Cheaters go to Hell - Ch. 02

All characters are over the age of 18.

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Chapter 2

"Heyyy, I miss you SO much, baby!"

Clara's voice sounded so slurred over the phone, I could almost hear the extra y's. Nonetheless, my heart skipped a beat, like it always did when my girlfriend said stuff like that.

"I miss you, too. How's the beach?" I asked.

I was sitting in the bathroom with the door locked, so that Bradwick couldn't listen in on the call. For some reason, I didn't really want him to hear it. As I held the phone to my ear with my shoulder, I origami'd a piece of toilet paper absent-mindedly.

"The beach is fuckin' awesome!" she squealed. "The sun is like, so bright and pretty. And the food is to die for. Like there was this one guy who was selling fried shrimp near the beach and the locals were like, 'don't eat that, you'll get sick', but then we ate it anyway and it was sooo good."

"That's great--" I began to say, but then Clara burst into a fit of giggles.

"OMG, stop tickling me!" she laughed hysterically.

I heard a rustling sound over the mic as she dropped her phone. After a moment, she picked it back up.

"What's going on over there?" I asked carefully.

"Jason won't stop tickling me," she said, out of breath. I could hear the smile in her voice. A sick, black pit began to grow in my gut, and I crumpled my origami.

"Oh, that's funny," I said flatly.

"It's, like, so annoying," she giggled.

You don't sound very annoyed, I wanted to point out. Also who's Jason? Was it the blonde guy who'd been driving the minivan? But my over-vigilance had already gotten on her nerves once.

So instead, I just said, "Sounds like you guys are having a blast."

"We ARE," Clara replied emphatically. "Here, listen to this."

I heard her footsteps thumping as she carried the phone somewhere. After a few seconds, I recognized the soft sound of waves crashing in the distance. She must've been holding her phone out the window or something. Somehow, the grainy audio of the beach was enough to make me feel intensely lame, and doubly aware of the fact that I was listening to it while sitting on a toilet.

"Geez, I wish I was there too," I said wistfully.

"No you don't," Clara said immediately.

"Uh, what? Of course I do."

"We're doing... uh, stuff. You know?"

"What stuff?"

"... The stuff you don't like.."

"Oh. Right."

"Not really your vibe over here," Clara emphasized.

So they were doing drugs. Can't say I was surprised.

Now look, I'm not a prude or anything, but I guess you could say that I have a natural aversion to recreational substance use. I don't know where it came from; it's not like my parents were addicts or anything. But even after I got to college, the most I ever did was have a few drinks.

Clara and her frat buddies, on the other hand, didn't share such reservations about getting absolutely blasted out of their minds. Obviously.

"And guess what?" Clara asked, before falling into another fit of laughter. "Jason brought some coke."

She said the last part in a conspiratorial whisper, like she was admitting a crime. Which I guess she was. And the little fun fact only made me feel further away from her.

"Stay safe," I managed weakly.

"Of course, babe," she replied.

After that, I managed to steer the conversation in a more comfortable direction, but eventually, I could tell that she was getting bored. She wanted to get back to whatever she'd been doing before I rang her. So instead of dragging her through another half hour of dull back-and-forth, I offered to hang up.

"I'll call you again tomorrow?" I asked.

"Oh, okay! See you."

And without much hesitation, she cut the call. As I listened to the static, I realized my butt was getting sore from sitting on the hard toilet lid for so long.

***

Later that day in class, Professor McFarland introduced the first unit of the semester. Something about a book called 'Orientalism' by Edward Said. Not that I cared, or even tried to pay attention. As soon as I sat down in my seat, I zoned out completely, staring blankly at a random bookshelf.

The phone call with Clara had sent me into a deep funk that I couldn't shake myself out of. My trust in my girlfriend wasn't waning, exactly. It was just... tense. I mean, she wouldn't actually cheat on me, right? And yet, I felt like there was something wrong.

As I continued to muse uselessly on the subject, I almost didn't notice that Macy was sitting next to me again. Today, she was wearing a loose graphic tee from some unknown rock band, and a pair of ripped jeans. Her makeup was dark and sharp, suiting her homemade punk hairstyle. She looked like she'd walked straight out of a rolling stones catalogue.

And she was looking right at me.

"Good morning," she said.

"You're staring at me," I noted.

"I am."

"It's making me uncomfortable," I stated matter-of-factly.

"Don't care."

"... Stop staring."

"You seem kinda stressed out today," she said. "And you've got bags under your eyes."

