Tampa (7 page)

“Hey, hey, Celeste!”

I jumped in my seat; Janet’s pork-chop fist was suddenly
raining
down on my window in a repeated knock. Had she heard any of what I’d just said? I quickly turned on the car and rolled down the window. She leaned her head inside until her long tapestry of neck was guillotined below from the windowpane. Taking a few congested mouth breaths, her eyes began to rove in an exploratory survey of my car’s interior. “This thing is in mint condition,” she warbled. When placed into direct sunlight, I’d noticed, Janet’s major systems began to shut down almost immediately. Her mouth now involuntarily hung a bit open. From her vitals it seemed like she’d just been shot in the back.

“So I don’t know, my van won’t start. I guess I should’ve seen this coming. They say bad things happen in threes.”

Rather than ask about the universe’s other two injustices against her (her looks and personality?), I decided to cut to the chase. “What do you need, Janet?”

“Triple A will spend upward of an hour just trying to pull their heads out of their asses. Can you give me a ride? I’ll call from home and have it towed. From my air-conditioned living room. I can’t even think about it until I get into the air-conditioning.” Our faces were so close they were almost touching, yet she managed to look past me instead of making eye contact. Did she have
cataracts
? I was in awe of her as a creature in sum; every one of her parts had its own individual defect, yet here she was, a basically functioning unit.

“Sure, just get in.” I reached over and gingerly unzipped my gym bag, trying to worm out the towel without the dildo springing out too. “Let me put this down so the seat doesn’t burn you.”

I felt the car ominously lower as she transferred her weight
inside
. Her abdominal bumpers extended out against the gearshift. When we began to drive, each time I went into third, my hand
disappeared
into the borders of her stomach. “Excuse me,” I mumbled. Janet shrugged.

“I can’t even feel that side of my body,” she said.

Although Ford’s affinity
for gender roles meant he hated women smoking (“Nothing’s more masculine than puffing smoke. That’s the business of men and tailpipes”), after sex he’d consent to just about anything, and if Ford had touched me for any length of time I usually needed a good half a pack to calm down.

He gave me a cheerful spank, followed by a satisfied wink. When I noticed the ring he’d left on, I crammed a second cigarette in my mouth and began smoking two at once. There had been a time in college when I’d told myself, as a cardinal rule, that I’d never have sex with any guy who was wearing a man ring. Ford had plenty—high school, college, fraternity, police academy, gemstone. It was a purely adult form of male sleaze and I abhorred it. “Babe, I know I give you shit sometimes for not giving it up more,” he
announced
. “But when you do, goddamn.”

“See,” I said, my face expressionless. I felt like I’d sufficiently beaten him up and gotten beaten. I’d managed to choke out, just for a few hours, the angry desire inside. “When I say ‘no’ I’m just
protecting
you. You need time in between to recover.” I blew a long puff up at the light on the bedroom ceiling, remembering the weightless shine of Trevor’s lips. I’d have to start being crueler, less
encouraging
to Trevor. I couldn’t let him tempt me that way again. Today in
the parking lot, I’d gotten the feeling that he was pursuing me. And if he could pursue, he could tattle. He could barter and leverage and blackmail. Some student chasing me down wasn’t what I was after. What I needed, what I desperately hoped to find in Jack, was a
student
whom I could wear down. One who, even if he initially felt like running, would gradually slow his pace and let me catch him.

By the time fall open house arrived at the end of September
, I felt like I had a legitimate virus. Every erogenous spot on my body was inflamed and aching. Between classes I often went to the
faculty
bathroom and stood, one knee resting on the toilet seat, to dully finger the already sore heat between my legs.
Romeo and Juliet
provided
an outlet to talk about sex in the classroom, and I often sat behind my desk and pressed the swollen nest of my genitals against the chair with a friction that nearly made me moan. Most of the kids, drunk on the freedom of speaking about the subject aloud with openness, were eager to discuss. Marissa, for example, was
certainly
a vocal ringleader. Her teeth stained in ombré shades of red from a fruit punch drink, whenever she thought of something to say she’d boost herself up in her chair, sitting on one leg, her arm
waving
with the desperation of a plane crash survivor hailing a rescue chopper.

“I think, like, if they’d never … you know ….
done it
…” She paused, smiling with glee as the class erupted into giggles. Marissa was an instigator, pushy. If Jack ever became her target, I
recognized
her as the type who might relentlessly pursue.

“Had sex, you mean,” I added. More giggles.

“Right. I think if they’d never had sex, they wouldn’t have killed themselves and stuff. I saw this video about how sex can, like,
release
stuff from your brain and make you crazy.”

“Interesting.” I surveyed the room; most students were now taking the conversation to its less-appropriate further conclusion in whispers to friends. “What do people think? Does sex make you crazy?”

A variety of jocks eager to imply they had firsthand experience spoke up. “No doubt,” Danny’s low voice boomed from the back of the classroom. His meaty face had drawn upward into a not-
so-
subtle
grin.

