Promiscuous (6 page)

“It’s not like I’d need your permission,” he says. “Just some duct tape and lube. Maybe a condom, since there’s no telling where else you’ve been.”

The marrow in my bones turns to ice, even as a volcano erupts inside my brain. I shouldn’t be shocked. With my reputation being what it is, rape jokes are almost par for the course. But for some reason, I snap.

“Did you hear about this?” Picking up my Pre-Calculus textbook, I stand up and spin around, swinging the heavy book directly at Trent’s face. At the last second, he turns his head away, but he’s too late to stop it.

CRUNCH.

The second I hear the sound of reinforced cardboard and several hundred pages of glossy paper connecting with Trent's inhumanly thick skull, I know I've made a mistake. A huge mistake. Mass times force equals acceleration and it doesn’t matter if I’m in the wrong class for that kind of equation—I’ve just accelerated myself into a very bad situation.

Or, in the words of Method Man, ‘Somebody Done Fucked Up.”

###

Not surprisingly, I spend my lunch period in Principal Shoemaker’s office.

Just to give you the full ambiance of the situation, in case you haven’t met him, Principal Shoemaker is a short, balding and overweight man with countless horizontal rows above his eyebrows—which in my opinion must signify either extreme surprise at all times or an overwhelming distaste for the lifestyle of an educator. If my life ever gets made into a movie, Shoemaker will have to be played by Danny DeVito. Unfortunately for Shoemaker though, and for me, he lacks DeVito's sense of humor and overall charm.

“So, Miss Bohner….” Shoemaker shuffles through a stack of papers on his desk, avoiding my direct and unashamed gaze with his beady, ever-shifting eyes.

“We meet again,” I say, in my most ominous voice.

He sighs. “I see you’ve finally graduated from verbal infractions to full-fledged assault.”

“Oh I don’t think you’re giving me enough credit, Mr. S.,” I tell him. “Remember the Great Prophylactic Heist of 2011?”

That was the time when someone ‘anonymously reported’ that I had contraband in my locker, and when Mr. Shoemaker had the teachers do a ‘random’ search, they found like 50 condoms in there that had been pilfered from Sex Ed and stuffed through the grates. Two guesses who was behind that one.

Unfortunately, this time I can’t really blame Becca Foster for putting me in this pickle. Well, not unless you consider the fact that my temper was already raging from when she pissed me off in aerobics—actually, scratch that, I can totally blame Becca for all of my current problems.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

I shrug. This is my first serious infraction, and as far as I know, Trent’s head didn’t take any permanent damage. How bad can he really punish me?

“Maybe he called me carrots.”

Principal Shoemaker’s eyebrows skyrocket to even greater heights. “Excuse me?”

I pretend to be shocked that he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. “You know
, carrots
. Like in
Anne of Green Gables
, when Anne Shirley breaks her slate over the head of Gilbert Blythe, the class bully. At the time, Anne didn't realize it, but Gil only teased her so much because he had a crush on her. And she liked him, too, but she was far too stubborn to admit it.”

Shoemaker clasps his hands together on the desk. I can almost hear his knuckles cracking. “And your point is?”

Again I shrug. “It's always been one of my favorite books. Maybe I was just trying to inject a little bit of fantasy into an otherwise drab and math-filled class.”

His sideways egg-shaped face does not look impressed. “You assaulted a fellow student. On school property. During class. In front of witnesses. You tell me, Miss Bohner. How am I
not
supposed to expel you?”

Expel? I swallow.
Well, shit. There goes my dream of making night manager at the Los Angeles Baskin Robbins.

But on the outside, I rally. Because, like my peers, Principal Shoemaker is not someone I want to let see me flinch.

“Well shi-shoot, Mr. Shoemaker. I don’t know what to tell you. Is there some kind of disciplinary layaway plan? You could always postpone my expulsion until graduation. Then I swear you’ll never see me again.”

For a few long seconds, he just stares at me. While I do appreciate the marked lack of ogling, I can’t help but feel extremely unsettled by the level of disgust I see in his gaze.

“You really don’t care about your future at all, do you?”