"I couldn't sleep 'cuz it was too hot."

"Hm."

"..."

"..."

"You're still staring at me. Stop it."

"Now you know how I felt yesterday," Macy said with a smile.

"You're still mad about that?" I asked.

"I was never mad."

At this point, our bickering had attracted the attention of the rest of the class, who had already gone quiet. Professor McFarland was giving us the stink eye from across the room.

"Mr. Heiberg. May I begin my lesson or shall we all wait for you to finish your side-conversation with Ms. Anderson?" he asked sarcastically.

"Sorry, sir," I muttered, my face going hot.

After that, I made a conscious effort to keep my eyes sternly on my desk. If I couldn't see her, she couldn't distract me. I had enough on my plate already without someone actively trying to get me in trouble during class.

But after a second, I felt a tap on my leg.

I ignored it.

Macy tapped me harder.

I remained stoic, still pretending like I hadn't felt anything.

Finally, she pinched me hard enough to make me wince, and I wheeled on her, cradling my stinging arm.

'What the hell?' I mouthed, making sure to stay silent to avoid getting called out by the professor again.

Macy gestured downward with her eyes, and I saw that she was holding a small piece of folded paper. The front page of her notebook had a tear at the corner.

Unbelievable, I thought. She was trying to pass me a secret note. I thought we outgrew this kinda thing back in high school.

But Macy kept holding the paper out, pinching it between her purple nails. I was afraid that the professor would catch on if I didn't take it soon, so I quickly snatched it from her.

In my peripheral vision, I saw her leg bouncing happily again. She was enjoying this.

I unfolded the note.

Lunch later?

Her handwriting was surprisingly neat; a flowy, girlish cursive. But aside from that, the message was obviously another ploy to embarrass me. I scribbled my reply carelessly -- No. -- and when Professor McFarland was turned away, I slipped it back to Macy under her desk.

She read my response, and I frowned when I saw her reaction. Despite my curt rejection, she didn't seem disappointed in the slightest. In fact, she even seemed to find it amusing, smiling slightly to herself with those half-lidded eyes as she flipped the scrap paper over and wrote something else.

Is it because of your girlfriend? she asked.

Yes.

So if you didn't have a girlfriend, you would have lunch with me?

I rolled my eyes. This girl had a way of twisting all my words to make everything sound weirder than it was.

No. I replied, sticking to my one-word answers.

But you were staring so hard yesterday. She even added a little frowny face at the end.

I scowled at her. When our eyes met, she pouted her lips at me. I was running out of room on the paper so I tore a new piece from my own notebook.

I thought we were over that. I wrote.

Nope.

So you're still upset? I asked.

No.

Great. Now she was doing the one word answers. Her leg was bouncing all over the place, clearly satisfied with her cleverness. I, on the other hand, just felt annoyed.

So ur not mad, but ur not gonna let it go. Why? I asked. My handwriting was getting messy.

Macy read my note and paused to think for a second before jotting down her response. That was unusual, I thought. Up until now, she'd responded immediately, almost as if she'd already known what I was going to say.

It's important to mention that at this point, I'd completely forgotten about remaining discreet. Sometime during the several exchanges between us, I'd turned ninety degrees in my chair so that I was facing Macy directly. This meant that my back was fully turned to Professor McFarland, who had long since paused his lecture to stand menacingly behind me.

Some of the other students started snickering as they waited for me to notice.

Meanwhile, I was just staring at Macy like a doofus, waiting for her to pass me the note back.

"Ahem," Professor McFarland cleared his throat loudly.

I whipped my head around. The old man was scowling, causing deep creases to appear in his forehead.

"Uh-- I wasn't... she--" I gestured to Macy helplessly.

Macy did an excellent job of acting like she didn't have a clue what I was talking about, making me look even guiltier.

"This is only day two of the course, Mr. Heiberg," the professor glowered at me. "And I'm sure Ms. Anderson would prefer it if you didn't goggle at her so blatantly during class."

I blushed furiously, averting the gaze of all of my classmates. "Yes, sir," I said through gritted teeth.

When the professor went back to lecturing, I glared at Macy, who was holding back a laugh with the back of her hand.

That's it, I thought, finally making up my mind. I was done with Macy. And now that the whole class already knew about my 'goggling' problem anyway, I had no reason to let her lord it over me any longer.

"I'm done," I mouthed at her.

Her eyes twinkled, her dark mascara giving them a dangerous look. Then she slid another note onto my desk.

