Raincoating

I stood outside the house, trying to keep my eyes on it and not all the people looking at me. I was shivering all over, numb in parts of my body, more from anxiety than the cold. All this and I was wearing a sweater, jeans, socks, boots, a heavy black coat, and a scarf. I could only guess how much colder I was about to get.

Ever since agreeing to play the game, my brain had been working overtime in whatever spare minutes it could find, trying to come up with a way to get out of it. Of course, I didn't, it might even be fair to say I couldn't. Rory told me he was spending a lot of time at the gym to get ready, like he was excited about it. I would have, but three of our people at the bookstore walked out—some kind of romantic triangle collapsed on itself, that's what I heard—and I was working twice as many hours, so many I had thought about quitting. We barely saw anything of each other. We had two dates in all that time, both of them on Sunday, and one of them he showed up a half-hour late for. That was his attempt to accommodate my ludicrous schedule, and I thanked him by being bored and bitchy with him all evening. That may have still been a more enjoyable date than the one two weeks before. He had canceled plans to meet with me on Monday night because that was all I had available, and Rory showed up thinking we were going to dance the naked tango all night. I should have been more understanding, but I was angry at him and couldn't even figure out why. It wasn't the sex, I understood that, might have even wanted it, but I was blaming him for this thing I had gotten us into. My fault, most definitely, perhaps even Conner's fault, but I was punishing Rory for it.

The day finally arrived, and although I felt weird and panicked all those hours leading up to it, I couldn't bring myself to back out. Conner had set a perfect trap for me, I had to grant him that much. I thought by giving in and doing it I would stun him, deal him a devastating financial blow, and have the last laugh. Instead, I realized I would be exposing myself to strangers, here in the internet age, and trying to laugh like I had put one over on

him

.

Counting on Rachel to make me feel better would be another mistake. All those days before Hell Night she kept talking a good game, telling me how exciting it would be, how much fun the two of us would have—this she said on the day we were both announced as contestants, and kept saying it ever since—and how it was no big deal. The day arrives and she showed up to pick me up and couldn't even drive her own car. She was pale, distracted like she was suffering a head injury, even occasionally lapsed into shivering. The first few times I asked her what was wrong, she brushed me off, said she just didn't get enough sleep. At last, she confessed, before we got out of the car, that she was having really big second thoughts.

As I opened the door to her car, Rachel told me, "I can't do this, Erica. I just... I can't do it. Let's go home."

I leaned back in the driver's seat and ground my teeth together for a seconds. I shut the door and looked at the crowd assembled outside the Granville house. I said to her, "It'll be fun once we get into it. This is what you wanted. You pushed to get here, now you're here. Remember? You were going to sue them just so they would let you play."

"I know," she said, shivering again. "I can't do it. I don't know what I was thinking."

"It'll be fun, Rach. Remember when we were staring at those naked guys and their... great big tools... on your computer monitor? Drinking rum and feeling all horny? That'll be your picture guys will be looking at!"

"Oh, god!" she said, holding her mouth. I smirked a little bit. Maybe I knew what I said wasn't making things better. Hey, if she threw up, at least we were in her car. A better idea came to her mind, just as I was starting to consider what would happen if we both dropped out at the last minute. Rachel opened the door and stumbled out. "I've got to find Po'Boy."

That probably wasn't going to be good. A guy named Prescott Mullaney was in my English II class freshman year, and I found out later he was called Po'Boy by everyone. As best I can figure, it had to do with the fact he dressed like a slob everywhere he went or because his name made him sound like a trust fund baby and I doubt he was. His reputation spread bigger than his name or nickname soon enough: Po'Boy was the guy to go to when you wanted a chemical party. He dealt pot, most of my friends knew, but they also said he was always out, never had enough. Ecstasy was his big business, but I never messed with that stuff, seldom anything stronger than rum. Po'Boy also sometimes dealt coke, from what I heard, and I hoped Rachel wasn't going to him for that. At least Po'Boy had enough scruples to stay away from meth, or maybe it was that someone else controlled that traffic at the college.

A pretty girl with red hair kept staring at me, but when I looked her way, she looked away. Well, there were a lot of people looking my way, but she eventually came over and gave me a nervous smile, then said a hello. I shook her hand when she introduced herself as Sunny.

