How to Date a Douchebag:The Studying Hours(2)

By: Sara Ney

Spreads his legs.

She’s cute.

And obviously his type.

I watch the show, riveted as he rises, muscled arm sliding around her slim waist…remove an earbud in time to hear a forced, enthusiastic giggle erupt from her throat…catch the the low timbre of his voice as he leads them deeper into the library, toward the last row of backlogged magazine and newspaper periodicals…suck in another breath when he smacks the girls’ rear end with a sexually charged palm…sigh, disappointed when they turn the corner, disappearing from view.

Well then.

Removing my black-rimmed glasses, I rub the sight from my tired eyes, wondering for a brief moment what it would be like to be that kind of girl—the carefree kind who lets boys lead her into dark rows of books.

For funsies. Because it feels good.

Not the kind of girl who spends all her waking time studying because her grades suck and she can’t afford not to.

I replace my glasses, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling with awareness as I pat a dainty yawn away, shifting my gaze.

Meet cold, intimidating gray eyes.

They crinkle knowingly at the corners as if to say, I see you watching, but sweetheart, don’t hold your breath—he’d never date someone like you.

And he’d be right—the figure that just disappeared into the library stacks? He wouldn’t want to date me. Wouldn’t look at me twice given the chance.

Have sex with me? Maybe.

Date me? No.

But guess what? I wouldn’t want him either. Because I can tell just by looking at him that he’s probably a douchebag, just like his creepy friend.

And I’d want nothing to do with a guy like that.


“Dude. Do me a solid and see if that’s her.”

I ignore his entreaty, determined to start this essay for a class I have first thing tomorrow morning, a class I need for graduation. I thought coming to the quiet library would give me the solace I need to get the assignment done, but apparently I was wrong.

So wrong.

“Are you listening to me? I need you to walk over there and see if that chick staring over here is my tutor. Please, I’m shy.”

I pause. “Zeke, I’m not walking all the way over there just to see if she’s your tutor. Do it yourself.”

My head lowers and I go back to my paper.

“I’m the captain of the wrestling team, asshole.”

My pen stops for the second time. “No, I’m the captain, asshole—or have you already forgotten? Doing your dirty work isn’t part of my job description.”

Whining but undeterred, my friend tries again. “What if I ask you nice?”

“Nope. You’ve already been a dick too many times today.”

This perks him up considerably. “Speaking of dicks, what if I give you a blowjob?” he purrs. “Then would you do it?”

“I’ll do it for a blowjob,” our friend Dylan interrupts from across the table—the table that appeared large enough to accommodate all of us when we sat down but now feels like the size of a maxi pad.

“Shut the fuck up, Landers. No one asked you.” Zeke sneers. “Osborne, go see if that’s my tutor.”

Jesus Christ he’s relentless. “She’s not your tutor.”

He twists his torso to glance at her, dubious. “How do you know?”

We all crane our necks to get a good look at the girl in question, sitting across the dimly lit library commons. My dark eyes settle on the unassuming girl hunched over a stack of books and wielding a pencil, furiously writing away.

Intense and serious, this girl means business.

She’s not here to fuck around.

I’ve noticed her in passing a few times myself, but have never spared her a second thought until now, chalking her up as just another warm body taking up an entire table my friends and I could have used.

Academic. Unadventurous. Probably a fucking prude if the pearl necklace circling her neck is any indication.

She barely batted an eye when I passed her with Cindy—or Mindy or whatever her name is that rhymes with ‘Indy’—and hauled her to the storage room to get my dick wet.

“How do I know she’s not your tutor?” I repeat. “First off, her face is buried in those books—she hasn’t looked around once the entire time we’ve been here.”