Blood Games

    ‘Hardin didn’t say “fuck”. Not Hardin.’

    ‘Did, too.’

    ‘I always knew she was a fraud,’ Finley said. ‘Nobody can be as uptight as she puts on.’

    ‘She called that gal a bitch, too.’

    ‘Wonder who it was,’ Cora said.

    ‘Wonder what Hardin did to her,’ Finley said. ‘Pretty weird, bringing someone up here at night.’

    ‘Maybe it was her girlfriend,’ Helen suggested.

    ‘Yeah, brought her up here to mess around.’

    ‘Come on,’ Abilene said. ‘She has a house or apartment or something. Why would she bring anyone here? Probably just some poor slob she caught chewing gum.’

    ‘Pour some more,’ Cora said.

    Finley refilled the glasses. With ice, a lot of tequila, and a dab of lemonade.

    Already, Abilene’s cheeks were feeling a trifle numb. ‘We’re gonna get juiced,’ she warned.

    ‘That’s the point, Hickok.’

    ‘Hickok?’ Abilene asked.

    ‘You know, Wild Bill. James Butler. The guy that cleaned up Abilene.’

    ‘He didn’t clean up me.’

    ‘You sure know your history,’ Vivian said, grinning crookedly at Finley.

    ‘I’m a whizz kid.’

    ‘Speaking of whizz,’ Helen said, ‘Hardin didn’t have any paper in her stall.’

    ‘I figured she was gonna come over to mine,’ Abilene said, ‘and that’d be it. But she didn’t. She didn’t wipe.’

    ‘You lie.’

    ‘Or flush,’ Helen added.

    ‘Or wash her hands.’

    ‘A real hog.’

    ‘A bitch,’ Finley said. ‘Maybe she licked herself clean.’

    ‘Disgusting!’ Vivian blurted.

    ‘And she wants us to be proper young ladies,’ Cora said.

    ‘Which we are,’ Finley said. She reached into one of the bags and lifted out a stack of magazines. She passed some of them around.

    Abilene set down her drink and leafed through the magazine Finley had given her. Its pages featured photographs of naked men. They had oiled, shiny skin. They had bulging muscles. They had big penises.

    Helen stepped closer and looked. ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘Wanta trade?’

    Helen’s magazine showed women posing with their legs spread wide. They were licking their lips, caressing themselves. Many of them had no pubic hair. One had a fingertip buried in her vagina. Some of the photos showed two or three women together, biting and squeezing and licking each other.

    ‘Raunchy stuff,’ Vivian commented.

    ‘Terrific,’ said Cora. ‘Look at the schlong on this guy.’ She turned her magazine around and showed them a full-page picture.

    ‘I wouldn’t let him near me with a ten-foot pole,’ Abilene said.

    ‘That is a ten-foot pole,’ Finley remarked, laughing. Then she dug into the sack and pulled out some rolls of tape. ‘Enough ogling the bods,’ she said. ‘Let’s get to work.’

    They filled their glasses again. Laughing, sipping, sharing their discoveries of particularly outlandish photos, making return trips to the desk for chips and refills, they spent the next twenty minutes tearing pages from the magazines and taping them all over Hardin’s office. They taped pictures to the sides of the desk, to the chairs, to the door and walls and filing cabinets and bookshelves, to the window blinds. Cora, standing atop the desk, even papered a portion of the ceiling.

    ‘I thing thas enough,’ Vivian finally said. She tossed the tattered remains of a magazine onto the desk and turned around slowly, admiring their work.

    Turning around did it.

    Her face went ashen and slack. She staggered backward, waving her arms. ‘Oh my God,’ she muttered. Her rump hit the floor. Groaning, she lay down. ‘Spinning,’ she said.

    Helen crouched beside her. ‘Are you…?’

    ‘Oh my Gah…’ Vivian flipped over, thrust herself to her hands and knees, and vomited.

    ‘Gross out!’ Finley called, and rushed for her camera.

    Before she could lift it off the desk, Cora grabbed it. ‘Leave her in peace.’

    Vivian finished, and crawled away from the mess she’d made on the carpet.

    Abilene patted her back. ‘Are you okay?’

    She moaned.

    ‘We’d better get out of here.’ Abilene and Helen helped the girl to her feet. ‘Can you walk?’

    ‘Yeah, yeah. I’m ogay.’

    ‘Let’s go.’

    They waited for Cora to finish writing something on a sheet of letterhead she’d taken from Hardin’s desk.

    Then they followed her into the secretary’s office, turning off Hardin’s lights and closing her door. Leaving behind the grocery sacks, empty glasses and bottles and chip bags, a swollen plastic bag of melting ice cubes, tom magazines, the vast photo gallery of naked men and women, and a puddle of vomit.

    To the outside of Hardin’s door, Cora taped the note. Abilene lit it with her flashlight. In bold printing, it read, KEEP OUT. THIS MEANS EYERYONE, CUSTODIANS INCLUDED. I WILL NOT HAVE MY SANCTUARY VIOLATED. Scribbled beneath the message was: M. Hardin, Dean of Women.

    ‘Give me that,’ Cora said.

    Abilene handed the flashlight to her. ‘What are you doing?’

    ‘You’ll see.’ She stepped behind the secretary’s desk. She shone the bright beam on the Rolodex. Flipped through the cards. ‘Here we are.’

    She picked up the phone and tapped in a series of numbers. ‘Oh my God,’ Vivian mumbled.

    ‘You’re not!’ Abilene gasped.

    Finley started to laugh.

    Helen groaned.