"I didn't mean to stare. My boyfriend pointed you out. You're Erica Ames. Right?"

God, I thought to myself, it can't be a good thing if people are recognizing me here.

Sunny went on, "I read on the website that you were the one who fought for this thing. That is so flippin' cool! I mean, you must be crazy brave. I'm still not sure I'm going to survive this."

"I didn't read that. The website. I guess." I did recall a number of names from the email I had been sent, though. "Oh, Sunny... so you're doing this?"

"Glad to meet the competition," she said with a trembling breath and a laugh. She grabbed my hand and shook it. "You don't look at all how I thought you would. You look really normal. No offense."

Was I supposed to be offended? I just shrugged. Sunny was as chipper as her personality, but over the phone I would have pegged her as a blonde. Physically, though, she was as redhead as a redhead could be, with dark scarlet stretching down her back and very pale skin, like she would burn if she came out for a second in the daylight. She tried to make up for it, I think, with extremely dark eyeshadow, but that left her looking all the more like a zombie. A very beautiful zombie, though, with a tight body, as much as I could tell through her gray hoodie and black jeans. Her lips she left a pale pink, but that was enough color to stand out in a good way on her ivory-like face; her eyes were all the more piercing, a mesmerizing shade of blue.

"I only thought you would look... I mean, you're very pretty. But I kept looking for this amazon kind of girl. Betty Page with pure sex for blood and estrogen perfume, right? More like her."

Sunny pointed the way to a girl standing a little taller than six feet, as I guessed. Her brown hair had a lot of blonde highlights and had been tied in pigtails, which would have made her look younger if she didn't tower over all the women around her and many of the guys. I recognized her as Claudia Temple from Bleecker College's basketball team. With all of her muscles, she could have played on the men's football team as well. I remembered some rumor Rory had told me, that she had trained for women's weightlifting with Olympic ambitions, but something had changed her mind. All the ridiculous work, maybe. She still had the body, and was pretty proud of it, that was obvious from where I stood: She showed up to the Granville house wearing a pair of Bleecker College baby blue shorts that could have been underwear, for all I could tell, and a tight sleeveless T-shirt cut low enough to display her cleavage. I smiled when I saw her, which made Sunny laugh.

"She came to play, I'd say."

Yeah, Sunny was right. Claudia's name was on the list, too.

Eventually, Rachel found us. Her eyes were a little glassy, but I hoped she was buzzing more than tripping. She put a palm to her forehead and asked if we were hot. It was about forty-five degrees outside, so no, we said with nervous giggles, nobody was hot but her. Sunny heaped praise on her as well, saying she had enough status around the college that her involvement would give the women's Raincoating event some cache.

"I hope it doesn't sound insincere if I wish you luck. Obviously, I'm kind of hoping I win... but if I don't, I hope it's you... or you, Erica. Does that make sense?"

"I'm not gonna win," said Rachel, slurring her words a little, then she gave us both her model smile. "Any girl can win. I'm here to strut my stuff."

She snapped a couple of times and threw her hand into the air, making a face. For a moment, Sunny was stunned, then I laughed to cover up. No sense telling anyone she didn't know she came to lose. Fortunately for Rachel, she sounded pretty messed up.

The time came to get the night started. Seven o'clock for the guys, and it would take them an hour and a half on the inside, Jack estimated, though of course it would really only go on as long as it took everyone to follow whatever instructions were given inside. Six guys lined up, including my Rory. I felt like the world's worst girlfriend for not talking to him more. I had kissed him on the cheek when he found me, Rachel, and Sunny standing together, getting stared at like celebrities, and wished him luck. That afternoon I had talked with him on the phone as I worked, and I knew he was as anxious about all of this as I was. Then my boss came out of the bathroom and I had to hide my phone again. I spent so much time making sure Rachel was okay and thinking about what I was going through, I forgot that he had signed himself up for all of this as well. Why? Not for my friend and not for the money. Just so I wouldn't feel alone in this thing.