I feel a familiar heat rising to my face. Why do I even bother coming to this stupid school, or trying to fit into this stupid, narrow-minded society? It’s obvious they’ve all got me pegged. The irony is that Principal Shoemaker’s office is plastered with these motivational posters, like ‘Achieve Your Dreams’ and ‘Motivation.’ But how can I achieve anything in this place? How can I find the motivation to do anything but survive here? What’s the payoff, ending up like Becca? No thanks. I’d rather be in prison.

“So, what you’re saying is, I should just knock over a liquor store and get it over with?”

Principal Shoemaker runs a hand over his face. “As much as I’d like to, I’m not going to expel you. Not today.”

“Really? Cool. You’re a class act, Mr. S.” Well that was easy. I uncross my legs and start to get up.

“Not so fast, I want to make sure we understand each other.”

“Okay.” So I sit there, perched on the edge of the orange plastic chair like some kind of delinquent owl.

“I'm placing you on academic probation. That means you keep your head down for the rest of the year. Also, you’ll have to serve some detention. That’s a given. One more disciplinary issue, or a single F on your report card, and you won't graduate. Ever. In fact, I might just go ahead and expel you then—further disciplinary issues or no—to save myself from seeing you again during summer school.”

Neither of us want that, that’s for damn sure
. I can feel the retort rising in my throat, but I push it back and replace it with a question.

“And um…what about the thing…with the book? And Trent?”

He frowns. "I’ve spoken to his father, and Trent doesn’t want to pursue assault charges. I hope I don’t have to tell you how lucky that is for you, in today’s world of sue-happy parents. If you want my opinion, I'd stay out of his way and try to ignore him. Young men are simple creatures, Natasha. They don't hold onto things like this for long, at least not in the way you young ladies do.”

Well, I couldn't argue with him there. At least not about the young ladies part.

Secretly though, I can't fight the feeling that math class is going to be a lot more complicated than keeping my head down. If it's between failing the class and having another 'issue,' as Shoemaker calls it, I might just have to start skipping class altogether and take my chances by calling Shoemaker's bluff. I could probably scrape by with a D+, I think. Unless Mr. Bogart’s Pre-Calculus final really is as soul-crushing as people say. But hey, maybe I can find a smart kid who’s willing to sell me the answers, or something. Though, with my luck, it’d be a dude and he’d want to be paid in blow jobs.
Hardy har har.

(
See?
The slutty delinquent can laugh at herself, even in the face of certain academic disaster. Isn’t she plucky?)

After Shoemaker finally releases me back into the wild, I grab my stuff and creep out into the hallway. Lunch period is almost over, so there’s not too many students milling around. And no one has probably heard about the book thing yet, so I’m guessing I have at least a couple of minutes to sulk in my car and think about my life choices before heading back in for my walk of post-disciplinary shame.

Okay, maybe shame isn’t the right word for what I’m feeling. Dejection? Fed-uppedness?

When I get to the parking lot, Margot is waiting for me, perched Indian style on the hood of my car like a sad cross between Molly Ringwald and a bony little stray cat.

“S’up?”

Eyes huge and reproachful, she silently hands me an unopened pouch of Pop Tarts. Hot Fudge Sunday flavor. I forgot she likes to keep a box in her locker for emergencies.

“Thanks.” I take them, and haul my ass up on the hood next to her. Unlike Margot, my ass makes a dent. “So, did you hear?”

“No details, but Lindsay Tran is telling people you tried to knife somebody.”

“Sweet, that’s way more badass sounding than bludgeoning someone with a math textbook.” I open the Pop Tarts, and crack one in half. I offer one half to Margot. “I don’t know what to tell you, Sally. Sometimes, a person just snaps.”

Margot fluffs her hair with one hand, looking off across the parking lot like she doesn’t want me to see how worried she is. “Are you in a lot of trouble? What did Shoemaker say?”

Oh, right. That reminds me. “He called me a delinquent.”

I drop the half-eaten square of fudgy cardboard onto the hood and grab my left foot, trying to pull off my left shoe without toppling off of the car. It takes some fancy wobbling.

“Do you have a pen?”

I hold my right hand out, not really looking to see if she’s fetching one for me. My attention is on the mess of scrawled writing that covers the smudged white rubber and fading red canvas.