Looking back, maybe I should've ripped it to shreds right then and there. I mean, I said I was done with her, hadn't I? But something about the combination of my mounting irritation and her mind-boggling audacity made it necessary for me to take one final look at what she'd written. In the same way you might open a text from an ex-girlfriend, even though you know you should probably just delete it.

I unfolded the note.

"Alright, I'll see you all tomorrow!" Professor McFarland announced, clapping his book closed. The students began to stand up around me, but I made no move to pack my own things. My eyes were glued to the tiny piece of paper in my hand.

Macy eventually stood up as well, and my eyes trailed her as she left the library. Right before the door, she turned around and gave me a look. It was a look I couldn't really describe; halfway between playful and curious. Ever so slightly, she lifted the hem of her t-shirt until it crept over the waistband of her jeans, revealing a small sliver of her pale skin.

And then she was gone.

What the hell was she up to?

As I finally began to pack my own things, clutched in my fist was a note that read, in perfect handwriting, I like it when you stare at me.

***

Later that night, I called Clara again.

A part of me felt guilty, even though I knew I hadn't done anything inherently wrong. Ok. Well, my staring had been a mistake, but I promised myself I wouldn't do that anymore. What bothered my conscience more was the flirtatious atmosphere that Macy had conjured against my will. Asking me out to lunch and that coquettish way of passing notes; she was definitely trying something. Not to mention, that last note crossed an entirely different line...

Regardless, I guess I needed some kind of reassurance after what had happened.

Brad had been blasting the air-conditioning and the toilet seat was cold against my butt as I waited for Clara to pick up.

After about a minute, the line connected.

"Hey, babe. What's up?"

"Not much. Just calling 'cuz I missed you," I said.

"Oh. Okay."

Having already exhausted the topic of what the beach was like, we were left without much to say. Clara and I weren't very good at small talk. But that was fine -- it was normal, and normalcy was exactly what I needed.

"How was your day?" I asked.

"It was fine," she answered.

Her voice sounded strained in my ear. Breathy.

"You sound kinda weird, everything okay?" I asked.

"Hm? Oh, yeah. I'm good," she said. There was something velvety about the way she was speaking. Like she was getting a massage or something.

In the background, I heard a guy's voice. "Who's that?"

Clara replied to whoever was with her, "Ethan."

There was a short, crackling sound, probably someone laughing. Clara giggled too, then sighed. Her breath began to rock rhythmically in my ear again.

I felt goosebumps run up my arm.

Suddenly, I didn't want to be on the call anymore, even though I'd been the one to start it.

"... I think I gotta go," I said.

"No, no, stay," my girlfriend whined.

The sounds continued.

"No, I really have to go. Like, right now," I said, louder.

I didn't want to ask what she was doing. What was happening where I couldn't see.

But I trust her. I repeated it over and over to myself, silently letting the words bubble out of my mouth. I trust her, I trust her, I trust her.

But my finger moved on its own, and without another word, I tapped the end-call button. My palms were slick against the metal doorknob as I left the bathroom.

When Brad saw me, he asked me if I was sick. "Your face is kinda pale, dude," he said, turning away from his game to frown at me.

"I'm good, just need some air," I said quickly.

I tossed my phone onto my bed like it was radioactive, threw on some socks and left the dorm. I don't even remember going down the stairs and running down the hall until I was out of the building. Awful mental images of Clara floated through my head; I couldn't stop my own imaginations. God, why had she sounded like that? Was she...?

I felt sick again.

Outside, it was well past sunset, but the Arizona air remained warm against my skin. If there had been a wind, it might've been pleasant but instead, the air felt thick, clammy and claustrophobic. I felt my breath quicken, almost dizzying. I needed fresh air. More than anything, I wished I could go somewhere far away.

That was my thing: Whenever I felt helpless, I got the urge to run away. Not to any place specifically, just away. It's been a habit of mine ever since I was a kid and I got my first bike. I used to ride through the town at night until the cold quiet of the night calmed me down.

But the only problem was, I didn't have a bike anymore. And the buses weren't running this late. Which left me only one option: I needed to borrow someone's car. Unfortunately, I only knew two people on campus at the time, and I knew Brad didn't own one.

And so the next thing I knew, I was running up to Sterling Hall, the only other dorm on campus. I knew the person I was looking for wouldn't be in Hawthorne House, where I lived: if she did, I would've known by now. I began knocking on every door I saw. Frankly, I didn't really give a shit about what people might think. I just needed to get on the road -- it was the only way I could get that damn phone call out of my head.

