Promiscuous (7 page)

If you ever meet Grant Blue—or the President—in person, you’ll know what I mean.

The door to Mr. Dodge’s office is open, and I practically leap inside to avoid the gaze I can feel burning through my backpack, even from all the way down the hall.

“Hey Mr. Dodge!” My greeting comes out a little more desperate than I meant it to, so I reel it in. “Are you busy?”

Mr. Dodge is one of those rare specimens of human being who chooses to be a high school teacher, not because there’s less competition in the job market, but because he seems to actually like teenagers. Either that, or he’s a pervert. But then, so far he’s one of the only grown-ass men I’ve ever met who didn’t stare at me like I was forbidden fruit. So I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, at least for now.

Plus, he’s actually kind of hot, in a nerdy, old person way. He looks a little like John Stamos, after raiding the closet of Bill Nye the Science Guy.

“Hey Tash, how is everything going this term?” Mr. Dodge leans back in his chair, propping his bright yellow tennis shoes on the edge of his desk.

Jesus Christ, is he actually wearing jeans with suspenders?

“Oh, you know,” I shrug. Obviously, he hasn’t heard yet. “A little complicated, but nothing I can’t work through like the potential-filled youth of America that I am. By the way, sweet kicks you’re rocking there. Are those new?”

He raises his eyebrows. “My powers of deduction tell me that you need a favor—especially since my girlfriend told me just this morning that these shoes are the ugliest things she’s ever seen, and if I don’t stop wearing them, she refuses to be seen in public with me.”

You have a girlfriend
? I almost sputter in surprise, but then I bite my tongue at the last second. Believable or not, the fact that Mr. Dodge is getting some is a good thing for me. It means he’s probably in a charitable mood, and hopefully less likely to take the ass-kissing I’m about to do as an inappropriate sexual advance.

“Uh, well, you could say that.” I cross my legs and tuck my hair behind my ear. Damn it, it’s getting a little on the stringy side by now, and I still have to work and go to bingo before I can wash it. “See, the thing is, I had a little misunderstanding with Trent Gibson in Pre-Calculus earlier. I dropped my textbook on his face—accidentally, while we were discussing some…equations—and he thought I was trying to brain him. So of course, he narked to Shoemaker, and apparently accidents are grounds for disciplinary action these days.”

“What did Trent
do
to make you want to hit him with the book?”

I swallow. Sheesh, that’s a first. Mr. Dodge must’ve had Trent in one of his classes before, to know firsthand what a douche bag he is. It’s the only explanation to why he isn’t automatically jumping to the conclusion that I started it because I’m a troublemaker.

But just because I feel a slight twinge of gratitude for Dodge giving me the benefit of the doubt, it doesn’t mean he’s earned the truth. Not from these lips.

“Oh,” I make a point of looking up and to the right, so he doesn’t think I’m lying—at least, I think that’s how it works. “He was bragging about getting it on with Principal Shoemaker’s wife. I told him that was disrespectful, not to mention adulterous, and like, really gross. But he just wouldn’t listen.”

He frowns, so I smile and try to look innocent. “Then my Pre-Calculus book slipped out of my hands, and well, the rest is history.”

No dice. He sighs, clearly disappointed. I don’t know why it bothers me—because if there’s one thing I’m used to by now, it’s disappointing the adults in my life—but it does.

“How many days are we talking?”

“Days?” I roll my eyes toward the ceiling, trying to calculate. What’s seven times six to eight, again? I’d consult my Pre-Calculus book, if it didn’t have Trent’s brain matter all over it. “I don’t know, like…forty? Or fifty…
ish
?”

Mr. Dodge shakes his head. “So, weeks, then. Wow, you must have really pi—I mean, upset Principal Shoemaker. I’m surprised he didn’t threaten to expel you, or at least suspend you.”

“Yeah, he might have mentioned that?” My voice seems to keep going up in pitch every time I add a detail of my punishment. Huh. That’s weird. “But I don’t think he can suspend me without a signature from my parents and also the superintendent, or whatever. I’m guessing he doesn’t want to tangle with my mom. Joke’s on him, though, I can legally sign my own documents now.”

“Oh, so you’re eighteen already? I didn’t realize you’d had your birthday.”

