Devon Hartford - Painless

While I talked, I noticed the Dean slowly slouching farther and farther down in his slippery leather chair. His cheek was leaning against the hand he’d propped on an armrest.

To my horror, he slipped so far down in his chair while I spoke that his knuckles were driving the skin of his cheek up the side of his skull in wrinkly accordion folds. His lips were stretched so far up now that it made a gap in one corner of his mouth that couldn’t be closed. I could clearly see his bridgework.

“Mmmm,” he mumbled absently.

I waited for him to say something more in response to my theory about Tiffany.

Another wrinkle folded into place on Dean Livingston’s cheek as he continued to slide in slow motion down his chair. There were now sixteen folds. I know, because I had time to count while I waited politely for him to respond.

I glanced around and watched dust motes floating in the sunbeams pouring through the windows to my right. They danced. I always liked dust motes.

Hello! Dean Livingston? Anybody alive in there? Was he asleep with his eyes open? He certainly looked old enough to have come across the Atlantic on the Santa Maria with Columbus.

“The girl…” he said.

Uh, yeah? What the heck was I supposed to say to that? I raised my eyebrows expectantly.

He raised his a tad in response.

I raised mine a bit higher.

Back and forth we went, our eyebrows going up a millimeter higher at a time. He had the advantage because the eyebrow on the side of his face with the wrinkled cheek had an inch head start.

Okay, was this a game of who can raise whose eyebrows the highest? Did I win if mine touched my scalp? Because that’s how high they were now.

Any day, Mr. Livingdeadston!

I’d had it. I blurted, “Tiffany! Remember her?”

“Who?”

Had he forgotten already, or been asleep the whole time? Either was possible.

Exasperated, I blurted, “I told you, Tiffany was the girl who came into the art museum on my shift, and when I went to the ladies room, she must have put her credit card in my wallet so she could accuse me of stealing it.”

“The museum…” he sighed like a deflating gas bag.

Wow, was that as far as we’d gotten?

“Which…museum?” he burped.

I mean burped, an actual burp.

“Excuse me…” he slurred.

Wow, I think I saw his breath smoking out the gaping corner of his mouth, it was so thick and rank. And tinted brown. Ew. I think a housefly flew right through it and spiraled down to its death. So gross. Any second, spiders were going to crawl out of his mouth like it was a tomb. At least his corpse was showing signs of life. Except I think he was dozing again.

“Mr. Livingston?”

He was literally staring right at me, but didn’t say a word.

Wake up, Mr. Livingston! This was useless.

“Is this a bad time?” I asked carefully.

He blinked.

Was that it? Geez, I could totally do this guy’s job. I wondered what his job interview had consisted of? Blinking more than twice an hour?

Lameballs!

“Mr. Livingston, I really need my job back,” I pleaded, “and I didn’t take Tiffany’s credit card. Isn’t there anything we can do? I really need the work or I won’t be able to pay my tuition,” I gulped, suddenly worried that admitting I was having trouble covering my tuition bill might be digging a grave for myself. The university didn’t want broke students who couldn’t pay. Then again, I suspected Mr. Livingston was intimately familiar with graves, seeing as how he had one under his desk and kept one foot in it at all times.

He blinked three times, a record for him, then yawned, “You will need to make a formal appeal to the University, at which time,” he yawned again, “you will have an opportunity to state your case before a tribunal of administrators.” He was now fully awake. People usually were when they were bending you over and going to work with the broom handle.

“Until then,” he admonished, “you will not be allowed to work on campus. You will also be placed on academic probation until your name has been cleared. If the tribunal finds that you are indeed guilty of theft, or if you are caught committing any other crimes on campus, you will be subject to expulsion.”

Gulp. What? Had I heard him right?

Why had I gotten out of bed this morning?

Stupid Tiffany!

SAMANTHA

The warm spring weather was perfect in contrast to my mood. I sat outside at one of the tables at the Student Center with Madison, Romeo and Kamiko. We were all eating fish tacos for lunch.

“I’m screwed, you guys,” I sighed.

"You say that like it’s a problem,” Romeo quipped. “In my world, getting screwed is the most desirable outcome of any encounter.”

“Even if Tiffany Kingston-Whitehouse is the one doing the screwing?” I asked skeptically.

“Now that you mention it, I always suspected that girl had a dick,” Romeo cackled.