Most of the rooms were empty, which should've been obvious because it was June. The few people who did open their doors just looked at me like a crazy person.

"Do you know a girl named Macy Anderson?" I asked anyway, sweat dripping down my neck.

Most of them shook their heads no. A few of them just closed the door in my face. One of them asked if I was okay, to which I told them yes, I just needed a car.

By the time I got to the third floor, I was beginning to doubt whether Macy even lived here at all. I tried all the doors anyway. Room 324 was one of the few to respond to my knocking. The door swung open to reveal a short, busty girl, who looked like she was getting ready for bed. She looked me up and down. Mostly up, though, because she was barely five feet tall.

"Do you know Macy Anderson?" I asked, repeating my question for the umpteenth time.

She cocked an eyebrow. "Why?"

"I need a car. Does she have one?"

"I feel the need to ask again: Why do you need Macy's car?"

I realized how I must've looked, with my shirt soaked in sweat and a frantic look in my eyes. Not to mention my ridiculous request. "I know her from class," I explained, "I don't have anyone else to ask for a ride."

"Where do you need to go?"

I wiped the sweat from my forehead. "What's with all the questions? Do you know her or not?" I asked, my adrenaline making me speak at double-time.

The tiny girl, for her part, didn't back down an inch. "First of all, you need to check yourself. You're the one asking for a favor here," she warned. "Now answer my question. Where are you going?"

"I don't know, okay?? I just needed to take a ride to clear my head," I said, getting exasperated.

"... Oh, let me guess: Girl troubles?" she asked.

"What? No! I mean, ugh, you know what? Forget it," I started to back away from her door.

But before I could get very far, the girl sighed dramatically and said, "Fine. Let me go get her," and then she closed the door.

But by that point, the conversation had taken so long that part of my rational mind had returned. My sweat was getting cold against my skin, and my heartbeat was slowing down. This was all beginning to feel pretty stupid.

"What the hell am I doing?" I muttered to myself.

"Ethan?"

The door to room 324 opened again, but this time, it was Macy standing there. The short girl was standing behind her; they'd been roommates all along.

"Chaya told me you were looking for me," she said, a smile already playing on her lips. "So you need a ride?"

I stood in the hallway awkwardly. "Uh... to be honest, it was kind of a stupid idea."

"So you don't need it anymore?"

"No. Sorry."

"It's ok."

And I thought the conversation would end there -- what else was there to talk about with a stranger? -- but Macy continued.

"I wonder what your girlfriend would think if she saw you right now," she said suddenly. "Does she know you're trying to sneak into other girls' dorms at night?"

"What? I'm not trying to sneak into anything," I said, recoiling.

"Oh? But you ran all the way here looking for me. I heard from Chaya that the first thing you asked when she opened the door was 'Do you know Macy Anderson?'" Macy mimicked my voice in a falsetto, and laughed. "That's adorable."

"I didn't have anyone else to ask," I muttered.

"Aw, so you had to resort to me. Poor you."

I shrugged.

"You don't have a lot of friends, huh?" she said.

"That's rude."

She laughed again. This girl liked to laugh a lot, I noticed.

Then Macy stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind her. Sometime after class, she'd changed out of her punk outfit into a loose t-shirt and a pair of low-waisted joggers, which just barely managed to stay on her hips. She'd also taken off her make-up, but somehow, her eyes still had that edge to them.

"Staring again?" she asked.

She twirled the hem of her shirt around her finger, exposing more of her midriff. I looked away.

"I thought I told you," Macy said, taking a step toward me. She was barefoot.

I flinched.

" -- I like it when you stare."

She poked her finger into my chest, just like she'd done yesterday. A different kind of nausea started to bubble up deep inside me. My mind flooded with queasy thoughts of my girlfriend. And yet my eyes gradually returned to the tall girl in front of me. Macy was like a magnet, and my eyes were made of metal.

Slowly, she hiked her shirt up past her belly button, the silver piercing there winking at me. I greedily drank in everything she was showing me. Her slim waist. Her taut tummy. Her pale, smooth skin. And worst of all, those dark eyes and that full, taunting mouth of hers. Goading me. Baiting me.

I felt disgusted with myself for looking.

"Stop..." I started to say.

"Stop what? I'm just standing here," Macy replied.

Her cheeks were slightly flushed. She really did seem to revel in my gaze.

"That's good," she said, her voice smooth like honey. The fluorescent light flickered above us. "Keep looking at me. Only me..."

I felt myself beginning to go under.

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