I love to pretend that things aren't the way they are.
In most movies that are geared toward my age group, there's an unlikely protagonist with good intentions who's plagued with social incompetence. His eyes would somehow fall upon the most impossible girl, a spiritedly picturesque or elitist type who finds herself surrounded by admirers at all times, and who seems exclusively interested in associating with those who are the antithesis of the sort of person that this weary hero hates himself for being.
Maybe he's also relentlessly abused and finds living to be so insufferable that it prompts you wonder how he’s endured, only to consider quitting just shy of graduation (and a complete change in lifestyle.)
Perhaps his home life is of the oblique variety—dysfunctional enough to ensnare our sad little man here in constant embattlement with simply focusing on his pursuits.
Anyway, the point is that somehow, some way, something happens so that the guy wakes up one day to a completely new life with possibilities, fortuities, and even a means to escape the harsh reality he had be cursed with.
I like to daydream of something like this happening to me and whenever I'm placed in a situation that's outside of my daily routine, I attempt to create it, pretentiously acting surprised whenever something occurs in my favor when in fact I actually expect it.
***
Summer school begins.
I have always been punished for being considered intelligent. Not that I am per se, or that I assume that I am, but rather that it's just assumed that I am, and for no discernible reason. As my life progressed, I developed the habit of not saying anything at all, and I still somehow incited the same predetermination.
An example of this would be my attendance at what was considered the best available school high school—it boasted of being the top in the state, or in the tri-state area, or something of the sort (but I don't know how accurate this is.) In addition to consuming my life with homework and preparation for a college experience akin to a confederate plantation, it was the sort of school that doesn't offer summer school. What would the self-proclaimed "cream of the crop" need with something like summer school—an opportunity stigmatized to be the result of failing a class? But I want to avoid taking Political Science at a school that seems to struggle to make P.E. mentally taxing (they actually had an hour-long written final exam for Physical Education!), so here I am at my local high school attending summer school.
After a week, I’ve already comfortably assimilated. I act as if I expect these people to like me—I'm in my redeeming situation after all—and they seem to be buying it. Even the hyperbolically popular student body president seems to have developed an affinity for me.
During the short break in the middle of the day, I walk by a group of cheerleaders. One of them is black, but there seems to be something distinct and beautiful about her—maybe her eyes. They're slanted, elongating her face and rendering it exotic. She looks different. Sexy. Hot. Her body follows suit, but in the more typically delicious sense.
"Hi."
Of course, I'm cool and confident. I'm the "popular guy" now. I woke up into a different life in which I go to a normal school with regular people who not only tolerate me, but also actually like me.
"Hello," she giggles. I'm even getting attention from a hot cheerleader!
Sure, it isn't completely out of the norm for a girl to give me attention, but it never fails to disorient me to the effect that every situation I end up in involving women is awkward and confusing. But this time it was supposed to happen. This was planned in that delusional way a young mind can imagine they planned something they only very passionately wanted to happen.
I nonchalantly digress, attempting to appear interested without being affected by my interest as if I were simply "too cool" to react to any normal sentiments. I really have nothing to say.
***
It's her again. She's selling snacks this time, raising money for the cheer leading squad. I approach with a smile belying any conscientiousness. It's all I know how to be—friendly. I don't have a concept of social abstractions such as “smooth, suave, and cool.” I'm just... friendly.
"For the cheerleading squad?" I, out of habit, bore into her eyes. Out of habit and, well, they're gorgeous.
"Yeah. Want something?" She looks at me expectantly, as if the script’s instructions include me taking out a twenty and devising some incredibly clever way of asking her on a date under the pretense of purchasing Skittles.
"Well, uh, sure. Give me something ummm... chocolate." I look at her and smirk. Although it's barely detectable, I notice her eyebrows rise.
"Of course," she cheerfully responds. I hand her a dollar. She reciprocates with two Kit-Katsmarked at seventy-five cents. I never will get over how much I adore Kit-Kats from here on.
"How generous. What's your name?"
"Vanessa."
"Vanessa..."
"Yeah. What's your name?" She's beaming. My ears must be turning red.
"Dezi."
"Okay, Dezi. I hope I see you around," a phrase I will use on every intriguing girl I meet throughout college. I guess I figure it must work just as well on everyone else as it's working on me.
From here on, we’re marginally acquainted. Whenever she sees me, she shoots sunrays from her uniquely beautiful face and either waves or says hi. It's enough to get me through summer school feeling as if my daydreams are actually my reality.
