CUTTERS VS. JOCKS, A Prequel Novella to Binding Arbitration/Chick Lit by Elizabeth Marx

Author:Elizabeth Marx
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: romance, chick lit, contemporary, baseball, indiana university, bloomington, jocks, iu, cutters
Publisher: Elizabeth Marx

7

OUR REMEDIES OFT IN OURSELVES LIE

All’s Well that End’s Well

Libby

Mischief is the main occupation of minors in French Lick. For teens there are three things to do out in the middle of nowhere: drink, drugs, and sex. I realized that none of them would be my ticket out of town, so while I partook of some, I’d never been overly proficient with any of them.

A meager block of businesses on either side of a tree lined street made French Lick a thriving wasteland. Smack dab in the middle of the block was the Egyptian Theater, a falling down movie house, built around the time Tut was discovered. We drank generic beer there every Saturday night. One of our friends would buy a ticket and then slip the rest of us in the side door, where we’d let our empty beer bottles roll down the aisles at particularly dramatic moments in the movie.

On the far corner was Hayes Drugstore. All the boys blushed when they placed their condoms on the counter in front of Mrs. Hayes. Rumor was she married into the pharmaceutical family because Aqua Net was her addiction. She’d push her seventies-style coke-bottle-thick glasses up her crooked nose, examining the boys’ boxes before she’d raise it over her head, yelling toward the apothecary in the back, “Harold, how much are these rubbers again?”

Her voice alerted every patron in the county as to what sort of events were transpiring out at the spillway. Her husband, Harold, also had a compulsion. He ran games of chance behind the store, one of which was on who the rubber buyers’ intended targets were. I was buying tampons once when Mrs. Hayes embarrassed some boy. I approached the register in trepidation, and I sneaked around the back of the building, only to hear grown men laying odds on who’d be getting laid that night.

The Dairy Queen was where my illustrious employment career started, and it was a sight better than bailing hay, working city construction, or watching those falling prices at Wally World. I worked twisting cones and flirting with boys.

The DQ was a hangout for everyone from jocks in lettermen’s jackets, to the freaks in tie dye, to the stoners with smelly dreadlocks. Drinking and drugs were regulars in DQ’s parking lot, but sex was relegated to the woods out by the Spillway.

As I said, I wasn’t overly interested in vices during my high school years, but my best friend Lucy was. Actually, if she could enjoy all three at one time, then that was a serious celebration in her mind.

Lucy didn’t have many cares. She was the richest girl in town, her daddy was the judge, and she just didn’t give a shit. We would drive his Cadillac, with the ‘BIG 8’ license plate, through the county like we were county commissioners. The license plate insured immunity against just about anything.

Except for once.

We were partying at the Spillway. Junior Cox, the sheriff’s son, brought his father’s GTO up there to race Billy Bob Thatcher in the rock quarry.

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