by L V Chase
The worst part of all this is that the whole time I was walking home, I wasn’t thinking about Cara or whoever shoved me into that locker.
I was thinking about him. Klay.
I thought about him driving by, seeing me walking alone and, for some inconsistent reason, giving me a drive the rest of the way home. He’d apologize. He’d give me an excuse for why he was such a jerk. It would be heartfelt enough for me to forgive him.
In some of these imaginary conversations, he would tell me that I used to be cruel to him, but he realized I didn’t recall the last two years, so it was unreasonable for him to be cruel back.
In others, he would tell me that his parents were abusive, and he’d been lashing out. But he couldn’t keep doing that to me.
I imagined that after he’d stopped in front of my grandmother’s house, he’d lean over me to open his door. His arm would brush against my breasts. Instead of apologizing, he’d kiss me in a way that was more vicious than anything he could say or do because it would change every part of me, turning me into someone who only ever craved him. I wouldn’t be crazy, and he wouldn’t be cruel.
After going through that fantasy twenty-three times, I thought about how mean he could be, and I wouldn’t mind it if he’d only give me a little more of himself—just talk a little more or touch me. Preferably, touch. He’d be Midas and turn me into gold.
Then, I felt bad for being an insane, desperate masochist, so for the rest of the walk home, I ended up conjugating Spanish verbs in my head I had tried to keep my thoughts of Klay at bay, but they always returned like waves. No matter how fast I had walked, I hadn’t been able to escape them.
I quickly wash and condition my hair. As I scrub my body clean, the thoughts of Klay return. I imagine his eyes watching me wash myself and him reaching forward to touch my waist. His lips would linger near my mouth, my throat, my clavicle, and under my left breast.
I turn off the shower. The soap residue remains, but I’ll do anything to get away from Klay.
Why can’t I shake him from my thoughts? What’s wrong with me?
I wrap a towel around myself. I survived losing both of my parents at once. I survived a mental breakdown and a psychiatric ward. I survived today. I’m not going to surrender that easily—not because of Klay, not because of Cara, not because of every single person in that school.
If whoever shoved me in my locker wants me to leave, he’s going to have to throw me over his shoulder and remove me himself.
Until then, my insanity is going to push me straight through Hell, high water, and Marshall High.
When I walk into biology class, a pungent smell makes me think I’m about to be tortured again. But a frantic look around the room tells me that’s not the case.
All of the tables have a dead frog set-up on the table with two scalpels, two scissors, two forceps, and four pins beside it.
“Hurry up, people,” Mr. Miller calls out. “Get as much done as possible before one of you starts throwing up.”
He’s staring directly at me. I had dragged my feet coming to class, making me one of the last people here, because I knew I’d be sitting next to Klay. He had seemed angry in homeroom but thankfully ignored me. I’d be impossible to ignore as his lab partner, though.
I dart to my chair, the feet loudly scraping against the floor. Half of the class glances my way.
“Hey, Sadie,” someone says.
It’s Cara.
“The frog stole your perfume.” Cara laughs, and the rest of the class follows except for Klay.
Ethan turns towards her. His back is facing me, so I can’t see what he’s doing, but Cara’s face freezes suddenly, her eyes wide in what looks like fright. She turns away and ignores me.
I pretend I don’t notice anything. I bow my head, scrambling to get out my pencil and notebook. Klay leans away from me, but I keep my eyes on the left foot of the frog, so I don’t see any other part of his reaction to me.
“Alright class,” Mr. Miller says, standing in front of the eight tables. “To start the dissection, you’re going to need to pin the frog down. Push the pins through each of the frog’s feet and through the sheet of paper on the dissection pan.”
Before I can reach for the pins, Klay has all of them in his fist. He shoves the pins through each of the frog’s feet. It’s a level of decisiveness and skill that’s both impressive and somewhat scary.
I set my hands in my lap, waiting for the next step. I could reach over the frog and grab some of the surgical tools, but I can easily imagine him stabbing me in the hand if I get to close to him. I might as well be putting my hand in front of a rabid dog.
“After you’ve pinned down the frog,” Mr. Miller says. “Use the forceps—the ones that look like pliers—and pinch the skin in between the back legs of the frog. Pull it up. Make a cut into the skin with the scalpel. Don’t go all of the way down the stomach. You’re going to use the scissors to cut the rest of the way down the stomach, cutting all of the way to the frog’s neck. Don’t nick any of the organs.”
Klay barely waits for Mr. Miller to finish talking. By the time I’ve tried to reach for the scalpel, he already has a scalpel in his hand, and he’s made a small incision. He switches to the scissors and makes a quick snip up the frog’s stomach.