***
We've gone to the Nellis Air Force Base Talent Show every year, and it never gets any more interesting. For me, it’s three straight hours of envy and self-loathing for not being able to figure out a way to get onstage myself.
Typical of every other year, I’m met with the same militaristic faces and the same military brats –and, of course, the same rebellious, anti-political, brooding teenagers as well. Entering the theater is no different until I realize that someone’s trying to get my attention. Whoever it is, it looks like a girl, so I'm definitely going over there.
I squint in the dim light. She looks... pretty. Her face is long and exotic, and there's something about her eyes...
...Next to Vanessa, I’m trying to hide how ecstatic I am. Not only is she here, and not only do I get another opportunity to speak with her, but she got my attention so that I'd come sit by her. To what do I attribute this unlikely blessing? I mean—she's so pretty!
We converse the entire time, paying little attention to the show. At its conclusion, I use the next line I'm to use for the rest of my life as a bachelor: "Maybe we should keep in touch..."
She zealously produces a pen and writes her number on my hand.
***
"So what is it about those eyes?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean... I mean, they're gorgeous."
She's silent for a minute. Then, "Well, I'm half Asian."
"Really?! What... what... flavor?"
"Flavor?"
I giggle. "Yeah. Flavor."
"Uh... Filipino."
"oooOOOooo, really? Wow. It looks good on ya." The Asians of my life.
***
"I can definitely see myself having sex with you."
How did this conversation become so overtly sexual? I always try to push my boundaries, but damn…"That right?" I have nothing else.
"Mmm, yeah."
"Yeah? You saying that's what's going to happen when I see you?"
"I dunno. You'll know if I want to have sex while I'm with you."
"Oh? And how's that?"
"I lick my lips and look you in the eyes."
"ooOOOoo, word?" Silly.
***
"(laughing) My God, you're crazy."
"Yeah, I know, but I'm tired of medication."
She laughs harder. Between squeals, she insists, "You'd be too much fun to hang out with."
"Yeah? Well... I'm free on Friday. Whatcha doin'?"
"Oh, great. We'll meet on Friday."
"Really?! -- UH, I, me, well, uh, when, how?"
"I'll meet you at Target." Just outside of my housing complex.
"What time?"
"Four alright?"
"Great."
***
It's hot as fuck and the shade isn’t making this wait for Vanessa to never show up any easier. I just know she's not going to show up. Why would she? What could she possibly see in a guy like me?! I mean, she's hot!
She shows up on a bike and fastens it to the provided rack.
"Hi."
"Uh, h-hi."
"How are you?" she giggles.
"I'm good, good! How are you?"
"Good."
"Alright. Uh... want to... get some coffee?" I realize that we’ve never even discussed what we were doing… And I'm short of cash.
"Sure!"
We walk to Starbucks in the shopping center across the street. Our conversation is just as good as it was on the phone; jovial and the chemistry is impeccable. She smiles and looks me in the eyes with fervor—something I'll come to look for in a woman's behavior. The sun begins to set and I glance outside, and then she does.
"So, whatcha think?"
"About what?"
"Did you want to go home? You glanced outside."
"You did first."
"But... well, alright. But I don't want to go home at all."
"Neither do I."
Then reality sets in. I don't live the sort of life that allows for happiness like this. I have to be home "before the lights come on." Ugh.
"Ugh... I have to go home."
"Why?"
"Ahhh... my parents... they..." I sigh.
"I'll walk you."
We walk side by side as if we're already going out. I remember that my parents aren’t home.
"Well... uh, I forgot that my parents have choir rehearsal tonight, so I guess I can still do whatever as long as no one in my house tells that I was out late..." I look at her and realize how little all that nonsense is starting to matter to me...
..."On second thought, why don't you come inside? There's nothing else to do anyway."
"Okay!" She looks relieved.
***
"Ugh. My back hurts."
"Really? Well, uh... I'm pretty good at back massages. Lay down." Thank God for those times my mother forced me to knead into her back for hours. If only I knew then.
She takes off her shirt, turns away from me, lay down, and unclasps her bra for easier access. There’s a beautiful female body on my bed, topless. Whoa.
I bury my fingertips into the silken skin and firm, feminine muscles of her back. My hands explore her lateral regions and trail across the intertwining bands of fiber strapped across her back vertically, horizontally, and most often, diagonally. With concentric circles, contradictory circles, and pulsating kneads, I stroke alongside her spine, hand-mixing my passionate new experience with her growing lust.
She turns over, looks deeply into my eyes, and licks her lips. My eyebrows touch my hairline.
