scrap #3
i’m almost certainly never going to go any further with these, so here they are. feel free to add on.
how larissa duan got her nickname, which was never really supposed to be a story about how larissa duan got her nickname.
“Fuck, Duan, we gotta get you a nickname,” Holster says as he watches Larissa sink her ball in one of Ransom and Shitty’s solo cups. Shitty raises his drink to salute her before finishing it off.
“True. You’re a goddamn bro. You need a bro nickname,” Shitty says. Ransom sets up his shot and throws it, but Larissa immediately bends to scoop it out with her fingers.
“Hey! No fair! Girls are supposed to blow them out!” Ransom cries.
Larissa wiggles her fingers at him and winks, feeling warm and giggly. “But bisexuals get to do both.”
“BRO!” Holster yells, and tries to simultaneously fist-bump, high-five and hug her. He ends up looking flustered, open-mouthed, wagging his hands at her, and she laughs.
“Now that’s unfair,” Ransom grumbles. Shitty presses his hand over Ransom’s mouth so quickly there’s a slap! and then a pained grunt.
“Affirmative action, man. Let them have this.”
Larissa snorts when Holster passes a hand over his face to force it into a serious expression. “Okay, LD, like we practiced,” he says with a nod.
“Mmph!” Whatever Ransom is trying to say is muffled by Shitty’s palm.
“TRICK SHOT!” Larissa cries as Holster twists her around and lifts her up so she’s backwards and two feet taller. She closes her eyes to throw the ball -- it lands in the center cup. The small crowd that always gathers to watch the pong players erupts in cheers while Ransom falls to his knees.
“Oh my god. Oh my god. That was amazing. I’m dead. You’ve killed me,” he chants, face buried in his hands.
“Fuck. I’m upping my weight training for the next time we play together,” Shitty says. Holster winks and kisses his bicep, and Ransom swoons.
Larissa takes a bow. “Losers. You need to up your pong training if you ever want a chance at beating me.”
“Anything, Your fucking Pongness.”
Ransom stands abruptly. “Hey! What about Ponger! Pongo? Pongsy!”
They stop, thoughtful, then shake their heads all together.
“Naaah.”
“Don’t think so.”
“Doesn’t feel right.” This from Shitty, who shakes off the excess beer from the ball and hands it off to Larissa. “We’ll get there one day. Never leave a bro behind.”
Holster gasps. “Hey, Larissa,” he says, “we’re looking for a new team manager. Want me to put your name in with Hall and Murray?”
Because she likes hockey, and she likes these boys, and it’s Frosh Week so she really likes all the beer she’s had warming her from the inside out, she shrugs.
“Sure, why not?” she says, and Holster lifts her up again in celebration.
“Fucking ‘swawesome.”
“All right, fuckers, sit down,” Shitty says, barging into Holster’s dorm with what looks like a reluctant Jack in tow. Larissa’s got her head on Ransom’s stomach, both laying on the floor, and Holster’s at his desk, headphones in, watching Cheers.
“We’re already sitting down,” Ransom says, barely looking up from his Scientific American. They’re not high or anything, because it’s early Wednesday afternoon and they all have classes later, and it’s still too early on in the semester and in their university careers for them to say fuck it and skip. Though she doesn’t think Ransom would anyway, and Holster wouldn’t because what the hell would he do for an hour and fifteen minutes without Ransom?
“Listen,” Shitty says, ignoring Ransom’s comment and throwing himself on the bed. Jack sits gingerly at the edge. “We need to get a lockdown on this nickname thing. I’ve brought Jack along to help.”
Larissa doesn’t really know Jack -- well, she knows what everybody knows, what Wikipedia knows, but other than that, not much. He’s older, already 21, and quiet, and he plays hockey, and Shitty likes him. She doesn’t even know what he’s studying.
“You said we were going for a walk,” Jack says, staring at Shitty pointedly.
“Yeah, and we walked here, didn’t we? Oh, don’t -- we’ll go once the froggies leave for class, okay?” He’d memorized their schedules sometime last week.
Holster takes his headphones off and swivels to face them. “Okay, what have you got, then?”
Clearing his throat loudly, Shitty pulls out a crumpled-up napkin, making a show of smoothing it out. “Possible nicknames for one Larissa Duan: Duano--”
“Oh, God,” Larissa mumbles. Shitty goes on unhindered.
“--Dutsy, Dusty, Lassy--”
“Stop, holy shit,” Holster says, jumping up and cross the few feet to rip the paper from Shitty’s hand. “These are all awful. What -- oh my god, I don’t even want to read these. I can’t look at them anymore.”
Ransom pushes Larissa’s head so it sits on his lap, and pushes himself up. “Bro, you’re forgetting the most important aspect of a nickname. It’s gotta be organic, right? Natural.”
“Goddamn, you’re right.” Shitty hangs his head. “You’re fucking right. What was I thinking? This manufactured bullshit will never be it.”
“Maybe she can just be Larissa. Like me,” Jack says, shrugging.
“Jack, your name’s not Larissa. It’s Jack,” Ransom points out, rather unhelpfully.
Larissa rises from Ransom’s thighs and holds herself up on her elbows, eyeing them each in turn with an eyebrow raised. “You’re all just gonna have to work harder.”
“Damn,” Holster says softly. “Never leave a bro behind.”
The late-night fro-yo runs have gained in frequency the closer they get to mid-terms, and this time she’s out with Emilie and Simon, who are the other occupants of her designated studio space. They’re second years who live in apartments off-campus, and Larissa likes them a lot. She thinks they like her too. They’ve got twenty-four hour access to the building, so it’s not unusual for one of them to scream FUCK IT past eleven, and drag the others to Simon’s car, sometimes stopping to pick up another friend or two in the rooms next to theirs, still splattered with paint and glitter and clay.