Slut…whore…bitch…reprobate—I’m pretty sure that last one was Margot, and a joke, but I liked it so much I kept it. Cunt…village bicycle…fugly skank…stubborn little brat—that’s one of Mom’s favorites. But nope, I don’t have delinquent.
Surprisingly.

“Tash, this is serious.”

I don't bother responding. I'm too busy trying to find a clear spot. I just leave my hand out until Margot grudgingly hands me a pen. When she does, I carefully scrawl the word DELINQUENT across the back of the rubber, just above the stripe.

“Tash. What else did Shoemaker say?”

“Um, well, I’m definitely going to have some detention.” My words come out distant, distracted. I'm going over the letters again and again, making them darker. Bolder. Harsher.

It was actually kind of Margot's idea, to keep track of all the names. Initially, she said we should write them down and burn them. But I don't want to burn them, or forget them. I want to remember them all. I want to walk all over them, just like the people who said those words walk all over me.

“It's really not that big of a deal,” I tell her. “Three weeks of detention or so.” I laugh, to cover the lie. “The best part is, Shoemaker thinks it's a punishment. An hour after class every day, to do my homework or whatever, without the sound of my mom's voice?” Branding finished, I slip on my shoe and force a smile. “Sounds like paradise to me.”

Margot makes a face. Not quite a smile, but a less worried frown. “Let's just hope you end up with Mr. Dodge, and not Ms. Greenwich.”

“Exactly.” I nod emphatically. Detention is usually supervised by the Home Economics hag, Ms. Greenwich, and despite her Mrs. Clause-like appearance and propensity for baking, she's a real Nazi. But sometimes, when the number of delinquents at Guthrie actually outnumbers the school board required warden-to-detainee ratio, the creation of an ‘overflow’ detention is required. This second, much more fun detention is supervised by Mr. Dodge, who in my opinion is one of the few ‘cool’ teachers left in the known universe. I had him last year for computer sciences, and he was the tits.

As I jump down off my car, I’m feeling a lot better about the whole situation. Especially when I start to think about how my new reputation as a violent badass might actually improve our chances of not being fucked with for the rest of the term.

“You know,” I tell Margot, as we head inside—me to art class, and her to drama class—“this might actually turn out to be a good thing.”

CHAPTER FIVE

When the bell rings after eighth period, I make a beeline for Mr. Dodge’s office on the other side of campus. I figure my best chance is to appeal to his coolness, and maybe see if he can put in a good word before Mr. Shoemaker assigns me to Ms. Greenwich the Home Ec Harpy for detention. But if that fails, which it probably will—because let’s be honest, most adults could give less than a fuck about delinquents like me—I’ve already started working on a backup plan. I spent most of my free period in the library, researching the GED. It doesn’t sound so hard. And hey, as long as I keep my career expectations low for the foreseeable future, there shouldn’t be any big shocks on the horizon.

As I round the last corner at a seriously uncool-looking speed-walk, something looms in front of me. I’ve never been all that coordinated to begin with, but even if I was, I don’t think I could’ve stopped in time. My face rams into Grant Blue’s chest, while my hands—which were hastily thrown up to protect such a thing from happening—flail uselessly against his sides.

“Omph,” I say, by way of apology. I take a step back, face already flaming, preparing myself for some well-deserved ridicule. But he only smiles that thousand watt, teen vampire movie, too beautiful to not be secretly undead and/or evil smile.

“You’re in a hurry.”

“Yeah. Sorry for….” I trail off, because I can’t think of anything less embarrassing than ‘Sorry for head-butting you in your godlike pectorals just now.’ I clear my throat.

Then we do that thing where you try to side-step past someone, only they take a step in the same direction, so you step the other way, and they do, too—until both of you realize you’re now doing a super awkward version of the electric slide, and finally one of you just shoulders past the other person. You know,
that
thing. Anyway, I’m the one who ends up doing the slow-motion hockey check and getting the hell out of there, leaving Grant Blue alone in the hallway to wonder—as most of my fellow students already do—what my goddamn problem is.

By the way, if you’re wondering why I always revert to the formality of first and last names when thinking about Grant Blue, it’s because he seems to deserve a classification apart from everyday human beings—like Queen Victoria or President Obama. I imagine it’d feel really weird to roll up to the White House and just throw your feet up on the couch and be like, ‘Sup, Barack?’