"Oh really?"
She says nothing in response, only proceeds to teach me how to kiss.
First by tracing my lips with the pointed tip of her tongue, then penetrating my mouth, blending our saliva and arousal, she expands my horizons and pant seams. She caresses either side of my tongue and then closes her lips around it within my mouth in a way that I can't envisage but could do, as I imitate everything she does. She sucks on my neck and I bite hers, she intoxicated with hormones, me ravenously concupiscent. She pulls away.
"You have the Ludacris CD?" Back then, there was only one.
"Uh--yeah, I do."
"Where is it?"
"Second slot on my stereo." She hit's play. I sit on my bed, sweaty. She establishes a presence that demands a spotlight in the center of my room. The bass is heavy and the verse is explicit; my breath is heavy and her display is explicit. She loses her bra again and this time, she gyrates and her pants fall as well.
"Fat Rabbit" transitions onto the stereo.
She rests her wrist on my shoulder, leaving the other arm slack. The lap dance is incredible and my eyes are the only source of light in the room. The song echoes her crotch and I realize for the first time that this greatly appeals to me. I lick my lips and find myself holding onto her hips, my eyes narrowed and focused. She reacts by provocatively running her hands over her body; her chest blossoming erect nipples, her abdomen seductively flat and sweaty, her pussy...
...her fingers find her hot, wet, swollen holiest of holy beneath her obviously saturated black thong.
I feel my heart beating in twelve different places in my body; I'm moments from an aneurysm. I, in the throes of passion, throw her onto the bed, peel the black from her epicenter and, for the first time, take a lick. Her taste is organic and pungent; it's how I would expect the inside of someone's body to taste spiced with lust and sweat.
Curious.
It was short lived and yet she's still writhing, bunching up my covers. I say something in Spanish and my boxers disappear, the corners of my mouth hanging from my ears like a conjugal earring. This time I penetrate her and prove she's either inexperienced or in very good shape. My thrusts are deep, short, slow, fast. They pummel her from the back, front, top, bottom, and side; with her legs on my shoulders, outstretched, spread, together, and wrapped around me; with her face and hands pressed into my bed. Her moans are muffled and drowned out by my progressively breaking bed. Finally, my seed is released in torrents, my bedspread never to be the same.
***
"Who was it?"
"What? You think you know her?"
"What difference does it make?! You just got LAID, son!" Chance’s excitement is hardly contained.
"Uh... her name was Vanessa. She goes to your school."
"WHAT?! How did you meet her??"
“I met her during summer school. "
Chance stares at me. Then, "...what?"
“You know, summer school? I took summer school last summer to get Pol-sci out of the way.”
"Oh shit, dude... well, maybe not. Let's ask Anne-Marie, she’d know."
"Know what?!"
***
"OH MY GOD, YOU'RE FUCKING KIDDING ME!!!!" Anne-Marie is frantic and excited, like any woman hearing the gossip-of-the-year would be. Suddenly, I don't trust her at all.
"Remember, you swore on your life before God that you'd keep this to yourself." Chance digs into her with the cold that his frost-colored eyes delivered.
"I know, Chance." She’s had a crush on Chance for years, says the magenta from her face down through her neck.
"What's this about?!" I'm becoming annoyed at their ambiguity.
"Dude... that's Jim's girl," Chance responded.
"Who?"
"Did you ever meet this guy who... well, he looks a lot like you? With a fro."
"Oh, the student body president? I boned the student body president's girlfriend?!" I’m awesome.
"Fiance." I’m very awesome.
"Jim's the leader of the Dynasty Kings." Anne-Marie chimes in.
"Huh? WHAT?! That... gang?!" I’m going to die.
***
"So, have you heard anything?" This paranoia needs to stop. I’ve been hiding as much as I can; every day, I’ve been walking fifteen minutes out of the way from my bus stop after school, I never go out, and I interrogate Chance about any recent developments that may have transpired to add to my little hell. Unfortunately, I don’t have a choice considering that Anne-Marie, one of Jim’s mistresses (Isn’t this guy in high school?), blurted it out in a fit of anger when Jim slapped her. Quote: “That's why Desmond fucked Van—uh, oops.”
"Naw, dog, nothing. Everyone pretends that it never happened." Still, Chance seems un-eased.
"That's a relief."
"Yeah."
"Whoo."
"Yeah."
I get suspicious. "You sure?"
"Yeah, sure. It's cool."
"You sure?!"
"Yeah! ...well, I heard... I heard that she hasn't gotten her period."