“I dunno,” another football player said. I confess I didn’t trouble myself with learning their names or distinguishing one from
another
. Physically, they were far too developed to be appealing—their growth spurts were finished, their muscles already wrought into the structured mold of the finished male form. “I think
not
having sex is what makes you crazy.” Shrieks of faux disbelief sounded through the classroom; when the bell rang moments later, it seemed like an alarm set off by the high-pitched screams.

Jack’s face was flushed when he walked by me toward the door, his eyes trained shyly down at his shoes. I stood and said his name very softly—so quietly that he easily could’ve failed to hear me, or could have pretended not to hear. But he turned. I beckoned him over as the class emptied, staring warmly into his eyes but not
speaking
until the door shut for the final time and we were alone.

I continued to speak in hushed tones, enunciating, exaggerating each movement of my lips as I spoke. “You’re very quiet in class, Jack Patrick.” I gave him a wide smile to show it wasn’t a criticism.

He scratched the back of his neck and grinned while his face blushed to a deeper red. Perhaps he continued looking at the ground because the heat in his cheeks embarrassed him. Reaching out, I placed my pointer finger upon the tiny cleft at the bottom of his
chin and raised his head upright until he was looking directly at me. In heels I was taller than him; the top of his blondish hair was level with my mouth. “There,” I whispered, barely speaking,
trying
to simply exhale the words. “That’s better, isn’t it. So tell me, Jack, since you don’t speak up in class and leave me guessing at the thoughts inside that head of yours. What do you think makes
someone
crazier—having sex? Or not having it?”

His eyes widened; it seemed to take a moment for his brain to confirm I’d really asked him that question. He laughed and lowered his head a little, shaking it nervously.

“Ah-ah,” I cooed, this time using all my fingers to cup his chin in my hand and guide it back upward. His fuzzy cheeks had a downy softness. If I squeezed, I would be able to lift apart his top and bottom jaw, open his mouth and lower mine down to meet his. “Here,” I offered, “I’ll hold your head up so you don’t have to worry about eye contact.” Staring at him, Jack returning the stare as the pulse of his throat began to strike against my finger, I felt as though someone were licking my inner thigh.

“I … um,” he started. When he swallowed, his throat strained against the gentle pressure of my fingertips.

“I know you have an opinion,” I teased, my words silken. “
Everybody
does.”

He cleared his throat and sent vibrations up my wrist. “I just wouldn’t know about the having-sex part,” he said. Then, with an afterthought that nearly made me move my hands to his neck and force him against the wall, he added a foreshadowing phrase. “I mean,” he added quietly, now speaking even more quietly than me, “not yet.”

I let out a long breath; it was involuntary. Nearly a whimper.
Worried he’d seen too much in my reaction, my hand slipped from his jaw and I took a step back. “Of course.” I nodded. There was a long beat of silence. “But the not having sex, just between you and me—I’m curious. Does it make you crazy? I forget what it’s like to be your age. You’re fourteen, right?”

“Yeah.” On his brow I noticed the beginning of the slightest glimmer of sweat.

“Juliet was going on fourteen. You can tell me, I won’t judge you. Does it make you crazy?”

Perhaps fearing my guiding hand again, he did his best to
continue
looking me in the eye; ultimately, though, he couldn’t do it. His glance wandered to the left. “I guess it feels that way
sometimes
,” he said. “When I let my mind run with it and stuff.”

My composure regained, I stepped forward, closer now than even before, touching my face against the side of his head as my lips found his ear. “And when you do let your mind run, Jack Patrick,” I whispered, asking him in secret so that not even the walls of the room could overhear his answer, “when your mind is running as fast as it can … do you ever feel like if you don’t get relief you could physically die?”

Placing my hands on his shoulders, I lowered my head and moved my ear against the warmth of his mouth, awaiting a
response
. For several moments I could hear nothing but labored breathing that sounded like an answer in itself.

“I don’t know,” he said, his breath hot upon my hair. When he stopped talking, I pulled more tightly on his shoulders, drawing his mouth so that it actually pressed against my ear. “It can feel
intense
,” he admitted.

Just as my right hand began to move from his shoulder down his
left arm, the tardy bell for lunch rang; in the silence of the classroom after our whispered voices, it sounded so loud as to seem internal. We jumped in unison. It felt as though the noise had just caught us there, standing too close. He looked up at me, worried—late to lunch meant a write-up, three write-ups meant in-school
suspension
. I gave his shoulder a final squeeze, then quickly moved toward my desk as though nothing had happened.

“Don’t worry,” I said, my voice back at normal volume, “I’ll write you a pass. I appreciate you staying and sharing your point of view with me.” He was silent as I wrote, but I could feel him
looking
at my body in a revised manner, his assumed boundaries having just been proven wrong. “Do you already have any write-ups?”

He shook his head. When I handed him the pass I felt an
enjoyable
sense of commerce, like I was giving him a check for his
services
. “Good boy.” I smiled.

But the moment he left the room my smile faded. I reached up my shirt and pinched my nipples as hard as I could, my fingernails digging in until my eyes began to water.

