The Art of Being a F*ck Up

6. Hair of the Dog

Come morning I'm one of the first guys up, which isn't like me at all and its mostly because I had to piss, but I take advantage of the opportunity to get a jump start on some of my assignments. The house is totally trashed from the party, and at first it kind of felt like I should probably clean up a little, but fuck that, I'm getting too far behind in my classes and I know if I don't force myself to chip away at it now then I'm never going to get around to it. Believe me, it's not what I want to be doing, but sometimes I swear it seems like I have to work twice as hard to do even half as good as everyone else.

"Jesus, I must still be wasted because it looks like you're actually doing your homework for once." Devin hops off the bottom step, his wild beach sand hair even messier than usual. The shirt he's put on—backwards, mind you—has a few mysterious stains on it, but I choose to ignore it as he lumbers over on stiff legs to lean on the back of the couch, trying to get a glance at what I'm doing, "shit, it's way too early for that many words, bro."

"What are you whining about? I'm the one who's got to get this done by Monday." I type away at my computer, pretending like I've been using my time to be nothing but productive as he hops over to sit beside me. When I'm sure he can't see the screen anymore, I pull my feed back up to resume my compulsive dive down the social media rabbit hole.

"Blow it off, or pay some underclassman to do it for you, that's what I do." He shrugs away the urgency and throws his feet up on the coffee table. At this point I'm only half listening to him, mostly since I'm stuck obsessively reading the status updates from my old teammates that confirm, yes, they did win the game yesterday. They're all so happy and proud, and everybody is congratulating them. Apparently two seconds is too long to ignore Devin, because he offers up another playful remark, "after last night it's probably the best you can hope for, it looks like the whole tutor thing isn't going to work out."

"Don't even joke about it, you twat."

"Touchy much? You'll be fine, can't you just get Jonah to help you?"

"With Grace here? They're practically inseparable."

"Yeah, she's something else, isn't she?" Devin snorts, dangerously close to drooling. "I've never met anyone like her."

"Thanks, I don't need the details."

"No? You're not getting squeamish on me now, are you? I couldn't help but notice you sneaking off last night with your boyfriend." He emphasizes the last word, employing an almost mocking tone while he elbows my ribs. "Did you finally get laid?"

"Why, you jealous?" I deflect, giving him just an inch with the smallest smirk since I'm balls deep in boredom.

"Taking it like a man, that's my boy," his voice carries loudly through a house that already has paper thin walls, earning faint snickers from some of the guys.

"You're a fucking moron," I state plainly, "I don't think you have any idea how sex actually works."

"Maybe not with guys, but when it comes to chicks I can play that shit like a fiddle." Devin makes his point by wiggling his fingers in the air, while I'm left to only hope he's playing an imaginary instrument rather than imitating something far more crass.

"Damn, so romantic, how can anyone resist you?"

"Right? That's what I'm saying! Do you think Grace would go out with me?"

"Not a chance." The rate at which my response causes his carefree demeanor to disappear makes me laugh, but before he can defend his honor we hear a commotion coming from up the stairs. After all this is a frat house, and when you get a bunch of perverted guys together, especially the night after a party, it's bound to get wild. It's essentially a tradition, the way they whistle and catcall tells us that the first wave of unlucky girls have commenced the walk of shame.