“She’s way too much of a bitch to be a man or have a penis,” Kamiko said as she dipped a tortilla chip in her salsa.

“Female dogs everywhere are cringing because we’re comparing them to Tiffany,” Madison giggled.

“Maybe we could compare Tiffany to toxic waste or puppy murderers,” Romeo suggested.

“Don’t kill any puppies!” Kamiko pleaded.

Romeo frowned at her. “How is it that me saying ‘puppy murderers’ means it has actually happened? What, did a puppy somewhere in the world just die because I said it?”

“I don’t know,” Kamiko said sheepishly, “just don’t say it.”

Romeo rolled his eyes, “You’ve been watching way too many cartoons, darling.” He took a bite of his fish taco.

I sipped my iced tea, “What am I going to do, you guys? I can’t even find a math tutoring job. There’s no jobs anywhere right now. And, until my case with Tiffany goes up for review in front of SDU’s academic tribunal, Career Services won’t give me another on-campus job. I’m tainted goods.”

“Have you tried looking for work as a sex slave?” Romeo asked.

“Who wants a tainted sex slave?” Madison joked.

I glared at her, “Thanks a lot, Mads.”

She smiled, “Do you really want to work as a sex slave?”

“If the pay is good, I’ll do anything,” I sighed. “But I already checked the sex slave want ads. All the sex slave masters are looking for someone with experience.”

“Slave experience, or sex experience?” Romeo asked innocently.

“I’m assuming both,” I joked. “Most of the ads mentioned ball gag and whip experience. I’ve never used either.”

“If you need any pointers,” Romeo said, “let me know.”

“Yeah, Sam,” Kamiko smiled, “if you need practice whipping someone’s ass, I can demonstrate for you on Romeo.”

“Is it just me,” Romeo smirked, “or would Kamiko make a good dominatrix?”

I looked at Kamiko, who had her hands in her lap while leaning over her drink cup, which was sitting on the table, while she sucked on her drink straw. She looked like a little kid. The only thing missing was a twirly crazy straw. I said, “Maybe a cartoon dominatrix.”

“Butter lettuce?” Romeo said to Kamiko suggestively, like he was trying to seduce her. “Locally grown?”

I wasn’t sure what he was talking about.

Neither was Madison.

“You mean the butter lettuce party?” Kamiko asked. “Those weren’t dominatrices. Those were male stripper unicorns.”

“DominatriCEES?” Romeo enunciated forcefully. “When did you become Ms. Dictionary, Kamiko?” Romeo asked skeptically, as if Kamiko’s word pronunciation was weirder than male stripper unicorns.

I was so lost.

“Yes,” Kamiko said, “dominatrices is the primary spelling for the plural version of the word.”

Madison frowned at me, “What are they talking about?”

I shook my head, “Cartoons? The dictionary? I have no idea. My friends are insane.”

“Butter lettuce party from Bravest Warriors?!” Kamiko suggested with maximum frustration. “Episode three?! Season one?!” She slapped the table top for emphasis. “Don’t you guys watch the internet?!”

“Yeah,” Romeo glared at me and Madison sarcastically, “Duh!”

“Mads,” I said, “I can’t decide who is more cray cray. Them or us.”

“I’m just eating my fish tacos,” she giggled. “I don’t know any of you.”

I plugged my debit card into one of the ATMs on campus near the Student Center. I needed to check how much cash I had left in my account because my monthly tuition payment was barreling toward me at the speed of light. I was going to owe more than $5,000 to SDU in a few short weeks.

After I entered my PIN, I pressed Check Your Balance. Instead of a number, the ATM machine laughed at me and told me to get a job. I’m surprised it didn’t shred my card and flash the words YOU’RE BROKE repeatedly.

There were people waiting behind me in line to use the ATM, so I canceled out and took my card.

Where the hell was I going to find five grand? I had combed through the job search websites with a microscope and hadn’t found anything yet. Maybe I needed to go back to Grab-n-Dash and beg for my job? A scent memory of hot dogs and urine colored polyester wrinkled my nose.

Maybe not.

Short of selling a kidney or other parts of my body to the highest bidder, the only other thing that occurred to me was checking online for scholarships.

I walked to the Main Library and set up my laptop near a window on the seventh floor. I sighed as I logged onto the library’s wi-fi network and searched through scholarship websites. It didn’t take long to realize that most of the application deadlines had already passed. Not that it mattered. Most of them didn’t pay any money until the fall.