My Best Man by Andy Schell (unputdownable books .txt) 📗

says excitedly. “Of course she expected an A. And from what I heard, she gives the kind of blow jobs that earn all A+.”

I’m uncomfortable that Randy is treating Amity as a juicy gossip tidbit. “Who told you about this?”

“My friend Kevin. He went to CCT. He said they kept it low profile, but it still made the papers. She sued the guy for sleeping with her and not giving her an A. He lost his job, and the university settled out of court, and she got her grade changed to an A.”

“Well, she should have sued,” I say defensively. “I would have.”

“You blew your professors for better grades?” he asks.

“I should have,” I answer as if it’s perfectly normal. “How much money did she get?”

“No one would say. But Kevin heard it was like a hundred thousand or something. I can’t believe she’s your roommate! Kevin said she’s hysterical. He met her at a party once. He said every guy at the party wanted to go home with her.”

“I told you she’s great.” I can’t help but wonder what she did with all the money.

“He said she was coked out of her mind though,” Randy cautions. “Is she still doing that stuff?”

Maybe that’s where the money went up her nose. “No, she just smokes pot like the rest of us,” I assure him.

“Be glad,” Randy says, taking another sip of beer. “Cocaine is fun, but it sure grabs hold of you.”

On the flight home I think about our conversation. I guess it’” no surprise that Amity has a reputation. The truth is, she’s the kind of woman who has a reputation the moment she walks into a room. I just thought it was a more fun-loving and innocent reputation the one Randy described. Who knows, maybe the story has become i, legend over the last few years and been blown way out of its on proportions. I mean, how many students have slept with their sors? Thousands? Millions, probably. Amity was smart enough make a deal out of it, that’s all.

Still, it gives me a bit of pause. My father took me aside

I was very young and explained in plain English that all my there would be people who would associate with me because my money. And he constantly drilled caution into me in that re But hell, I don’t have any money now. And frankly, it’s who is the provider at the moment, putting a roof over my for a reduced rent. She sees my life, my car, my clothes. She’s too smart not to notice I have nothing to offer. Not at the moment at least.

GHAPi|R

EIGHT

arch rolls around, and Jacqueline, Amity’s friend from the airline, starts coming around again. One fallow day, when the tulips are trying to peek out of the ground, and the magnolias are thinking about blooming, and the dormant ragweed is envisioning the coming summer kill, she comes over and we all sit in the living room two of us on the floor and whoever in the wing back and drink icy Stolichnaya from the bottle we keep in the freezer. Jacqueline can drink. Like a pro. And she likes to smoke cigarettes while explaining the latest thing she’s learned. She waves a cigarette around and says, “Do you know what a peninsula is? It’s land surrounded by water on three sides. So here’s the land,” she holds the cigarette out, “and on three sides is water. Here, here, and here. Water, water, water.” She puts the cigarette back to her lips, takes a sloppy drag, leaving lipstick smeared on the filter, and continues. “Water, water, water, land. Land, water, water, water. A peninsula is “

“OK, Jackie!” Amity shouts. “You’re beatin’ that horse to death”

Jacqueline is beautiful in her own unusual way. It’s not just that she’s six feet tall. It’s that every part of her is long. Her fingers, nose, legs, eyelashes . they’re all long. And her hair is thick and

luxurious, like the hair of those girls in shampoo commercials. And she has a wide, lush, pouty mouth. Amity still has never told me why Jacqueline moved out on her so fast, other than to say they were having problems in their friendship. I guess they’ve patched things up.

“Can you believe how boring that debate was last night?” Amity asks. “That Walter Mondale is about as exciting as a day-old biscuit in lukewarm gravy.”

We watched Gary Hart, Walter Mondale, and Jesse Jackson debate each other on television last night for the Democratic nomination for president. “You don’t care about taxes and Medicate?” I say sarcastically. “What is Medicate?” Jacqueline asks. “You always read and hear about Medicate. Medicate. What is Medicate?”

“It’s when you’re old, and you poop your pants, and the government pays for your diapers,” I tell her.

“Cool.”

U “

“I could definitely spend a night with that Gary Hart g y,

Amity says. “Which one did you want to sleep with?”

“I can’t believe it. You play that game too?” I ask, laughing. “Well, being a white boy from the Midwest, I kind of have a thin for dark, exotic men.”

“Don’t tell us Jesse Jackson!” Amity yelps.

“All right then. Gary Hart, but only when he has a really tan.” ‘

“What’s wrong with Jesse Jackson?” Jackie asks. “I think he’ sexy.”

“Mrs. Jesse Jackson,” Amity mocks dreamily. “Jacq Jackson. Jackie Jackson. JJ.”

“And if he wins,” Jackie decrees with a jutted chin, I’ll be the First Lady, and it’ll be a White House full of ice-cold Stoly and fat doobies, and Kevin Bacon and Daryl Hannah will come to dinner and Corey Hart will sing for us. Corey Hart.”

“Wouldn’t President Jackson rather have Eddie Murphy and

Rae Dawn Chong come to dinner while Aretha sings?” Amity asks. I’ll determine the guests,” Jackie proclaims.

“So you’ll be a queen, like Nancy Reagan?” I ask.

“Speaking of queens,” Amity jumps in, “Queen Noor is coming to Dallas later this month.”

“Who’s that?” Jacqueline asks, throwing down an icy shot of vodka.

“The Queen of Jordan,” Amity answers, taking the bottle