It was impossibly
difficult, but for the next two days I managed to ignore Jack completely. I wanted him to miss the attention, crave my furtive glances even though he always looked away in seeming shame, as though he’d walked in on a scene inside a room he had no business entering. Instead I lavished praise upon his blockhead
counterparts
(
Yes, Heath, that’s very perceptive—we could in fact blame Romeo and Juliet’s parents!
) and encouraged the foulmouthed girls of the class in their lewd comments, hoping he’d feel ignored when my glance avoided his direction. If it was safe to cross lines with Jack, I
figured open house was where I’d find out. An appearance by his mother or father (or worse, both) voicing some concerns about my keeping their son after class would mean I’d somehow have to write our planned future together out of my loins for good. I was afraid that if things fell apart with Jack I’d have to grab Trevor and pound him in the PE storage shed, then flee town immediately—surely, Trevor wouldn’t be able to keep the secret longer than an hour. There’d be no other choice than to take a bus across the state line and try to assume a new identity.

At home, Ford was noticeably reeling from our decrease in face time since school had begun. Due to a leap of fortune I never would’ve had the optimism to imagine, the second week in
September
he got reassigned to an afternoon shift with alternating
weekends
; it started around three
P.M.
and got him home near midnight, by which time I made every effort to already be, or appear, asleep. He often tried to wake me upon entering bed, and in the morning while I got ready for work Ford never failed to ask me a barrage of interrogatory questions, barking them out while he lay unmoving with his torso covered up like an invalid. Nearly every other day he threatened to ask for a reassignment back to his old shift, but I’d do my best to strike this thought from his mind.

“Now, honey,” I’d say, pausing from brushing my hair to walk toward him in the too-white early brightness of the bedroom. My hair was something he’d fixate on—I always joked he must’ve been one of those boys who would cut ponytails off of girls in
elementary
school. I’d take special care to be interested, bending down and sitting next to the blanketed worm of his shape, my hair falling next to his face like a scented curtain. “If you do that you’ll knock yourself out of line for that promotion you’re trying so hard for.”
Ford wanted to advance but it didn’t seem to be in the cards;
written
tests in particular drew a poor showing from him. Still, I tried to keep the flame of hope going strong inside of him. The last thing I needed was for him to decide his job was a dead end and begin playing detective in our personal life. “It’s just temporary,” I’d coo, leaning down as close to him as I could manage—that horrible adult male sourness exuded from him most in the mornings—and kiss his temple. When he did intercept and make me kiss him on the lips, I had to be sure to get him squarely there and not a
millimeter
to the left or right. The feeling of my lips touching stubble brought an instant and dropping hotness to my bowels, a sensation I can only liken to a forced enema.

“You’re right, peaches,” he’d finally say. Then I’d smile and pat his form beneath the blanket, get up from the bed and start back toward the bathroom. He’d grab my hair when I did this, but he wouldn’t hold on—he just liked to feel it slip through his fingers as I walked away.

The night of
open house we had to report for duty at six; rather than leave and return I stayed in the classroom and used a set of needle-nose tweezers to carve a message into the desk Jack Patrick sat at:
YOU WANT ME
, placed in small, squarish letters at the very top, a border that would hover above his textbook when he read and his notebook when he wrote. Around five I went to the
teachers
’ lounge to eat a quick bite; several of my colleagues were also there milling around, including Janet. The moment I arrived they wasted no time explaining to me how the evening’s events would be an Armageddon of parent ass-kissing. The feelings that would
surface as I agreed to be complicit in such debasing events year after year, they warned, might eventually trigger a midlife crisis.

Daniel Tambor, a soft-spoken math teacher whose model of prescription glasses had not been manufactured for the past two
decades
, put down his Ziploc bag of Nilla Wafers and turned to me. “Well you’ve heard about Gary Felding, right?”

I shook my head.

“Oh. Well, that kind of shows you. We like to remember Gary each year today.”

“Complete crash and burn,” boomed Larry Keller, a speech teacher who wore splashy bow ties and liked to shake his right index finger with abandon. “The man taught biology for twenty-six
consecutive
years here, and the night of his twenty-seventh open house, he snapped.” Larry sat down on the corner of a table, his back straight with perfect posture and his eyes fixed ahead, as though he were being interviewed for a documentary film on the subject. “Went batty. Some parent was complaining that her son found the lectures in his class to be unintelligible. Gary just began screaming. Asked the mother if she was aware that her son had drawn an
illustration
of a hairy boner on his mitosis-video response worksheet.

“But Gary didn’t stop there. He lit up a Bunsen burner and began stripping. Set his tie and shirt on fire, then his pants. Parents ran from the room screaming. By the time the cops came, Gary had turned out the lights in his classroom and put on an old-school filmstrip about the atom bomb. He was sitting in one of the student desks, crying and watching mushroom clouds fill the screen.”

Mr. Tambor reentered the conversation, his eyes wide and his quiet voice imbued with the vibrato of the haunted. “The saddest memory I have is of Gary being taken away in handcuffs. Though
they did let him put on one of those black chemical aprons the kids have to wear during experiments before they led him out. I guess he felt a little exposed when he realized his clothes were burned up.”