Allie grabbed the piece of paper from Char’s rage-rattled hand and carefully read down the list to see her name. Rated a four. Duke’s comment? Weird nipples and old lady moaning.

I hovered over her shoulder, scanning for my name, praying I wasn’t one of the Dirty Dozen, knowing full well that I was.

“Little Miss Perfect Ten,” Char snorted at me. “Never would have pegged you as wanting it up the ass though, Crow.”

As we started to make our way behind the rink to quell our collective rage and shame with a toke and a swill of cheap booze, Duke came outside. Char marched right for him, swearing and seething. He laughed as she launched into her tell-off. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a twenty dollar bill, and rammed it down the front of her shirt. Her cut for helping him win the bet, he said. He turned to walk away, but paused, turning back to face the three of us.

“Oh, and the numbers?” he smirked. “Not your skills, ladies. That’s the Grudge Fuck Scale. You should be proud, Char. We like your snatch. Allie, you’re in the middle. Bit of a pain in the ass, but not bad. Crow, though? You’re the kinda stuck up little skank we all just wanted to slam the hell out of. Bang that bitchy grin right off your face. But you’re all sluts.”

“Get him!” I hissed in Char’s pointy little attack dog ear. She leapt at him, swinging. He blocked the punch and knocked her to the ground. He spat on her, called her a ditch pig, and started back toward the rink doors. Char scrambled to her feet and darted after him. She jumped on his back and clawed the bejesus out of his face with her long scarlet talons. Just when everyone started flooding out of the rink after the last song, Duke went ghost-white at the sight of his own blood and started puking all over his preppy penny loafers.

As Allie and I dragged Char away from the scene, I yelled loud enough for everyone to hear, “Right on, Duke the Puke!” By Monday, his scratches had scabbed over, but the name Duke the Puke had stuck like shit to a woollen rag. In my fondest revenge fantasies, people still call him that. To his face. When he’s in uniform. That would be a deeply satisfying piece of my legacy, at least.

I hustle up on to the wharf and into my clothes as quick as my soaked, exhausted, uncooperative body will allow, wincing as I pull my pants over the burning streaks of red where the jellyfish stinger got me. Duke stands there in silence. Grinning. Gawking. Finally, he speaks.

“Shirl said she saw you come down here twice today, but you know Shirl. Can’t believe two words that come out of her mouth. Had to see for myself.” He puffs out his chest and lets out a disgusting porn groan-sigh-mmmm sound. “Lookin’ good, girl.”