Okay
… I’m trying not to be weirded out by how cheerful he sounds about my non-jailbait status, or the fact that he’s been keeping track of my age. But then, it’s not rocket science, is it? Most juniors are either sixteen or seventeen, which I was when I was in his class last year. In fact, my birth date was probably on the roll or something.

“Yeah, actually…” I realize this tiny detail could work in my favor. “It’s today. My birthday, I mean.”

He smiles, but it’s more like a disappointed grimace. “Well, I’d wish you a happy birthday, but obviously it’s taken a turn. How about if I pull some strings and get you into Detention B instead?”

Hallelujah, and thank you, O Sky Dwelling Spaghetti Monster.

I try to act like that wasn’t what I was hoping for, but I’m pretty sure I fail. “That would be great! Thanks, Mr. Dodge, you’re awesome.”

“I try.” He leans forward, fixing me with a spot-on impression of my dad. “But you have to promise me that if I do this for you, you’ll step it up in all of your classes—even Pre-Calculus. I want to see you walking with the rest of your class in June. Deal?”

Warning bells go off in my head, just like they always do when someone tries to pin me down to any kind of promise. I can’t pass up the opportunity to escape Home Ec Hell for the next six weeks though, so I say, “Sure, I’ll try. But hey, if that fails I promise to get my diploma, one way or another.”

“Sorry Tash, but that’s not good enough.” Eyebrows drawn together in utmost adult sincerity, he stands up and extends his hand toward me, over the desk. “I want your word that you’ll graduate, on time, the right way. You might not believe me, but I still think you’ve got a shot at getting into a good college. So, what’s it gonna be?”

I sigh, but then grudgingly reach forward to grab his hand and shake it once, before quickly letting go. I should’ve known that my GED plan wasn’t going to cut it with Mr. Dodge. He’s seems to suffer from this chronic disease I like to call ‘Savior Syndrome.’ I don’t know anyone else his age who has it. Maybe it’s congenital.

“You win, Mr. Dodge.”

Smiling like a goof, he sits back down. “Now, what are you going to do about Trent Gibson?”

What am I going to do about him?
“Well, since he didn’t actually die from my textbook mishap, I figured I’d just follow Mr. Shoemaker’s advice and ignore him for the rest of the year.”

Mr. Dodge frowns. “He said that? Principal Shoemaker? That you should just ignore him?”

“Yeah.” I uncross my legs and scoot forward, to the edge of my seat, hoping to broadcast with body language that our bonding time is over. “So um, should I go hang out in your classroom and do some homework with the other detainees now, or what?”

“Actually,” he stands up again, grabbing a notebook off the desk. “I have a meeting, so my TA is supervising detention at the moment. He won’t miss you, since you’re not on the list yet. Go ahead and go home, and you can start your detention tomorrow. It is your birthday, after all.”

“Seriously?” Fucking A, this guy is awesome. At this point, I’m not even sure I’d be mad if he tried to grope me. I’m just so happy this has worked out. I stand up and make to follow him out, but he stops in the doorway, and I almost give myself whiplash trying not to run into him.

“Sorry,” I say automatically, even though it’s not my fault. Out of habit, I hook my fingers in the straps of my backpack, using my elbows to create a safety zone for my boobs.

Mr. Dodge looks at me like there’s something he wants to say, but he shouldn’t. A sick feeling starts in the pit of my stomach. Okay, so you should know that I was joking about welcoming a teacher-student grope. Because at this moment, I seriously can’t think of anything that would be less cool than Mr. Dodge proving to be just another asshole in a bow tie.

But then, a stray student passes us in the hallway, and the moment is gone.

“Listen,” he says. “If you do decide it’s too much, staying in Mr. Bogart’s class with Trent, just let me know and I’ll see what I can do about getting you moved. Alright?”

My mouth opens, but this final piece of unexpected kindness has rendered me speechless. I nod.

“I will.”

“Okay, see you tomorrow.” He gestures for me to leave his office in front of him, so he can lock the door. “Have a happy birthday, Natasha.”

“Thanks.” I’m so off-kilter that my brain prompts me to say, “You too.”

He laughs, and I decide to pretend it’s a joke, and I laugh too.

Ducking my head, I turn and beat a hasty retreat to the parking lot. The halls are totally empty now, and I’m glad. I don’t know if I can keep my shit together for much longer, not with the emotional rollercoaster I’ve been riding today.