I waved to him and he gave me a lukewarm smile in return. I would have to make sure to reward him for all of this whenever we had some time alone again. All of these weeks and I made no real effort to spend time with him. Ugh, I really was the worst girlfriend in the world.

Something Rory and I had in common, I thought, was that we both weren't going to be the most photogenic losers coming out of the Granville house. While neither of us is unattractive, we had some stiff competition. For me, it was Rachel, of course, the caramel-toned supermodel of Bleecker, Sunny, the pale and stunning redhead, our muscular athlete Claudia, a busty little blonde with a baby face and brown eyes named Bridget, and a tall, porcelain English beauty only a shade or two darker than Sunny, Jody. I didn't know any of them but Rachel and Claudia by reputation, though I was starting to like Sunny. That would make it hard to win while leaving her to lose, but losing wasn't an option.

Poor Rory, if anything, he had stiffer competition—yikes, no pun intended, at least not yet. Rory was a pretty good-looking boyfriend, maybe a little unconventional, and he had a kind of nice body. The rest of these guys, though, they were chosen from a huge portfolio of studs, from what I could tell. Nick Strater was the best-looking of the bunch, I thought. When I said that to Rachel, she looked him over and said she wasn't sure his body was as good as Tyler's or Bruce's, but I've always been drawn to handsome faces, so that makes sense. Nick was like a movie star straight out of a black-and-white film, a pointed jaw, narrow cheeks and cheekbones, but with this sweeping mop of black hair on top of his head he kept throwing back out of his eyes. What a darling. His smile was equally devastating, his teeth just imperfect enough to look better than perfect. Tyler was more of a modern hunk, blond and pretty, with a smile whiter than Greenland in a blizzard. Tanned to the point of looking overtanned, even silly, but he was cut like he had been sketched, a Greek god's body, and it was hard to hate his tan while staring at that thing. He wore a mesh shirt when he arrived, and I've never heard so many whistles outside of a TV show or something. It looked like Tyler came to lose, a lot like Rachel—he clearly loved the attention and having a reason to show off. Then there was Ben, who even as a "normal" looking guy was very attractive. Dark eyes, long black hair—I heard from Rachel that he had gone to a Halloween party last year looking like one of those guys from a Japan animation cartoon, and damn if it wasn't a perfect fit for him. Ben was skinny all over, but I've always found that kind of a hot look, maybe being a toothpick myself makes me like that in guys. Like Nick, I knew that Ben was from the Theater Arts crowd, and I had heard that he was gay, but without knowing him, it's never a certainty, rumors get spread like that all the time. I bet Jack would have loved to test him. So of the candidates, that left Bruce, whose name wasn't actually Bruce, it was Rodney Hupp, but Rodney resembled Bruce Springsteen from the '70s so much, even the scraggly beard, that some guy in his freshman year made the connection and the name stuck. It wasn't as cool a nickname as Geronimo, though. No one would call Geronimo pretty, but there was still something about him. A little wide, but most of that was muscle, and he seemed to sweat more than anybody I had ever seen. He had a beard and thick black eyebrows to match, a little bit of curl to his hair, but it was so heavy it always hung around his head almost like a hood. There was something animal-like about him, and it was something I wasn't especially attracted to, but I couldn't deny that some part of me wondered what it would be like to be underneath him while he grunted away, thrusting. Rory's friend Paul said that Geronimo would be a better Wolverine in any movie they made, but as a woman, I have to go with Hugh Jackman.

They all came dressed normal, at least if Tyler's mesh shirt counted as normal. Jack let our Bleecker College future-president-of-the-nation Adrian Dimes emcee the event, and Dimes wisely didn't spend too much time with introductions. People were already growing impatient, and they were about to wait an hour or so just to see who won the contest. Still, for as little action as was really involved, a lot of people showed up.

"You all know why we're here, so I'm not going to waste too much time explaining everything. This is our third time here, all thanks to Jack Mitchell here... who discovered that men aren't the only ones who like looking at beefcake." The ladies applauded wildly, except for me. Rachel was loud enough that Adrian looked right at her. "I'm not talking about me, of course. But whatever gets you going is fine with me. Here's the rules: Six guys go in this door, they do whatever they're told inside and we

will never know

what that is... at least until Jack figures out how to release a

Too Hot for Raincoating

DVD. We can only hope. Six guys come out the other side of this house, all of them wearing raincoats. The winner gets to keep his on. The rest of them..."

