Apparently, there are a few girls in the family, too, but it’s the guys whose names fill the female dorms. And, seriously, let’s be honest; it’s Patrick Steel, or “Tricks,” who leads the charge on the social media posts that have put all the girls around here in heat.
I can’t even count the times the squeals of nearly adult women sound off like a sinful choir when “Tricks” does a duet—whatever the hell that is.
I thought I was gaining headway with some of the more “woke” here, but why try to educate them on “the man” when they all would rather be on the man. They’ll see when they’re ready, I remind myself as I grab my work tee and pull it over my head. If I don’t continually remind myself, I’ll forget that these women are still growing and becoming. They are our future, and all our futures depend on them.
When another screech nearly gives me a heart attack, it pisses me off that, a week ago, I had twenty girls in the common area, listening to me and agreeing with what we females needed to do to become stronger so that, together, we can ensure in years to come that we still have the ability to make choices for ourselves. Whether we came from money or are here at the Ivy League of high schools, the ultimate privilege, or on scholarship, we seriously need to think more for ourselves than future baby factories or repositories for seminal fluids. We need to use this privilege for the betterment of sisterhood.
I thought I had made headway … until the Steels moved to Mantoloking.
What can my voice do against them? How can I still be heard against the coveted frat boy lifestyles that my peers all seem ravenous about? They are straight-up in competition with each other for who gets them in bed first. A ten-dollar pool, for fuck’s sake! I wonder if they know how many reusable straws that pot of cash could buy … fucking feminists, my ass.
Grabbing my bag, my phone that I only use for emergencies, and my keys, I walk to the door to head to work.
Chloe holds out her phone. “Come on, Savvy; it’s Tricks and his hot daddy. You have to see them do Renegade.”
“Hard pass on that. You enjoy,” I tell her as I open the door.
“Bring me back a burrito?”
I force a smile. “Of course.”
My plan for break was to work my shift tonight, bring back an entire bag of our infamous “garbage burritos” and a few of my own design—tortilla chips and guacamole—eat the shit out of them while binge-reading all the books Liberty left in the VW when she ditched me while I was taking those stupid fucking tests, and fall asleep to some Joplin.
Thanksgiving was supposed to be spent working my morning shift, consuming copious amounts of caffeine, and hiking all day to clear my mind. Then come back, shower, down a gallon of water, throw on the most comfortable old man flannel pjs and fuzzy socks that I could find, and fall asleep with my face in whatever book I had fallen asleep to, only to be woken up by a full bladder at least two times, then fall back to sleep, ignoring the fact that my stomach is screaming at me to put something in it. Thanksgiving was the first holiday I spent basically orphaned, and fasting is also part of my tradition/reality.
Friday morning, I would go to work, eat a big breakfast at said work, then hit the thrift stores Black Friday deals to update my wardrobe. Then I’d spend the rest of the daylight hours at the lake, a-fucking-lone.
The boys, dealers, friends would be back by Saturday night, and I would definitely be partaking in some herbal and holistic antianxiety therapy.
Bottom line, this time of year, I need a break from the reality cast upon me a few years ago. And by cast upon me, I actually mean I was tossed from the literal road of freedom into one of the most toxic poisons of a patriarchal society—institutionalized learning and dorm life, which, one alone would cause high amounts of stress, but mixed together, they create the perfect recipe for disaster. I’ve witnessed three years of it. Some lose their damn minds and get tossed on meds, labeled, but more often, they’re are bullied to become the smorgasbord of societal norms, becoming its constant connoisseur and submitting to its unrelenting appeal. But for a