The girl was fair who went upstairs with her fav-o-rite KOC.
She knocked around and came back down,
and now she takes the walk!
The walk of shame, she’s not to blame!
Who could resist the KOC?
The walk of shame, she found her fame,
and now she takes the walk!
Wow. Aren’t they charming?
After the brothers of Kappa Omega Chi are done shouting at what I assume are innocent, albeit slutty, collegians, Tyler looks at me and shrugs his shoulders. “What? We didn’t write it. It’s from the movie Sorority Boys.”
I hold out one of the hands I had been using to brace myself with to stop him from talking. “Please. There’s no need to explain, but that was all the motivation I needed. Tell Aunt Monica I say hello.”
And with that, I ease myself out his window.
Caleb
If you thought that at seven o’clock in the morning on a Saturday, I would have peace and quiet, sitting outside on the front porch of my house—on any other day you would be absolutely correct. On any other Saturday, in fact, except this one.
And this isn’t just any other Saturday.
Other than the chick trying to shimmy out a second-story window next door, then yeah, it’s been a relatively uneventful morning.
Just as I’m about to take the first sip of iced orange juice from the perspiring water bottle in my large hand, a slight movement catches my eye from an upper window of the crumbling piece-of-shit fraternity house next door. My ears perk up immediately, my head tilting with interest, when the first denim-clad leg emerges. All of my senses are instantly on high alert.
I watch—wide-eyed and mesmerized—as a single slim leg emerges from the window at the same time a sheer white curtain billows out into the open air and momentarily wraps itself around the face of the leg’s owner. I can hear her spitting at it as she pulls it out of her mouth, slapping it away. Meanwhile, her boot-covered toe begins feeling around blindly in the air to gain footing underneath the windowsill.
My trim torso inches forward on the swing, bottle of orange juiced poised just at the tip of my parched lips. The ice clanks together and a few beads of perspiration fall from the bottle onto my shirt when I jiggle it.
I shake my head in disbelief.
“What the fuck…” I can’t stop the curse from escaping, muttering out loud when the second leg appears, straightens, then strains toward the gutter guard. “That crazy bitch is gonna get herself killed.”
Still, I remain seated, eyes riveted to what is guaranteed to be an entertaining—albeit dangerous—show. Swaying back and forth on the white wooden swing, I can’t help but wonder what it is about that place next door that has girls scurrying to escape, like panicked rats in a flood, weekend after weekend.
I mean, yes, it’s a fraternity house. That in itself automatically draws girls to the it, not just on the weekends, but sometimes even during the week. But it isn’t a house where I’d want my kid hanging out if I were a parent. The house is dirty, inside and out, in disrepair, and looks like a Halloween haunted house 365 days a year. It even has an old, rickety wrought-iron fence in the front yard.
Haunted house, rape house: take your pick.
Not to mention, the guys who live there are slobs. Fat, drunken, pot-head slobs. Alright, fine. To be fair, maybe I’m generalizing, but it’s still definitely not a top-tier frat. Word on campus is if you have breath in your lungs and beer in your gut, you’re Kappa material.
The house is everything fathers warn their daughters about, and if you need more proof than that, just take note of the insane slut trying to escape via the upstairs window.
Yeah, exactly.
I angle my head in thought, mentally calculating her distance from the upstairs window to the concrete ground below. “Shit.” There is no way in hell she’s going to make it down that pipe without hurting herself, and the last thing the university needs is yet another story in the news about some moron hurting themselves after an off-campus party.
So naturally, I can’t just sit here and watch her break her neck.
Sighing loudly to no one, I stand and stretch before setting down my orange juice bottle, adjust my ball cap so it’s riding down over my eyes, and pull the hood up of my baggy sweatshirt. Arms extended, I crack my knuckles a few times before sticking both hands inside the kangaroo pocket of my hoodie and begrudgingly shuffling in my flip-flops down the steps to the side of the house.
It only takes me a few moments to reach the side yard of the common shared driveway, and when I do, my mouth sets into a grim line. Tipping my head back, I immediately receive an eyeful of the girl’s denim-clad posterior.