Read Online Lookaway, Lookaway by Wilton Barnhardt - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Wilton Barnhardt
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guy, bellowing some rock-song chorus, held aloft an emptying bottle of Everclear over the trashcan while the girls brayed in mock-horror, Oh no you didn’t! Cortney dunked her cup beneath the surface to fill it, then sampled. “Ellch. Needs something sweet,” she called out, as someone went looking for where she had set down the discount-brand triple sec she had brought.
“Jerilyn!” It was Skip, with his trademark drunken-red face. “I was hoping you’d be here. You know, I told Corinne and Layla, hey, if Jerilyn isn’t going to be a Skank, then I may have to change fraternities.”
“Thank you so much.”
“We’ll figure out some way you can pay me back,” he said. Then suddenly he was tongue-kissing her. She pulled back.
“Caught me off guard,” she said, trying to make a joke of it. She looked at the floor, and by the time she looked up, Skip was off down the main hall of Zipperhaus, towel-whipping the buttocks of some passing pledges.
Back in the kitchen, the trashcan had nearly brimmed thanks to what some guy promised was a gallon of moonshine.
Overheard, from two of the Sigmas:
“My dad can get rid of all of that upper-arm fat,” Georgina said, volunteering her father’s plastic surgery practice for a Sigma Kappa Nu discount. “Not to mention up your cup size.”
“Puh-leeease tell me,” Cortney said, “that your own dad didn’t do your boob job.”
Georgina straightened her posture and let the kitchen admire her newly titanic prominence. “You better believe he did them—so they’d be done right. It’s all like working with meat to him; he doesn’t think about these as boobs.”
Boy, that was another thing Jerilyn did not get in the least. Some girls bragged about their surgery; some hid it and got whispered about (“I heard she had two nose jobs…”). Some girls said they loved to make out with girls and were so popular and funny and beloved; yet one girl, Amanda, whose name was nearly always sneered, hit on another girl while drunk at a party and she was whispered about as some kind of creepy dyke. And then the frat brothers and sex. What on earth were the rules there?
Taylorr bragged about having oral sex with all but two of the Zeta Pis her third year at Carolina; in fact, she said they were renaming the BJ Room after her when she graduated. This set off a contest of sorts about who had come in second, who had been through the most guys, Lew, Richard, Andy, Joey D, and Frank—no one had Frank, he was still in mourning for some girlfriend that dumped him, but two or three of the really slutty-popular sisters were determined to get him in a threeway. And yet, while all that was acceptable and breakfast-bar gossip, Jerilyn heard girls talk at dinner about Sara who was with two guys in a ménage à trois and what a slut she was, how she had “a problem.” The rule, Jerilyn decided, was this: the popular ringleading girls could do or say or screw anything and it was all right.
Jerilyn always listened to see if Skip’s name was mentioned as a frequent conquest, but so far no.
“Jermaine!” called out Britannie. Jerilyn corrected her about the name. “Aw honey, I got close! You be our taste-tester.”
A plastic cup was dunked into the mire and something opaque and brown was forced into her hand. Jerilyn took a tiny sip from her cup, and almost retched at the strength. “It’s a little like drinking mouthwash,” she reported.
As the mixmasters tinkered some more, Jerilyn slipped away to the pantry where no one was standing. She felt she was getting sad again; the cocaine was slowly wearing off, the brightness and tingle was becoming intermittent.
“You don’t like it?” some guy said.
“Hm, oh it’s all right,” she said, lifting the cup. “Not exactly delicious.”
“Yeah, I’m more of a beer person,” the tall boy said, almost apologetically.
“Me too, but I couldn’t get near the fridge.”
“Tell you what. I’ll get us both one.” He flashed a
“Jerilyn!” It was Skip, with his trademark drunken-red face. “I was hoping you’d be here. You know, I told Corinne and Layla, hey, if Jerilyn isn’t going to be a Skank, then I may have to change fraternities.”
“Thank you so much.”
“We’ll figure out some way you can pay me back,” he said. Then suddenly he was tongue-kissing her. She pulled back.
“Caught me off guard,” she said, trying to make a joke of it. She looked at the floor, and by the time she looked up, Skip was off down the main hall of Zipperhaus, towel-whipping the buttocks of some passing pledges.
Back in the kitchen, the trashcan had nearly brimmed thanks to what some guy promised was a gallon of moonshine.
Overheard, from two of the Sigmas:
“My dad can get rid of all of that upper-arm fat,” Georgina said, volunteering her father’s plastic surgery practice for a Sigma Kappa Nu discount. “Not to mention up your cup size.”
“Puh-leeease tell me,” Cortney said, “that your own dad didn’t do your boob job.”
Georgina straightened her posture and let the kitchen admire her newly titanic prominence. “You better believe he did them—so they’d be done right. It’s all like working with meat to him; he doesn’t think about these as boobs.”
Boy, that was another thing Jerilyn did not get in the least. Some girls bragged about their surgery; some hid it and got whispered about (“I heard she had two nose jobs…”). Some girls said they loved to make out with girls and were so popular and funny and beloved; yet one girl, Amanda, whose name was nearly always sneered, hit on another girl while drunk at a party and she was whispered about as some kind of creepy dyke. And then the frat brothers and sex. What on earth were the rules there?
Taylorr bragged about having oral sex with all but two of the Zeta Pis her third year at Carolina; in fact, she said they were renaming the BJ Room after her when she graduated. This set off a contest of sorts about who had come in second, who had been through the most guys, Lew, Richard, Andy, Joey D, and Frank—no one had Frank, he was still in mourning for some girlfriend that dumped him, but two or three of the really slutty-popular sisters were determined to get him in a threeway. And yet, while all that was acceptable and breakfast-bar gossip, Jerilyn heard girls talk at dinner about Sara who was with two guys in a ménage à trois and what a slut she was, how she had “a problem.” The rule, Jerilyn decided, was this: the popular ringleading girls could do or say or screw anything and it was all right.
Jerilyn always listened to see if Skip’s name was mentioned as a frequent conquest, but so far no.
“Jermaine!” called out Britannie. Jerilyn corrected her about the name. “Aw honey, I got close! You be our taste-tester.”
A plastic cup was dunked into the mire and something opaque and brown was forced into her hand. Jerilyn took a tiny sip from her cup, and almost retched at the strength. “It’s a little like drinking mouthwash,” she reported.
As the mixmasters tinkered some more, Jerilyn slipped away to the pantry where no one was standing. She felt she was getting sad again; the cocaine was slowly wearing off, the brightness and tingle was becoming intermittent.
“You don’t like it?” some guy said.
“Hm, oh it’s all right,” she said, lifting the cup. “Not exactly delicious.”
“Yeah, I’m more of a beer person,” the tall boy said, almost apologetically.
“Me too, but I couldn’t get near the fridge.”
“Tell you what. I’ll get us both one.” He flashed a
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