Promiscuous (8 page)

Shaking with rage, to my very core, I reach up and push his hand away as hard as I can.

“Go ahead, motherfucker. Prove to the world what a big, strong man you are by raping me right here in the parking lot. Maybe Principal Shoemaker will happen by and film it on his phone.”

I’m not sure why I said that. If I thought my blatant use of the R-word would shock him, or make me sound like a badass with nothing to lose, or make him think twice about what he was threatening, I was dead fucking wrong. He just laughs in my face.

And then he just stands there, sizing me up. For a second, he actually considers it, I can tell by the look on his face. Cruel and hungry. Animalistic. The worst part is the look in his eyes, because that’s the moment I realize how wrong I was. Trent Gibson is much smarter than he looks. He’s also right: I’ve never been more scared in my life.

But then he laughs. Sniffs. Takes a step back.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Ha. Maybe later. If you play your cards right.”

With that, he turns and walks around his truck. Gets in. Starts it. Drives away.

After he’s gone, I retrieve my keys from the dirty pavement and finally manage to unlock my car. I get in and lock all of the doors again, not caring whether or not they’ll be stuck this way now. I’m shaking all over, shuddering. The asshole Jiminy Cricket voice in my head is laughing at me.

You shouldn’t have run your mouth off,
it says.
Now he thinks you want it.

But the voice is wrong. Sure, I might have made things worse for myself. But if Trent is as sick as I think he is, it was only a matter of time before he came after me on his own. Because I’m wrong, somehow—dirty, as Gretchen used to say.

As my false bravado crumbles into nothing, my eyes prickle with hot tears of self-loathing. But I don't cry. For two reasons. One, because on the rare occasions that moisture escapes from my tear ducts, my eyes have a tendency to swell up to roughly the size of Angelina Jolie's lips...and two, because in the shark tank that is my life, tears are the equivalent of blood in the water. Or maybe a flood gate.

Fuck if I know which analogy is appropriate for this situation. I'm too busy trying to make my hands stop shaking to think all that clearly. Finally, I manage to start the car. When I pull out of the parking lot, I can't help wishing I could just turn onto the highway and keep driving. Forever.

But then, maybe that wouldn’t solve anything. Because I’m starting to get it through my thick skull now: no matter how old I get or how far I go, my life is always going to be like this. I will always be a homing beacon for people who want to use me and hurt me.

That doesn’t mean I’m not going to leave, though. As soon as I can. Because now, more than ever, this town is toxic. And one more thing is for sure: pass or fail, I’m never going back to that math class again.

Sorry, Mr. Dodge. I guess college isn’t in the cards for me, after all.

So instead of taking the highway, I drive to the Baskin Robbins on 3rd street. I park behind the depressing gray heap of cinder blocks and go in through the back door. After I clock in and wash my hands, I pull on a faded black hat and wind my long hair into a messy bun through the hole in the back.

The cap sits low over my eyes, hopefully hiding my expression as I tie on my apron, as I wash my hands again just for something to do. Ramona—the thirty-something mother of three who's working the night shift with me—nods in a chilly way. I nod back. I'm almost ten minutes late, but she doesn't bring it up.

Probably because neither of us are paid enough to give a shit. After the pleasantries are over, we both lean up against the counter and turn our eyes to the clock. Mine are stinging with barely controlled rage, like a poisonous reminder of my own impotence. Ramona's eyes are blank, glassy with acceptance. The kind of eyes I'll have if I can't figure out a way to graduate and get the hell out of this town.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, she has her GED.

CHAPTER SIX

“Bingo! I’ve got a bingo!”

“Get bent, Harve!” Nana flails her chicken-like hand in the old coot’s direction. “You’re not even wearing your glasses.”

Margot’s eyes are the size of bingo balls. “Nana, seriously, you’re going to get us kicked out.”

I’m too busy laughing my ass off. “It’s not her fault. She’s been spending too much time with me lately.”

“What’s that? Someone call a bingo?” For the first time in at least an hour, Dottie perks up, her violent old-person tremors making her wheel chair shake and knock against the table. “Dog gone it, I almost had a whole row.”

“Dottie….” Margot clutches her forehead, exasperated. “That was two games ago. We’re going for total blackout now.”

