thinks of as her gaping hellhole.
Charlotte’s eyes go wide, then narrow, and I’m pretty sure she’s about to kick him in his shitty, smug face, and who could blame her, but then she smiles and lies back, suspiciously relaxed considering what’s being done to her.
Now, I happen to know that Charlotte is on day four of a weight-loss testing protocol she enrolled in long before we teamed up. It’s working—she can’t stop crowing about the pounds melting off—but the side effects aren’t pleasant.
Oily flatulence. Abdominal discomfort.
She doesn’t care—Charlotte’s willing to suffer for beauty. But now it appears that someone else is going to suffer along with her.
Everyone in the room hears it.
It’s a loud, bitonal triumph. A jaw-dropping, gassy explosion that sounds as if a hole is being ripped through time and space—a righteous blast if ever there was one. The student leaps back so fast he bumps against a metal tray table, falling over and knocking sterile instruments to the floor with a clatter. His face is purple and contorted, and no one in the room can keep a straight face except Charlotte, who looks positively angelic. And very relaxed.
“Damn it!” the student yells out from the floor.
The other students are howling. The instructor is trying not to laugh, but she’s not hiding it very well, and you can tell that even she knows what a jackass the guy is.
One of the female students takes a few steps over to Charlotte’s table and pulls the paper blanket over her legs, covering her up. “Nicely done,” I hear her say to Charlotte in a low voice. “And thank you on behalf of all womankind, since that’ll hopefully keep him away from obstetrics forever.”
“My pleasure,” Charlotte says sweetly. She stays reclined on the table until the class filters out. Dickface never looks back.
She checks her watch once everyone is gone. “Speaking of staying away from obstetrics, wanna go pee in a cup next?”
I nod, so we get dressed and head down the hall to the contraceptive study, still snickering about Charlotte’s vigilante fart. The research office is already crowded (who doesn’t want free birth control?), so we join the line for the single-stall restroom. One by one, brimming specimen cups in hand, women prove their un-pregnancies, making the research sponsors very, very happy. Empty-bladdered study participants filter out of the office with smiles on their faces, thrilled to be twenty-five dollars richer for doing what they were going to do anyway. Win-win. It almost goes to your head a bit, when the money is this easy. Like, you’re so damn valuable that even your piss is worth something to someone. Almost makes you start believing crazy things.
The line moves fast and I go first. I flick the lock on the stall door, do my thing, and step out, moving slowly because I filled my cup a little higher than I meant to and I don’t want to spill piss on my shoes. I’m holding the stall door open with my elbow, focusing on my too-full cup and thinking that I should probably be drinking more water since my pee is kind of a funky orangish color and I read somewhere that that’s a sign of dehydration. “Your turn,” I say to Charlotte after a second, starting to get impatient.
“Charlotte?” I look up at the same time that I let the stall door slam shut, and a few drops of pee slosh over the edge of the cup and splash on the floor between us. Charlotte doesn’t notice, though, because she’s gone.
I don’t mean
physically
gone, since she’s still standing there, right in front of me, but there’s no other way to describe it. Her face is slack and disturbingly expressionless, and her eyes have a flat, unfocused quality as she stares, unblinking, at nothing in particular. It’s like someone somehow sucked the Charlotte out of Charlotte.
“Hey, are you okay?” I poke her shoulder with my free hand, kind of hard, actually, since I’m pretty sure she’s just fucking with
Charlotte’s eyes go wide, then narrow, and I’m pretty sure she’s about to kick him in his shitty, smug face, and who could blame her, but then she smiles and lies back, suspiciously relaxed considering what’s being done to her.
Now, I happen to know that Charlotte is on day four of a weight-loss testing protocol she enrolled in long before we teamed up. It’s working—she can’t stop crowing about the pounds melting off—but the side effects aren’t pleasant.
Oily flatulence. Abdominal discomfort.
She doesn’t care—Charlotte’s willing to suffer for beauty. But now it appears that someone else is going to suffer along with her.
Everyone in the room hears it.
It’s a loud, bitonal triumph. A jaw-dropping, gassy explosion that sounds as if a hole is being ripped through time and space—a righteous blast if ever there was one. The student leaps back so fast he bumps against a metal tray table, falling over and knocking sterile instruments to the floor with a clatter. His face is purple and contorted, and no one in the room can keep a straight face except Charlotte, who looks positively angelic. And very relaxed.
“Damn it!” the student yells out from the floor.
The other students are howling. The instructor is trying not to laugh, but she’s not hiding it very well, and you can tell that even she knows what a jackass the guy is.
One of the female students takes a few steps over to Charlotte’s table and pulls the paper blanket over her legs, covering her up. “Nicely done,” I hear her say to Charlotte in a low voice. “And thank you on behalf of all womankind, since that’ll hopefully keep him away from obstetrics forever.”
“My pleasure,” Charlotte says sweetly. She stays reclined on the table until the class filters out. Dickface never looks back.
She checks her watch once everyone is gone. “Speaking of staying away from obstetrics, wanna go pee in a cup next?”
I nod, so we get dressed and head down the hall to the contraceptive study, still snickering about Charlotte’s vigilante fart. The research office is already crowded (who doesn’t want free birth control?), so we join the line for the single-stall restroom. One by one, brimming specimen cups in hand, women prove their un-pregnancies, making the research sponsors very, very happy. Empty-bladdered study participants filter out of the office with smiles on their faces, thrilled to be twenty-five dollars richer for doing what they were going to do anyway. Win-win. It almost goes to your head a bit, when the money is this easy. Like, you’re so damn valuable that even your piss is worth something to someone. Almost makes you start believing crazy things.
The line moves fast and I go first. I flick the lock on the stall door, do my thing, and step out, moving slowly because I filled my cup a little higher than I meant to and I don’t want to spill piss on my shoes. I’m holding the stall door open with my elbow, focusing on my too-full cup and thinking that I should probably be drinking more water since my pee is kind of a funky orangish color and I read somewhere that that’s a sign of dehydration. “Your turn,” I say to Charlotte after a second, starting to get impatient.
“Charlotte?” I look up at the same time that I let the stall door slam shut, and a few drops of pee slosh over the edge of the cup and splash on the floor between us. Charlotte doesn’t notice, though, because she’s gone.
I don’t mean
physically
gone, since she’s still standing there, right in front of me, but there’s no other way to describe it. Her face is slack and disturbingly expressionless, and her eyes have a flat, unfocused quality as she stares, unblinking, at nothing in particular. It’s like someone somehow sucked the Charlotte out of Charlotte.
“Hey, are you okay?” I poke her shoulder with my free hand, kind of hard, actually, since I’m pretty sure she’s just fucking with
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