"You... wait, WHAT?!"
"Yeah."
"OHMYGAWD." My life is over.
***
After three excrutiating months of delirious hysteria, I found out that Vanessa had missed her period because of stress and involvement in athletics. In addition, I received favorable results from a blood test (somehow, using a condom had completely slipped my mind in light of a beautiful woman splayed on my bed.) Fortunately also, Jim never found me after having sworn to kill me with a shotgun he kept in his car. Nonetheless, it took months before I could bring myself to experience again the best thing I had ever experienced in my life for the first time that night.
~ P.
***
Summer school begins.
I have always been punished for being considered intelligent. Not that I am per se, or that I assume that I am, but rather that it's just assumed that I am, and for no discernible reason. As my life progressed, I developed the habit of not saying anything at all, and I still somehow incited the same predetermination.
An example of this would be my attendance at what was considered the best available school high school—it boasted of being the top in the state, or in the tri-state area, or something of the sort (but I don't know how accurate this is.) In addition to consuming my life with homework and preparation for a college experience akin to a confederate plantation, it was the sort of school that doesn't offer summer school. What would the self-proclaimed "cream of the crop" need with something like summer school—an opportunity stigmatized to be the result of failing a class? But I want to avoid taking Political Science at a school that seems to struggle to make P.E. mentally taxing (they actually had an hour-long written final exam for Physical Education!), so here I am at my local high school attending summer school.
After a week, I’ve already comfortably assimilated. I act as if I expect these people to like me—I'm in my redeeming situation after all—and they seem to be buying it. Even the hyperbolically popular student body president seems to have developed an affinity for me.
During the short break in the middle of the day, I walk by a group of cheerleaders. One of them is black, but there seems to be something distinct and beautiful about her—maybe her eyes. They're slanted, elongating her face and rendering it exotic. She looks different. Sexy. Hot. Her body follows suit, but in the more typically delicious sense.
"Hi."
Of course, I'm cool and confident. I'm the "popular guy" now. I woke up into a different life in which I go to a normal school with regular people who not only tolerate me, but also actually like me.
"Hello," she giggles. I'm even getting attention from a hot cheerleader!
Sure, it isn't completely out of the norm for a girl to give me attention, but it never fails to disorient me to the effect that every situation I end up in involving women is awkward and confusing. But this time it was supposed to happen. This was planned in that delusional way a young mind can imagine they planned something they only very passionately wanted to happen.
I nonchalantly digress, attempting to appear interested without being affected by my interest as if I were simply "too cool" to react to any normal sentiments. I really have nothing to say.
***
It's her again. She's selling snacks this time, raising money for the cheer leading squad. I approach with a smile belying any conscientiousness. It's all I know how to be—friendly. I don't have a concept of social abstractions such as “smooth, suave, and cool.” I'm just... friendly.
"For the cheerleading squad?" I, out of habit, bore into her eyes. Out of habit and, well, they're gorgeous.
"Yeah. Want something?" She looks at me expectantly, as if the script’s instructions include me taking out a twenty and devising some incredibly clever way of asking her on a date under the pretense of purchasing Skittles.
"Well, uh, sure. Give me something ummm... chocolate." I look at her and smirk. Although it's barely detectable, I notice her eyebrows rise.
"Of course," she cheerfully responds. I hand her a dollar. She reciprocates with two Kit-Katsmarked at seventy-five cents. I never will get over how much I adore Kit-Kats from here on.
"How generous. What's your name?"
"Vanessa."
"Vanessa..."
"Yeah. What's your name?" She's beaming. My ears must be turning red.
"Dezi."
"Okay, Dezi. I hope I see you around," a phrase I will use on every intriguing girl I meet throughout college. I guess I figure it must work just as well on everyone else as it's working on me.
From here on, we’re marginally acquainted. Whenever she sees me, she shoots sunrays from her uniquely beautiful face and either waves or says hi. It's enough to get me through summer school feeling as if my daydreams are actually my reality.
***
We've gone to the Nellis Air Force Base Talent Show every year, and it never gets any more interesting. For me, it’s three straight hours of envy and self-loathing for not being able to figure out a way to get onstage myself.
Typical of every other year, I’m met with the same militaristic faces and the same military brats –and, of course, the same rebellious, anti-political, brooding teenagers as well. Entering the theater is no different until I realize that someone’s trying to get my attention. Whoever it is, it looks like a girl, so I'm definitely going over there.
I squint in the dim light. She looks... pretty. Her face is long and exotic, and there's something about her eyes...
