still passed out in doorways and on couches. It looks as if I made my exit just at the right time.
As I cut through the littered front lounge, something catches my eye. A computer is open on a coffee table, the screen showing photographs in some sort of grid. I move forward to take a closer look.
PSI DELT DOABLES, the page heading reads. The photographs are of girlsâsome in a state of undress, mugging for the camera, others obviously asleepâand next to them is written a name and score.
MANDY LEE, owned by OWEN MICHAELS.
> 6/10.
> She scratches!
CASSIE WILCOX, owned by BRETT ALLSTON.
> 9/10.
> Kinky bitch!
I realize what the grid means and take a step back. Theyâre keeping score. I wrinkle my face in disdain. Typical frat-boy exploits, I suppose, but still, I donât know why Sam lives with them. Heâs far moreâ¦
And then I see it, halfway down the page. A photograph of me, eyes closed, hair spread on familiar navy sheets.
EMILY LEWIS, owned by SAM RICH.
> 4/10.
> Englishâenough said.
I canât believe it.
Backing away from the screen, I slam the front door behind me and practically race down the street. How could he? I break into a jog, not caring about the thunder in my head or what a madwoman I must look like in last nightâs clothes. What is it with these boys, acting as if sex is the single greatest achievement in all humanity? First Sebastian, pushing me with his hints and nudging until I nearly gave in just to get it out of the way. And now Sam, treating me as if Iâm just another notch on his bedpostâwhen technically I wasnât even
in
his bed!
Am I a particularly bad judge of character, or are they all like this?
I finally slow down, out of breath. Four out of ten.
Four out of ten.
Itâs not as if Iâd feel any better had he given me a more complimentary score for my imaginary sexual performance, but the low mark is salt in my now-gaping wound. Do I seem like somebody who would be bad in bed? Shaking my head, I stop myself before I get pulled down that line of reasoning and instead return to the important matter of Sam. All those sweet comments and nice-guy lines were just a lie; he must have been laughing at me the entire time. And I fell for it.
Iâm supposed to meet Ryan and the film-class crew after lunch for our first meeting, but thereâs no chance at all I can manage that, even after picking up a grande extra-shot latte en route to my room. I refuse to use my meager energy reserves to dwell on bastards and their bastardly stunts, so after a shower and some food, I throw myself into âresearchâ: passing the day in a blur of Ben & Jerryâs Phish Food and all the bad romantic-comedy movies Iâve been saving. Reese. Kate. Julia. They never have to put up with this.
Four out of ten. The website. His grading. Everything about it makes me feel cheap, but more than thatânaïve. Did he pick me out because I seem so clueless? Was the fact Iâm so clearly out of place part of my appeal? I canât help thinking that Morgan or Brooke would never get fooled like this. Even in their drunken states, those girls are ten times more streetwise than me. I may be able to evaluate an emerging democ racyâs chances of political consolidation, but they know how to handle guys, to joke around and have fun.
Another movie finishes, and I slouch over to my computer, my envy of the breezy California girls growing. Theyâre at ease here, among the tans and teeth. This is their territory, not mine. Iâve been keeping it together with schedules and study plans, but the moment I try to venture out into the world, my careful control falls apart. At the beach, at the partyâI end up bumbling around, making an idiot of myself. Iâm so used to finding order in the midst of chaos, but this time I just canât seem to work it out. I have no rule book to help me fit in, no study guide for the finer points of being
As I cut through the littered front lounge, something catches my eye. A computer is open on a coffee table, the screen showing photographs in some sort of grid. I move forward to take a closer look.
PSI DELT DOABLES, the page heading reads. The photographs are of girlsâsome in a state of undress, mugging for the camera, others obviously asleepâand next to them is written a name and score.
MANDY LEE, owned by OWEN MICHAELS.
> 6/10.
> She scratches!
CASSIE WILCOX, owned by BRETT ALLSTON.
> 9/10.
> Kinky bitch!
I realize what the grid means and take a step back. Theyâre keeping score. I wrinkle my face in disdain. Typical frat-boy exploits, I suppose, but still, I donât know why Sam lives with them. Heâs far moreâ¦
And then I see it, halfway down the page. A photograph of me, eyes closed, hair spread on familiar navy sheets.
EMILY LEWIS, owned by SAM RICH.
> 4/10.
> Englishâenough said.
I canât believe it.
Backing away from the screen, I slam the front door behind me and practically race down the street. How could he? I break into a jog, not caring about the thunder in my head or what a madwoman I must look like in last nightâs clothes. What is it with these boys, acting as if sex is the single greatest achievement in all humanity? First Sebastian, pushing me with his hints and nudging until I nearly gave in just to get it out of the way. And now Sam, treating me as if Iâm just another notch on his bedpostâwhen technically I wasnât even
in
his bed!
Am I a particularly bad judge of character, or are they all like this?
I finally slow down, out of breath. Four out of ten.
Four out of ten.
Itâs not as if Iâd feel any better had he given me a more complimentary score for my imaginary sexual performance, but the low mark is salt in my now-gaping wound. Do I seem like somebody who would be bad in bed? Shaking my head, I stop myself before I get pulled down that line of reasoning and instead return to the important matter of Sam. All those sweet comments and nice-guy lines were just a lie; he must have been laughing at me the entire time. And I fell for it.
Iâm supposed to meet Ryan and the film-class crew after lunch for our first meeting, but thereâs no chance at all I can manage that, even after picking up a grande extra-shot latte en route to my room. I refuse to use my meager energy reserves to dwell on bastards and their bastardly stunts, so after a shower and some food, I throw myself into âresearchâ: passing the day in a blur of Ben & Jerryâs Phish Food and all the bad romantic-comedy movies Iâve been saving. Reese. Kate. Julia. They never have to put up with this.
Four out of ten. The website. His grading. Everything about it makes me feel cheap, but more than thatânaïve. Did he pick me out because I seem so clueless? Was the fact Iâm so clearly out of place part of my appeal? I canât help thinking that Morgan or Brooke would never get fooled like this. Even in their drunken states, those girls are ten times more streetwise than me. I may be able to evaluate an emerging democ racyâs chances of political consolidation, but they know how to handle guys, to joke around and have fun.
Another movie finishes, and I slouch over to my computer, my envy of the breezy California girls growing. Theyâre at ease here, among the tans and teeth. This is their territory, not mine. Iâve been keeping it together with schedules and study plans, but the moment I try to venture out into the world, my careful control falls apart. At the beach, at the partyâI end up bumbling around, making an idiot of myself. Iâm so used to finding order in the midst of chaos, but this time I just canât seem to work it out. I have no rule book to help me fit in, no study guide for the finer points of being
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