As I navigate the mine field of pockmarked asphalt between me and my car, I dig my crappy, secondhand flip phone out of my back pocket, because I’m too fashion challenged to wear a watch. It’s a little after 4:00 PM, which means I’m going to be late for my shift at 31 Flavors of Minimum Wage. Karen, my boss, is going to give me so much shit for this. Not to mention the triple-shit sundae I’ll get after I tell her I need to switch shifts for the next six to eight weeks, because of my detention.

I’m so focused on crafting my ‘I’m sorry you’re a thirty-something burnout who has to work a bullshit job with a bunch of teenagers and meth addicts’ speech, that I don’t notice that the fugly 4H truck I parked next to this morning is still casting a shadow across my car.

Struggling to fit my key into the rusted lock, I glance up to see if Margot forgot to lock the passenger side door again, so maybe I can go in that way. But instead of clear glass, my eyes meet with an ugly reflection of Trent Gibson’s livid, purple face in my driver’s side window. I gasp and drop my keys, like some lame ass sorority girl in a slasher movie. Then, I’m whirling around to face the beast, totally against my will.

I can feel the contents of my backpack crushing together as Trent shoves me against the side of his truck. Leftover Pop Tart crumbs are undoubtedly ground into a fine paste between books and papers. The chubby green highlighter I thought I’d lost digs painfully into my lower back.

“You stupid bitch.” His breath hasn’t improved since this morning. The sour stench of chaw mingles with his ever-ripening BO, sending my burning lungs into full lockdown mode. I’d literally rather suffocate right now than breathe him in another minute. But his hands are locked around the straps of my backpack, and I’m not strong enough to push him off of me. I’m going to have to try and talk my way out of this, past the bile in my throat, past the seeping chill of fear that’s climbing its way up my spine.

“Hey Trent,” I wheeze. “How’s it going?”

“You could’ve given me a concussion. I’ve got a match tomorrow. If you made me miss it, your ass would’ve been so fucking dead right now.” The veins in his neck bulge blue with rage. I force myself to look him in the eye. Not much better. His eyes are totally bloodshot—they don’t even look human.

Wait. Don’t you have to have a brain before you can have a concussion?

I don’t say that out loud, though. Contrary to what my mom might think, I don’t actually wish I was dead. Although, at the moment, I do kind of wish I could
play
dead. Maybe then he’d lose interest and leave me alone, like the walnut-brained prehistoric reptile he is.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I try really hard to sound like I mean it. “I lost my temper. I shouldn’t have done that. Maybe we should just—”

Before I can say ‘forget about it,’ or ‘move on,’ or anything like it, my head is being slammed against rusted metal . Hard enough to bounce.

“Ah! What the fu—”

Trent’s beefy, dirty hand clamps over my mouth, cutting off what was sure to be a long string of curses, and along with that, the air supply to my brain.

“I don’t know who the hell you think you’re fucking with,” he hisses, directly into my ear. “But if you want to fuck with me, whore, you should know that I fuck back twice as hard. And I don’t give a shit if you’re a girl. In fact, it’ll be more fun this way. Because I won’t just kick your ass. I’ll
own
your ass.”

When he’s done talking, he doesn’t pull back. He just stays there, hand over my mouth, full weight against me. I can feel his dick pressing into my hip through all the layers of our clothing, and the truth is, in that moment I’m too nauseated to feel scared.

Stupid
. The voice in my head that’s something like a conscience—the one I usually ignore—berates me.
He was all talk before this. You took it to a physical place when you hit him. Now it’s open season on your ass. You’re fair game to him now, and probably his friends, too.  I hope you’re happy.

Black spots dance across my vision, and that’s when I realize I haven’t breathed in a while. I squirm away from his touch, trying to turn my head away. He presses harder. I try to bring my knee up and kick him in the balls, but he deflects my pathetic attempt.

“Bitch, please. I’m wrestling state champ. You can’t win against me.”

He lets go and takes a step back, probably to prove how confident he is. How little I scare him. I suck in a breath, preparing to hurl all kinds of dangerous words. Insults, threats, comments on the pathetic size of his undoubtedly diseased meat stick. But before I can, he puts a hand on my chest—just one hand—and shoves me back against the truck.

“You’re not fooling anyone, Tasha,” he says, lips parting in a disgusting smile. “You can act tough all you want, but you know what? I can feel you shaking. You’re scared, but I think you’re excited, too. Deep down, I think you want it.”