“Oh, good for me.” Running her fingers over her bingo card—which I’ve been punching for her this whole time—Dottie smiles to herself in that vaguely childlike way all senile people do, like she’s got a secret. Or maybe she just peed her pants. “I’ve been total black out since 1989.”

I burst out in hysterical laughter. Now I’m the one in danger of peeing myself. How awesome is that, to be a hundred million years old and blind, and still be able to crack jokes about it? I slam the table with my open palm, squeezing my eyelids together over tears of uncontrollable mirth. I really should take a leaf out of Dottie’s book. The old bat could literally give a shit what anyone else thinks about her.

The middle-aged church lady who’s pulling the balls—which never gets less funny to say out loud, by the way—throws us a dirty glare, and Margot continues to look embarrassed. I can’t stop laughing, though, and eventually Margot and Nana join in. Because what the hell, half of the people in the room can’t hear us anyway. Or if they can, they’re stuck in a reality where pretty much anything goes.

God damn, I wish I could fast-forward time and be old and wrinkly. How awesome would that be? No more worrying about getting ogled by douche bags like Trent Gibson, or getting all hormonal and bothered against my will over hotties like Grant Blue, who wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole.

Heh, ten foot pole. That sounds really dirty too, if you think about it.

Okay, so maybe I am a
little
bit high at the moment. But in my defense, Nana said I could have one of her ‘special glaucoma brownies,’ because it’s my birthday.

And you know what? It’s actually one of the better ones I’ve had. Even if you count the thing with Trent, and the trip to the principal’s office. It still beats the hell out of my seventh birthday, when all the girls in my first grade class—except Margot—decided to boycott my pizza party, without telling me. Or my fourteenth birthday, when my mom actually forgot about me
, Sixteen Candles
style. My dad was out of town, as usual, so she tried to play it off like they were going to surprise me with something awesome when he came home. Only, she forgot to tell him, so he came in one night all like, ‘How was your party?’ Mom was totally busted. I think that was also the first time I remember hearing them fight.

Anyway, like I said before, I never really cared all that much about birthdays to begin with.

“Hey, Margot.
Pssst
.” I reach over and poke her, whispering much too loudly. “Do you think Grant Blue has a ten foot pole?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” She looks at me like I’ve lost it, like I’m just as much of an embarrassment to her as the two old broads sitting next to us. I don’t really mind it though, because—crazy as they are—Margot’s weird little family would do anything for her. And deep down, even though she pretends to be embarrassed about being an underage member of the Golden Girls, I know she loves them. And so do I.

Because at the end of the day, if I didn’t have her totally dysfunctional, yet always welcoming family to run away to…I honestly don’t know how I’d survive.

A few hours later, I come home to a dark, cold house and a note taped to the fridge:

Hope you had a good day at school. I’ve got a thing. Won’t be home until later.

Great, a
thing
. Translation: she’s on yet another date with that loser she works with. Or maybe it’s a new loser this time. Doesn’t matter. Dad’s body isn’t even properly chilled down under yet, and she’s busy boning her way through half the office. Classy.

‘Everyone has their own way of coping with grief,’ she told me once. I guess my mom’s way of coping is to let Comb-over Jerry from work dry-hump the heartbreak away.
What a whore.

The thought stops me cold.
Maybe the apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree, after all.

With that ugly realization rattling around in my skull, I take the last of Nana’s brownies with me to bed.

###

The next day seems to pass by in an anxious flurry. We make it through aerobics unscathed, but probably because it’s Mile Day, and Margot and I usually walk the whole thing and bring up the far, far rear—much to Ms. Tailor’s athletic disappointment.

Same goes for physics, which is super boring, as usual. I spend the period doodling in the margins of my textbook again. Grant Blue does not drop any pens, pencils, or writing implements of any kind. But I’m still jumpy and distracted. I can’t seem to focus on anything for more than a few seconds at a time.

When the bell rings, I follow Margot out into the hallway, chatting about some Netflix show we need to binge out on all weekend. I tell her I have to pee before Pre-Calculus, and she waves goodbye and teeters off to class in her new thrift store boots. I wait until she’s out of sight before ducking into the empty classroom to collect my stuff, then I spend the next hour studying in the handicapped bathroom stall three hallways over.