“I’m just saying that there’s gotta be a way to make the studios more accessible. Like I get that it’s an old building, but all those fucking stairs? And like, one elevator? Shit’s ridic,” Emilie says around a mouthful of spoon and chocolate yogurt, caramel dripping down her chin. Larissa knows all about the stairs -- and, though she’d never admit it, the elevator too. “I think we should write a letter to the department, get some signatures. At least get them to commit to look into it.”
“Mm, yeah,” Larissa says, scooping up a strawberry. “You should talk to my friend Shitty. He got the school to fix up the ramp at Faber last year, because it was pretty much falling apart.”
Simon laughs. “His name is Shitty? That’s unfortunate.”
“It’s a hockey nickname.” She shrugs. “Most of them have one.”
“Do you?” Simon asks.
“Not yet. Maybe eventually. Hey, wanna trade bites?”
Emilie laughs and pushes her cup closer to Larissa’s. “Nah, just take some of mine. What’s the point of getting fruit when you’re going out for a treat, you know?”
Larissa scoops up half a spoonful of chocolate and caramel. “Hm. Not a lot of fresh fruit at the meal hall.” It’s only part-lie (she doesn’t stop to think about how big a part). “Thanks.”
Later, when Simon’s gone home and she and Emilie are back in their studio space (the building was converted from an old elementary school and there is still tape on the walls under jacket hooks with names like Sarah and Kevin and Tommy), Emilie asks her if she’s ever had sex. It’s not -- weird, really, because Emilie is like that; she writes sex-ed articles for the Swallow, wears shirts that say Consent is Mandatory, is part of the art school’s feminist collective. She and Shitty really would get along.
“Ever had sex?” she says, casually. Larissa notices she doesn’t ask if she’s a virgin -- Holster had, and Shitty had nearly yelled himself hoarse.
“Yes,” she says. This one’s a full lie. She doesn’t know why she says it. Well, okay, that’s a lie too, because she knows. She definitely knows.
“Do you, like, want to?” Emilie says. She’s at the sink washing off her brushes.
Yes, she fucking wants to. Social construct or not, it’d be a relief. And besides, she likes sex -- with herself. And she’s watched plenty of porn. Read plenty of porn. She figures it can’t be that hard -- vulvas aren’t as scary as dicks, anyway, even though she thinks she’d like both.
Her heart is beating so fast she can feel it in her throat, in the back of her head, in her fingers, deep in the pit of her cunt. Pulsing.
“Like, in general? Sure,” she says, shrugging. She doesn’t look away from her canvas.
Emilie steps closer. “Well, with me. I just feel like we could use a bit of a de-stresser, you know?”
Larissa raises an eyebrow and tilts her head. “Smooth.”
She already knows she’s going to say yes, that Emilie wouldn’t joke about this.
“Hey, no hard feelings if you don’t want to.”
She measures the pause: enough for a breath, enough for her to seem like she’s considering it.
“Yeah, why not?” she says, and if her voice is a little higher-pitched than normal, Emilie doesn’t notice, grinning wide.
“Awesome. Put your stuff away and -- your place or mine?”
“Mine’s closer,” she says, stepping towards the sink, biting her lip. She concentrates on slowing her movements, because she feels like everything is spinning too fast, her heart beating beating beating. “And you’re in luck, I even made my bed today.”
Emilie steps into her space and stretches her arms around Larissa’s waist, drops her head down to her neck to kiss it. “We’re just going to mess it up again,” she whispers, her voice gravelly. Larissa’s breath hitches, like a silent hiccup.
“Jesus, Em. Impatient?” she forces out as Emilie’s hand sneaks under her shirt to rub along her ribs and stomach. Emilie laughs into her ear.
“I guess. I’ve been feeling really tense, ya know?”
“Mmm. Come on, let’s go.”
She tells herself it’s not a big deal, that she won’t make it a big. People have sex all the time. Good sex, even. Because it was -- good sex. At least, she thinks. But Emilie said so after, said that it was fun with a wide smile before she picked up her clothes off the floor and left only a couple bobbypins and the scent of fucking behind. Like, not a big deal.
She texts the group chat anyway, approximately five minutes after Em leaves.
Guess who just had sex, she writes. Resists adding a couple exclamation marks. Hides it under her pillow after she sends it.
She’s kind of -- well, naked. And sticky. And is debating the merits of a shower when her pillow buzzes.
YOOOOOOOO SWAWESOME, from Shitty.
Then two seconds later, Ransom: Brah! Me too!
It’s a Tuesday night, Justin, Holster writes. You have class tomorrow morning!
So does LD!! Ur just jeal of us. Ransom answers. She hides her face in her pillow even though no one’s around to see her blush.
Congratulations, Jack answers a few minutes later. It almost sounds sarcastic, and maybe it would be from anyone else, but Larissa has noticed Jack doesn’t really do sarcasm all that much. He’s probably being sincere.
She decides against showering for reasons she doesn’t really want to delve into but can probably be summed up to wanting to hold onto whatever feeling this is for as long as she can. Her phone lights up again when she’s trying to find sleep -- she really does have class early in the morning.
What about Larry, Jack writes, for the nickname.
She laughs to herself in the dark. Thanks for trying, she types out, but I don’t think so.
Maybe when you’re middle-aged and balding? from Holster.
I’ll hold onto the idea, she says, then puts it away, smiling. She’s still smiling when she wakes in the morning.