...Next to Vanessa, I’m trying to hide how ecstatic I am. Not only is she here, and not only do I get another opportunity to speak with her, but she got my attention so that I'd come sit by her. To what do I attribute this unlikely blessing? I mean—she's so pretty!
We converse the entire time, paying little attention to the show. At its conclusion, I use the next line I'm to use for the rest of my life as a bachelor: "Maybe we should keep in touch..."
She zealously produces a pen and writes her number on my hand.
***
"So what is it about those eyes?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean... I mean, they're gorgeous."
She's silent for a minute. Then, "Well, I'm half Asian."
"Really?! What... what... flavor?"
"Flavor?"
I giggle. "Yeah. Flavor."
"Uh... Filipino."
"oooOOOooo, really? Wow. It looks good on ya." The Asians of my life.
***
"I can definitely see myself having sex with you."
How did this conversation become so overtly sexual? I always try to push my boundaries, but damn…"That right?" I have nothing else.
"Mmm, yeah."
"Yeah? You saying that's what's going to happen when I see you?"
"I dunno. You'll know if I want to have sex while I'm with you."
"Oh? And how's that?"
"I lick my lips and look you in the eyes."
"ooOOOoo, word?" Silly.
***
"(laughing) My God, you're crazy."
"Yeah, I know, but I'm tired of medication."
She laughs harder. Between squeals, she insists, "You'd be too much fun to hang out with."
"Yeah? Well... I'm free on Friday. Whatcha doin'?"
"Oh, great. We'll meet on Friday."
"Really?! -- UH, I, me, well, uh, when, how?"
"I'll meet you at Target." Just outside of my housing complex.
"What time?"
"Four alright?"
"Great."
***
It's hot as fuck and the shade isn’t making this wait for Vanessa to never show up any easier. I just know she's not going to show up. Why would she? What could she possibly see in a guy like me?! I mean, she's hot!
She shows up on a bike and fastens it to the provided rack.
"Hi."
"Uh, h-hi."
"How are you?" she giggles.
"I'm good, good! How are you?"
"Good."
"Alright. Uh... want to... get some coffee?" I realize that we’ve never even discussed what we were doing… And I'm short of cash.
"Sure!"
We walk to Starbucks in the shopping center across the street. Our conversation is just as good as it was on the phone; jovial and the chemistry is impeccable. She smiles and looks me in the eyes with fervor—something I'll come to look for in a woman's behavior. The sun begins to set and I glance outside, and then she does.
"So, whatcha think?"
"About what?"
"Did you want to go home? You glanced outside."
"You did first."
"But... well, alright. But I don't want to go home at all."
"Neither do I."
Then reality sets in. I don't live the sort of life that allows for happiness like this. I have to be home "before the lights come on." Ugh.
"Ugh... I have to go home."
"Why?"
"Ahhh... my parents... they..." I sigh.
"I'll walk you."
We walk side by side as if we're already going out. I remember that my parents aren’t home.
"Well... uh, I forgot that my parents have choir rehearsal tonight, so I guess I can still do whatever as long as no one in my house tells that I was out late..." I look at her and realize how little all that nonsense is starting to matter to me...
..."On second thought, why don't you come inside? There's nothing else to do anyway."
"Okay!" She looks relieved.
***
"Ugh. My back hurts."
"Really? Well, uh... I'm pretty good at back massages. Lay down." Thank God for those times my mother forced me to knead into her back for hours. If only I knew then.
She takes off her shirt, turns away from me, lay down, and unclasps her bra for easier access. There’s a beautiful female body on my bed, topless. Whoa.
I bury my fingertips into the silken skin and firm, feminine muscles of her back. My hands explore her lateral regions and trail across the intertwining bands of fiber strapped across her back vertically, horizontally, and most often, diagonally. With concentric circles, contradictory circles, and pulsating kneads, I stroke alongside her spine, hand-mixing my passionate new experience with her growing lust.
She turns over, looks deeply into my eyes, and licks her lips. My eyebrows touch my hairline.
"Oh really?"
She says nothing in response, only proceeds to teach me how to kiss.
First by tracing my lips with the pointed tip of her tongue, then penetrating my mouth, blending our saliva and arousal, she expands my horizons and pant seams. She caresses either side of my tongue and then closes her lips around it within my mouth in a way that I can't envisage but could do, as I imitate everything she does. She sucks on my neck and I bite hers, she intoxicated with hormones, me ravenously concupiscent. She pulls away.
"You have the Ludacris CD?" Back then, there was only one.
"Uh--yeah, I do."