At this point, you’re probably going ‘Oh sure, Tash. Hide from your problems. That’s really mature.’ Well, here’s the thing: I’m well-aware that Trent Gibson isn’t just going to go away if I stop thinking about him. In fact, I’ve spent the entire morning looking over my shoulder, and it sucks worse than a Steven Seagal movie.

But what the hell else am I supposed to do? It’s not like I can just waltz in there and sit down like nothing happened, then spend the next hour trying to focus on finding x while Trent slowly tattoos a bulls-eye into the skin of my back with his murderous glare. Turning letters of the alphabet into numbers is hard enough as it is, thank you very much.

So I figure I’ll just do a little independent study, try to do my assignments on my own for a few weeks, at least until things cool down a little. Until Trent’s goldfish-like memory limitations undoubtedly kick in and he forgets all about what happened. What he said. The things he’s planning to do to me. Maybe if I’m really lucky, he’ll even forget my name.

No dice, though, because by the time I walk into art class in sixth period, the whole school is talking about how Trent Gibson and I hooked up in the parking lot after school. Or was it during lunch period? Maybe it was both. Nobody really cares about the details. They just like talking about the lengths I’ll [apparently] go to cement my reputation as the Queen Whore of Guthrie High.

In detention, Mr. Dodge asks me how everything is going. I tell him I’m fine. Then I spend the next hour sweating bullets while he grades papers, hoping he won’t notice how futile my expression is as I stare at my unfinished Pre-Calculus homework.

###

My little game of academic hide and seek goes on for about three weeks.

Every day, I sneak into Mr. Bogart’s classroom after fifth period and stick my half-assed homework into the pile, hoping he won’t notice I wasn’t in class. Sometimes, I even take it a step further and mark myself in on the roll, after the fact. I keep missing the weekly quiz, though, and I know eventually that’s going to be a problem. But it’s like my backbone is starting to atrophy. I can’t bring myself to face Trent, and the longer I stay away, the harder it is to even think about going back. Even when I’m in my other classes, the Trent-free classes, I can’t escape him. High school never seemed this small before. It’s shrinking around me, suffocating me.

After a while, even doing the homework starts to seem like too much. It’s like my last run-in with Trent created some kind of mental connection between numbers and the smell of his breath. There’s a brick wall between me and mathematical understanding, and it grows higher and more impenetrable by the day.

But who really cares, in the long run? It’s not like I’ll ever use Pre-Calculus in beauty school. Or at the strip joint where I’ll be working on the weekends, to supplement my barely-there income.

Of course, for that I’ll probably need to learn how to walk in heels. But hey, guess what? I don’t need Pre-Calculus for that, either. Just a basic understanding of balance and gravity.

February passes, and it’s pretty much just more of the same old shit. Waking up, picking up Margot, bitching about how ass cold it is. Going to class. Both of us, doing our best to avoid the pointed stares from Becca and her minions. Trying to pretend like the worsening rumors about my epic sluttiness don’t bother me. Lying to Margot about why I keep randomly ducking into empty classrooms when I think I see Trent in the hallway. Skipping Pre-Calculus. Hiding in the bathroom. Detention. Scanning the parking lot for Trent’s truck, then booking it to my car. Going to work and dreading the day when Trent figures out where I work, or worse, where I live. Avoiding conversations with my mom about her new boyfriend. Hell, trying not to even acknowledge the fact that Mom obviously has a new boyfriend. Where the hell else would she be going all night? Falling asleep while reading about pulsing members and busting corsets. Dreaming about getting away from it all.

Then I wake up, and repeat the whole song and dance again.

Until one Monday, in March.

Sometimes, I think there has to be a universal law or something that says if your life is going to turn upside-down, it should happen on a Monday.

I walk into detention and see not Mr. Dodge sitting behind the desk, but Grant Blue. I freeze in place, narrowing my eyes at him as I try to figure out what’s going on. He stands up and comes over to me.  I do that thing cartoon characters do, where I sneak a look behind me to see if Becca Foster—or someone equally deserving of Grant Blue’s attention—is standing there. Instead, I only see the open doorway and the clock above it. Okay, so I’m a little late. But I’m not that late. Did I miss a memo about some after-school honor student meeting happening in the detention room?