Darth Praxus
Member
~BBW, ~~WG — In order to become the person she's always wanted to be, college freshman Christine needs some courage—and an assistant.
“I don’t know,” Heather's face said from her phone’s screen. “How many people do you know who reference the Pony Express in casual conversation?”
Christine blew out a frustrated breath. “I don’t know, it just feels less creepy if I’m making a joke out of things. I don’t want to scare anyone off.”
“For the record, it’s still creepy.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She was quiet for a few moments, moving the black Sharpie back and forth across the paper. “Well, it’s not like I pretend to understand your boyfriend’s foot thing.”
“Not even the same thing. Greg liking my feet doesn’t require me to make any drastic sort of changes to, y’know, my everyday existence.”
“Well, it meant you finally started regularly washing them.”
The phone screen was suddenly dominated by an extended middle finger.
Christine sighed. “Anyway, it probably isn’t gonna come to anything anyway. I’ll put it up, campus employee will spot it, it’ll be taken down within an hour. And I’ll go on living a perfectly normal freshman existence.”
“Lord willing.” Heather glanced over her shoulder. “Speak of the devil, Greg’s coming. Gotta go.”
“Bye,” Christine said, and hung up.
She looked glumly at the sheet of paper she’d filled out (left-handed—didn’t want anyone to spot her handwriting, not, she supposed, that anyone would recognize it when she’d only been here a grand total of two weeks). In bold, block letters, it read:
An email address followed—a burner, a string of random characters preceding the @gmail extension.
She made the mental calculations again. It was currently 8:00 PM; she could see through her window that the sun was starting to bleed pink across the sky, and most college employees would already have left the commons for the evening. If she walked over there now, stapled the ad to one of the community bulletin boards, and left, she might have all of one morning before the paper was ripped down and trashed.
Her fingers, long and slim, traced the edges of the message. She turned her wrist back and forth, considered the way its concave sides curved in before widening again at the base of her hand. She played her digits back and forth and watched the bones move beneath the skin.
“Fuck it.”
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
From: youngplumpcorpulentlady @ gmail . com
To: gbnrfht897 @ gmail . com
Subject: As regards your posting
Dear Young/Skinny/Wiry,
Was the keyboard-mashing for the email address really necessary? Not like using proper syntax makes you any less anonymous. See above.
Anyway, hi there! I saw your job posting just before its untimely demise at the hands of a janitor. Fished it out of the trash. And if you’re still taking applications, I think I’d be interested in putting my name forward.
Let’s meet. Tomorrow, cafeteria entrance, noon (assuming you’re free—only a freshman could be this standoffish, only an English major could have made this ad, and only a freshman English major would have Honors Composition I at 10:45 and Intro to Lit Studies at 1:25, so I imagine you’ve got a free period in between). I’ll bring my qualifications—I trust you’ll provide me yours.
Looking forward to it!
Yours truly,
Admirer
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
"Fuck!"
"Is this not what you wanted?" Heather asked from the phone. "I swear, if you're gonna be a creep be consistent about it."
Christine paced up and down her dorm room. "I wanted to put it out there. I wanted to say I gave it a shot. I didn't want it to happen!" She barked her shin on the coffee table, swore again. "I'm a coward, you know this."
"So don't show up?"
Collapsing onto the couch and rubbing her shin, Christine groaned. "I have to show up! She's right, that's when I eat lunch!"
"Because no human could get something from a vending machine . . ."
"And I would feel bad."
Heather somehow rolled her eyes in a manner that was audible. "Look, college girl, you're gonna be disappointing your professors with your papers, you're gonna be disappointing your parents with your life choices, you're gonna be disappointing your roommate with your cleanliness. It's just how life works. You can afford to disappoint one extra person who could, for all you know, be a dude. Or a murderer. Or both."
"Thanks for the support, Heather." Christine rose from the couch and resumed pacing. "And for the record, my roommate is in, like, five different extracurriculars, so I wouldn't count on her being around enough to be disappointed. Which she wouldn't be. Because I'm clean."
"We've wandered from the point."
She stopped her track across the floor to take a look at herself in the full-length mirror (the one that said roommate, Bailey, had erected during orientation week, when she'd actually spent some waking hours in the dorm). Tall compared to Heather but short compared to Bailey. Hair a red dye job slowly eroding into pink. High cheekbones. Clavicle clearly visible through her skin. Thin wrists, thin legs. She placed a hand to her stomach; flat, unobtrusive, currently churning.
"Look, I don't have to commit to anything, right? I'm just meeting her. That's what college kids do. We force interactions with other people to make friends."
"No, that's what high school kids do. That's what we did. Granted, it turned out okay."
"And maybe it will this time." She pressed her hand to her stomach. Felt it twist. Willed the anxiety to pass.
Heather shrugged. "If you get murdered, I get your books."