"Where is it?"
"Second slot on my stereo." She hit's play. I sit on my bed, sweaty. She establishes a presence that demands a spotlight in the center of my room. The bass is heavy and the verse is explicit; my breath is heavy and her display is explicit. She loses her bra again and this time, she gyrates and her pants fall as well.
"Fat Rabbit" transitions onto the stereo.
She rests her wrist on my shoulder, leaving the other arm slack. The lap dance is incredible and my eyes are the only source of light in the room. The song echoes her crotch and I realize for the first time that this greatly appeals to me. I lick my lips and find myself holding onto her hips, my eyes narrowed and focused. She reacts by provocatively running her hands over her body; her chest blossoming erect nipples, her abdomen seductively flat and sweaty, her pussy...
...her fingers find her hot, wet, swollen holiest of holy beneath her obviously saturated black thong.
I feel my heart beating in twelve different places in my body; I'm moments from an aneurysm. I, in the throes of passion, throw her onto the bed, peel the black from her epicenter and, for the first time, take a lick. Her taste is organic and pungent; it's how I would expect the inside of someone's body to taste spiced with lust and sweat.
Curious.
It was short lived and yet she's still writhing, bunching up my covers. I say something in Spanish and my boxers disappear, the corners of my mouth hanging from my ears like a conjugal earring. This time I penetrate her and prove she's either inexperienced or in very good shape. My thrusts are deep, short, slow, fast. They pummel her from the back, front, top, bottom, and side; with her legs on my shoulders, outstretched, spread, together, and wrapped around me; with her face and hands pressed into my bed. Her moans are muffled and drowned out by my progressively breaking bed. Finally, my seed is released in torrents, my bedspread never to be the same.
***
"Who was it?"
"What? You think you know her?"
"What difference does it make?! You just got LAID, son!" Chance’s excitement is hardly contained.
"Uh... her name was Vanessa. She goes to your school."
"WHAT?! How did you meet her??"
“I met her during summer school. "
Chance stares at me. Then, "...what?"
“You know, summer school? I took summer school last summer to get Pol-sci out of the way.”
"Oh shit, dude... well, maybe not. Let's ask Anne-Marie, she’d know."
"Know what?!"
***
"OH MY GOD, YOU'RE FUCKING KIDDING ME!!!!" Anne-Marie is frantic and excited, like any woman hearing the gossip-of-the-year would be. Suddenly, I don't trust her at all.
"Remember, you swore on your life before God that you'd keep this to yourself." Chance digs into her with the cold that his frost-colored eyes delivered.
"I know, Chance." She’s had a crush on Chance for years, says the magenta from her face down through her neck.
"What's this about?!" I'm becoming annoyed at their ambiguity.
"Dude... that's Jim's girl," Chance responded.
"Who?"
"Did you ever meet this guy who... well, he looks a lot like you? With a fro."
"Oh, the student body president? I boned the student body president's girlfriend?!" I’m awesome.
"Fiance." I’m very awesome.
"Jim's the leader of the Dynasty Kings." Anne-Marie chimes in.
"Huh? WHAT?! That... gang?!" I’m going to die.
***
"So, have you heard anything?" This paranoia needs to stop. I’ve been hiding as much as I can; every day, I’ve been walking fifteen minutes out of the way from my bus stop after school, I never go out, and I interrogate Chance about any recent developments that may have transpired to add to my little hell. Unfortunately, I don’t have a choice considering that Anne-Marie, one of Jim’s mistresses (Isn’t this guy in high school?), blurted it out in a fit of anger when Jim slapped her. Quote: “That's why Desmond fucked Van—uh, oops.”
"Naw, dog, nothing. Everyone pretends that it never happened." Still, Chance seems un-eased.
"That's a relief."
"Yeah."
"Whoo."
"Yeah."
I get suspicious. "You sure?"
"Yeah, sure. It's cool."
"You sure?!"
"Yeah! ...well, I heard... I heard that she hasn't gotten her period."
"You... wait, WHAT?!"
"Yeah."
"OHMYGAWD." My life is over.
***
After three excrutiating months of delirious hysteria, I found out that Vanessa had missed her period because of stress and involvement in athletics. In addition, I received favorable results from a blood test (somehow, using a condom had completely slipped my mind in light of a beautiful woman splayed on my bed.) Fortunately also, Jim never found me after having sworn to kill me with a shotgun he kept in his car. Nonetheless, it took months before I could bring myself to experience again the best thing I had ever experienced in my life for the first time that night.
~ P.
