. That's the one spot where I felt the story dragged.

And here are a couple of specific spots that felt rough:

> Steph suffered from UDS: Ugly Duckling Syndrome. Even though she was pretty now, in high school she hadn't been. And this caused her to develop a personality. She was funny and easy to talk to. This made her the most attractive of the "pretty girls."

Practically any time you have the verb "cause", in any of its forms, it's a dead giveaway that you're _telling_ instead of _showing_. That's certainly the case here. And, as is so often true of telling, what is told is unnecessary, too:

> Steph suffered from UDS: Ugly Duckling Syndrome. Even though she was pretty now, in high school she hadn't been. She was the only one with any kind of personality, so I ended up hanging out with her more than any of the others.

We can put together the connection between UDS and developing personality. We can infer from the mention of personality that she's good company. We can infer from the narrator hanging out with her more than any of the others, that he finds her attractive. Show, don't tell.

You could stand to edit this whole piece and standardize on first-person or second-person style. Pick one, but not both. In many places, you have narrative commentary in the first person, and in many places, the second person. It really jumped out at me here:

> You don't panic. Even though Miss America is talking to you. You don't panic. Even though she's obviously flirting. You don't panic. Even though you're most likely on some hidden camera show right now.

In that spot, my gut was telling me to expect first-person writing, ("I don't panic. Even though Miss America is talking to me." etc). So go through the whole piece and fix it up one way or the other. I'd suggest standardizing on first-person wording, as that is typically the stronger choice if you can do it well, which I believe you can.

This plot development also seemed to come out of left-field:

> It's Sunday, and Johnna Myers' friend, Zach, runs up to me: "Hey, I need to tell you something."

It's because we haven't heretofore seen Zach before. Find a way to work him into the first frat party scene, so the reader has some mental framework of him as someone known to both the narrator and to Johnna. When I got to this part, I stumbled over it because he was a new character descending into the story with vital information, and I had to re-read some to figure out how he fits in.

I see what MadisonBlue is saying about repetition: it's a dangerous tool, but you have mostly used it well and to good effect. And the use of "Blink" was indeed a nice rhetorical device.

Overall, a great piece. Good story, with a nice twist at the end.