The shrill screams of approval got so loud I might have expected the Beatles to take the stage beside Adrian. He laughed for a while and had to collect himself.

"That's right. We're talking a full-frontal learning experience. The kind we usually don't get in college." Roars of agreement, more from the guys than I'd heard in minutes. "Let's get our show going. We have a big new event following our first contest... though I don't know anyone here who's really excited about naked

women

—"

Whoa. The guys really loved that. I pretended I didn't notice them looking at the cluster of female contests toward the back of the crowd. Rachel "wooed" and threw her arms in the air, earning her more applause.

"Guys... our male contestants... please head into the house when I drop this flag." Adrian waved a baby blue mini-flag on a drumstick and people cheered him on. "Whatever you do in there, dudes... please don't make dicks of yourself..."

A lot more noise, and it reached a peak when Adrian dropped the flag and the guys took off at various speeds for the front door. Rory was moving at a snail's pace, a mournful walk if I ever saw one, especially compared to the way Nick had burst forward like a marathon starter. But Rory turned to the crowd and gave a "V" for victory with both hands, which earned him some love from the audience. I applauded louder than anybody, but my heart was beating a samba beat.

Things dulled almost as soon as the door shut. Conner took the stage, that hateful prick, and muttered into the microphone, in his grating voice, that concessions were going on sale in the backyard. Some volunteers—I could only guess why they wanted to work this thing for free—started striking the stage so they could move it to the backyard, where the big finale was already being anticipated.

Jack told us he only had a couple of minutes to explain the rules, then had to get back to monitoring the private feed, a.k.a. the security footage that he would supposedly delete once it was all over. Right behind him the whole time, sitting on a folding chair, was Conner, and I did my best to ignore him.

"Once you're through the door and it's locked, the six of you are expected to disrobe completely. Or get fucking naked, if you prefer I should talk bluntly. Here's the deal: Six raincoats will be hanging on hooks by the back door, your names are already on the back of them. Don't mix up the raincoats, you'll make all of us look like idiots. You'll lock your clothes up in the trunks provided.

All

of your clothes go in the trunks, and when this is all over and the time is appropriate, you'll receive the keys to the trunks to get your clothes and go where you please. We've instituted a "mingle" session for the post-party this year. Meaning there will be an hour delay between your leaving the house and getting your clothes back. But you'll still have your raincoats, right? Anyone have any problems with this revision? Here's a hint: Say 'No.'"

We all said no, but I wasn't crazy about the thought.

"Frankly speaking, you may be asked to do things in there that you find unpleasant. Even disgusting," said Jack, and the way he gave a sly look to Conner told us who had a hand in setting things up. He said nothing more about that, though, and Conner didn't notice he had been implicated. I think he was too busy staring at Claudia's chest. "All you have to do inside for the exit door to open is to lock up your clothes except for your raincoats. That's it. Oh, and pose for pictures. When everyone's done that, you're free to leave. However... to win the contest, which is why you're here, you need to get a camera. To get a camera, you have to complete one of the tasks. There are a variety of tasks and completing any one, or two of them, in some cases, will get you a camera. The cameras are digital. To win the contest, you must get pictures of your fellow girls. If you are asked to pose for a picture,

you are not allowed to refuse

. Do it once and you'll be reminded that it's part of the agreement you've signed to be contestants. Understand?" We all did. "You get pictures of all your fellow competitors. No one is attempt to cover up anything—not even your face, girls. The first girl to leave the Granville house through the exit with a picture of all the competitors is the winner. You got your camera full of good pictures but you left your raincoat up front and someone else snuck out before you? Guess what? She's the winner. First one out the door with all the pictures wins. No arguing.

"After it's done and we're outside," Jack continued, "we'll declare a winner. The... how do I say it nice? Losers? No, not nice enough. The girls who didn't win, they gather on the stage and open their raincoats or take them off."

Rachel made another "woo" noise, which broke the tension and let us laugh a little. I think all of the rest of us were still nervous, and if she weren't so high, she would have been, too.