Help Wanted
by Darth Praxus
“Is it too twee?” Christine asked, examining the piece of paper and frowning.by Darth Praxus
“I don’t know,” Heather's face said from her phone’s screen. “How many people do you know who reference the Pony Express in casual conversation?”
Christine blew out a frustrated breath. “I don’t know, it just feels less creepy if I’m making a joke out of things. I don’t want to scare anyone off.”
“For the record, it’s still creepy.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She was quiet for a few moments, moving the black Sharpie back and forth across the paper. “Well, it’s not like I pretend to understand your boyfriend’s foot thing.”
“Not even the same thing. Greg liking my feet doesn’t require me to make any drastic sort of changes to, y’know, my everyday existence.”
“Well, it meant you finally started regularly washing them.”
The phone screen was suddenly dominated by an extended middle finger.
Christine sighed. “Anyway, it probably isn’t gonna come to anything anyway. I’ll put it up, campus employee will spot it, it’ll be taken down within an hour. And I’ll go on living a perfectly normal freshman existence.”
“Lord willing.” Heather glanced over her shoulder. “Speak of the devil, Greg’s coming. Gotta go.”
“Bye,” Christine said, and hung up.
She looked glumly at the sheet of paper she’d filled out (left-handed—didn’t want anyone to spot her handwriting, not, she supposed, that anyone would recognize it when she’d only been here a grand total of two weeks). In bold, block letters, it read:
Hiring: Young, Skinny, Wiry Lady. Not Under 18.
Wanted: Young, Plump, Corpulent Lady. Not Under 18. Must Be Expert Eater. Willing to Fatten Daily. Hedonists Preferred.
An email address followed—a burner, a string of random characters preceding the @gmail extension.
She made the mental calculations again. It was currently 8:00 PM; she could see through her window that the sun was starting to bleed pink across the sky, and most college employees would already have left the commons for the evening. If she walked over there now, stapled the ad to one of the community bulletin boards, and left, she might have all of one morning before the paper was ripped down and trashed.
Her fingers, long and slim, traced the edges of the message. She turned her wrist back and forth, considered the way its concave sides curved in before widening again at the base of her hand. She played her digits back and forth and watched the bones move beneath the skin.
“Fuck it.”
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
From: youngplumpcorpulentlady @ gmail . com
To: gbnrfht897 @ gmail . com
Subject: As regards your posting
Dear Young/Skinny/Wiry,
Was the keyboard-mashing for the email address really necessary? Not like using proper syntax makes you any less anonymous. See above.
Anyway, hi there! I saw your job posting just before its untimely demise at the hands of a janitor. Fished it out of the trash. And if you’re still taking applications, I think I’d be interested in putting my name forward.
Let’s meet. Tomorrow, cafeteria entrance, noon (assuming you’re free—only a freshman could be this standoffish, only an English major could have made this ad, and only a freshman English major would have Honors Composition I at 10:45 and Intro to Lit Studies at 1:25, so I imagine you’ve got a free period in between). I’ll bring my qualifications—I trust you’ll provide me yours.
Looking forward to it!
Yours truly,
Admirer
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
"Fuck!"
"Is this not what you wanted?" Heather asked from the phone. "I swear, if you're gonna be a creep be consistent about it."
Christine paced up and down her dorm room. "I wanted to put it out there. I wanted to say I gave it a shot. I didn't want it to happen!" She barked her shin on the coffee table, swore again. "I'm a coward, you know this."
"So don't show up?"
Collapsing onto the couch and rubbing her shin, Christine groaned. "I have to show up! She's right, that's when I eat lunch!"
"Because no human could get something from a vending machine . . ."
"And I would feel bad."
Heather somehow rolled her eyes in a manner that was audible. "Look, college girl, you're gonna be disappointing your professors with your papers, you're gonna be disappointing your parents with your life choices, you're gonna be disappointing your roommate with your cleanliness. It's just how life works. You can afford to disappoint one extra person who could, for all you know, be a dude. Or a murderer. Or both."
"Thanks for the support, Heather." Christine rose from the couch and resumed pacing. "And for the record, my roommate is in, like, five different extracurriculars, so I wouldn't count on her being around enough to be disappointed. Which she wouldn't be. Because I'm clean."
"We've wandered from the point."
She stopped her track across the floor to take a look at herself in the full-length mirror (the one that said roommate, Bailey, had erected during orientation week, when she'd actually spent some waking hours in the dorm). Tall compared to Heather but short compared to Bailey. Hair a red dye job slowly eroding into pink. High cheekbones. Clavicle clearly visible through her skin. Thin wrists, thin legs. She placed a hand to her stomach; flat, unobtrusive, currently churning.
"Look, I don't have to commit to anything, right? I'm just meeting her. That's what college kids do. We force interactions with other people to make friends."
"No, that's what high school kids do. That's what we did. Granted, it turned out okay."
"And maybe it will this time." She pressed her hand to her stomach. Felt it twist. Willed the anxiety to pass.
Heather shrugged. "If you get murdered, I get your books."
