Fresh Meat
by MYCAH HAZEL
The best thing about college so far was the pool. I tried not to think about the bodies that were in it before me, clinging to the ledge, clinging to each other, clinging to the floor until they’re floating back to the surface, soul gone. I just thought about the water, the smell of the chlorine and how it reminded me of elementary school days at summer camp. I wonder if I’m even supposed to be thinking about elementary school.
All the girls here talk about is high school. It’s all we can talk about so far. The powers that be said that high school and popularity doesn’t matter here. In reality, high school is all we have to prove ourselves. We converse in the communal showers while massaging our scalps, trade stories of school scandals, and personal ones. They can’t tell that my afro will take much longer to wash than their ponytails, that this is much more than a lather-and-rinse ordeal. But for now, I just pretend I’m one of them, run my fingers through my strands even as they get caught in knots and coils.
I tell them about my high school art teacher, Ms. Lorraine, who used to eat mayonnaise straight from the tub. Another girl named Jamie chimes in. She says she fucked her physics teacher for the entirety of sophomore year, and nobody found out. I don’t know what to say to this, but apparently the right thing to do is laugh. That’s what everybody else does. I bring my voice up an octave, to an airy giggle that matches the other girls’. I wonder if Jamie’s smiling.
I stick to a schedule of swimming during late nights or early mornings, weekdays only. I’m all sweatshirts and sweatpants until I’m in nothing but a triangle set. The air in the sports complex- wherever it’s coming from- is lukewarm, a little musty and it’s hitting my chest. I dive in. I haven’t bought goggles yet, so everything is left to the imagination until I come up for air. Then I see Justin. He lives on my dorm room floor in the suite with three other boys. I hadn’t looked twice at him back on the floor- okay, maybe I had, maybe I’d looked at him nearly three times before telling myself to stop.
There’s a feeling in diving where you imagine going deeper, as deep as you can possibly go- and then your mind and the powers of gravity bring you back to the surface. These same forces, it seems, are making me look away from Justin. I just keep swimming. Justin would want someone like Jamie. Jamie can handle her teacher in the back of a Chevy so Jamie can definitely handle a college one-and-done. The last thing I see before I go under is Justin ogling my body. The last thing I wonder is why.
After the first weekend in college, there’s no more talking about high school. You should’ve done enough by now. We tell each other stories on the floor, each sitting in front of our dorm room doors. My roommate Lisa has already managed to throw up in the ditch at the entrance of the nature preserve. Another girl on my floor Jessica has done molly. It “wasn’t that bad.” The boys have to step over our legs to get to the elevators and it makes me feel powerful. Justin trips on mine.
Jamie tells us about some guy from one of the frats who has a tattoo of Lil Uzi above his belly button. She tells us about how he held her hand when they went upstairs. She tells us, adamantly, that she didn’t really want to go and no one can figure out how to pick up the conversation after that.
After my swim that night, I settle on just squeezing out the water from my hair and not giving it a wash. I can feel the girl that was in the shower stall beside me staring at me as we stand in front of the sinks, her reapplying makeup and me applying a cleanser. She’s looking at my hair like she’s wondering how it’s possible for a guy to run his fingers through it.
Justin’s vaping outside. The campus shuttle comes around every fifteen minutes to bring people from the gym to the dorms. I sit on the bench just by the bus stop and stare at the empty road. Cars head to the confines of the dorm parking lots while buses escape the campus for some place bigger. Justin sits on the bench just beside me and pulls out his vape. I stand up and keep my distance so I don’t reek. I wonder why I’m always the one moving, shifting, adjusting, while guys like Justin and girls like Jamie just seem to float by.
We’re the only two that get on the shuttle bus when it comes. On the bus, it’s just us and some girl with a single French braid, who’s using the little light that enters the vehicle to read. I stare at her braces. I can’t fight the thought that she is someone who probably goes unnoticed and untouched. For a moment, I’m terrified that she’s who I will end up becoming.
When we get back to our floor, Jamie is coming out of the communal showers in only her towel. I’m not like her. I have to leave the shower in full gear, no matter how much of a hassle it is to get dressed within the four walls of a bathroom stall. Jamie’s eyes move between me and Justin, and she breaks out into a smile. I like seeing her happy, even though I know that I haven’t made her feel that way, and probably never will. Justin sees her eyes and gives me a little smirk. He knows he’s an option for me, and I know that there are better ones.
by MYCAH HAZEL
The best thing about college so far was the pool. I tried not to think about the bodies that were in it before me, clinging to the ledge, clinging to each other, clinging to the floor until they’re floating back to the surface, soul gone. I just thought about the water, the smell of the chlorine and how it reminded me of elementary school days at summer camp. I wonder if I’m even supposed to be thinking about elementary school.
All the girls here talk about is high school. It’s all we can talk about so far. The powers that be said that high school and popularity doesn’t matter here. In reality, high school is all we have to prove ourselves. We converse in the communal showers while massaging our scalps, trade stories of school scandals, and personal ones. They can’t tell that my afro will take much longer to wash than their ponytails, that this is much more than a lather-and-rinse ordeal. But for now, I just pretend I’m one of them, run my fingers through my strands even as they get caught in knots and coils.
I tell them about my high school art teacher, Ms. Lorraine, who used to eat mayonnaise straight from the tub. Another girl named Jamie chimes in. She says she fucked her physics teacher for the entirety of sophomore year, and nobody found out. I don’t know what to say to this, but apparently the right thing to do is laugh. That’s what everybody else does. I bring my voice up an octave, to an airy giggle that matches the other girls’. I wonder if Jamie’s smiling.
I stick to a schedule of swimming during late nights or early mornings, weekdays only. I’m all sweatshirts and sweatpants until I’m in nothing but a triangle set. The air in the sports complex- wherever it’s coming from- is lukewarm, a little musty and it’s hitting my chest. I dive in. I haven’t bought goggles yet, so everything is left to the imagination until I come up for air. Then I see Justin. He lives on my dorm room floor in the suite with three other boys. I hadn’t looked twice at him back on the floor- okay, maybe I had, maybe I’d looked at him nearly three times before telling myself to stop.
There’s a feeling in diving where you imagine going deeper, as deep as you can possibly go- and then your mind and the powers of gravity bring you back to the surface. These same forces, it seems, are making me look away from Justin. I just keep swimming. Justin would want someone like Jamie. Jamie can handle her teacher in the back of a Chevy so Jamie can definitely handle a college one-and-done. The last thing I see before I go under is Justin ogling my body. The last thing I wonder is why.
After the first weekend in college, there’s no more talking about high school. You should’ve done enough by now. We tell each other stories on the floor, each sitting in front of our dorm room doors. My roommate Lisa has already managed to throw up in the ditch at the entrance of the nature preserve. Another girl on my floor Jessica has done molly. It “wasn’t that bad.” The boys have to step over our legs to get to the elevators and it makes me feel powerful. Justin trips on mine.
Jamie tells us about some guy from one of the frats who has a tattoo of Lil Uzi above his belly button. She tells us about how he held her hand when they went upstairs. She tells us, adamantly, that she didn’t really want to go and no one can figure out how to pick up the conversation after that.
After my swim that night, I settle on just squeezing out the water from my hair and not giving it a wash. I can feel the girl that was in the shower stall beside me staring at me as we stand in front of the sinks, her reapplying makeup and me applying a cleanser. She’s looking at my hair like she’s wondering how it’s possible for a guy to run his fingers through it.
Justin’s vaping outside. The campus shuttle comes around every fifteen minutes to bring people from the gym to the dorms. I sit on the bench just by the bus stop and stare at the empty road. Cars head to the confines of the dorm parking lots while buses escape the campus for some place bigger. Justin sits on the bench just beside me and pulls out his vape. I stand up and keep my distance so I don’t reek. I wonder why I’m always the one moving, shifting, adjusting, while guys like Justin and girls like Jamie just seem to float by.
We’re the only two that get on the shuttle bus when it comes. On the bus, it’s just us and some girl with a single French braid, who’s using the little light that enters the vehicle to read. I stare at her braces. I can’t fight the thought that she is someone who probably goes unnoticed and untouched. For a moment, I’m terrified that she’s who I will end up becoming.
When we get back to our floor, Jamie is coming out of the communal showers in only her towel. I’m not like her. I have to leave the shower in full gear, no matter how much of a hassle it is to get dressed within the four walls of a bathroom stall. Jamie’s eyes move between me and Justin, and she breaks out into a smile. I like seeing her happy, even though I know that I haven’t made her feel that way, and probably never will. Justin sees her eyes and gives me a little smirk. He knows he’s an option for me, and I know that there are better ones.
Mycah Hazel is a writer and journalist based in New York City. Her work can be found in HuffPost, Bedford + Bowery, & upcoming in midnight & indigo. She loves coming-of-age movies and thrift shopping.