What he’s doing is either art or sociopathy.
In front of us, Roman is gagging while Ethan’s nose is scrunched up as he struggles to make the incision with the scalpel. Ethan turns around to look at our dissected frog. He looks up at me.
“Unfair,” he says to me. “You’re with the surgeon’s son. If this was a dissection of hedge fund contracts, I’d be further along than either of you.”
I glance over at Klay. “I…didn’t even know his father was a surgeon. Or that your father was a hedge-fund man.”
“He’s not. He’s a lawyer. Roman’s father is the hedge-fund manager. Sloppy assumptions lead to sloppy outcomes, Sadie. Careful.”
“Hey now,” Roman says, lowering his shirt collar away from his nose and mouth to take an unsteady breath. “She probably doesn’t even know what a hedge fund is. Regular people don’t need to bother with those things.”
“I know what a hedge fund is,” I say.
“Class!” Mr. Miller says, standing up from where he was helping a set of partners. “Next, you’re going to use the scissors to cut from your original incision across the top of the rear legs and another cut between the front legs. This should make two skin flaps. After you have the two skin flaps, you need to use the forceps to peel the skin away from the muscle. You will need to use your scalpel at certain points to assist in separating the two. When the skin flaps are separate from the rest of the body, pin them down to the paper.”
Klay has already begun the process.
Roman watches him intently before looking up at me. “Girls are so squeamish, aren’t they? Shouldn’t they sit this out?”
I frown. “I’m not squeamish. I signed up for this class.” And I’m more bothered by his pigheaded comments than the frog, to be honest.
He raises his hands to show he’s harmless as Klay pins the skin flaps down. I wish I had pins for Roman’s hands right now.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Roman says. “Sorry, I just thought—”
“He’s lying,” Ethan says. “Roman has never had a single productive thought in his life. Why spend time thinking when you could spend money on cars and girls?”
“But that is a perfect day,” Roman says, grinning. He tilts his head towards me. “I blab a lot, but I swear I’m harmless.”
I glance at Klay. He’s spinning the scalpel between his fingers as he looks over at one of the girls that Mr. Miller is helping. Jealousy thrashes in my chest, desperate to get out and earn Klay’s attention. I don’t know why.
“Sadie,” Roman says.
I turn back to him. His expression isn’t quite jealous, but his tight face and steely eyes remind me of his expression during basketball practice. Focused. Compet
itive.
“You know I’m just joking, right?” Roman says. “No hard feelings?”
“Yeah,” I say, giving him a brief smile. “I know.”
“Good. I mean it’s good to have girls around to clean up afterwards.” He winks. Then, he and Ethan turn around to focus on their frog again.
It’s like no one has ever had the nerve to tell Roman that he’s not funny. Maybe he’s harmless, but he’s been living his life in a bubble. A very rich bubble, from what I can tell.
I turn to Klay.
“You know, I’m perfectly capable of dissecting a frog,” I say.
“Go ahead, Bell Jar,” he says, pushing the tray over to me without looking up. “Get on it. Cut through the muscle next.”
I stare down at the frog. Klay’s dissection is immaculate. A photo could be taken and put in a textbook. Anything I do from here is going to ruin it.
“I’m going to wait for the teacher to tell us what to do,” I say.
I reach across the table to pick up one of the scalpels. He slams his hand down on my wrist, pinning my hand against the table. I squirm, scowling, but he doesn’t let go.
He lowers his head down, so we’re eye to eye. My fingertips are nearly touching the scalpel. I don’t know if I’d be willing to cut him to protect myself. I’d like to think I would, but the thought is sharper than any scalpel.
“Don’t fuck up,” he whispers.
He raises his hand, letting my hand go. I grab the scalpel and quickly pull my hand back to my side of the table. I rub my wrist.
Through the rest of the dissection, I consider Klay like he’s an animal I’m observing.
The aggressive male observes the new female’s hands as she decides where to make the next incision.
The aggressive male exhales loudly as the new female makes an incision through the frog’s muscles and has to repeatedly make the cut as she’s uncertain about the amount of pressure needed to cut the muscle without hitting the organs.
As the other two males are scolded by the eldest male in the room for cutting off the frog’s limbs and talking about cooking them, the aggressive male takes out his phone and ignores the new female.
The new female switches to using the scissors and cuts through the muscles of the rest of the frog. She is, admittedly, slightly disappointed that the aggressive male doesn’t notice her actions.
When the new female has fully opened the frog and exposed the organs of the frog, she pins it open. She turns to the aggressive male, who has put his phone away. He takes the frog from her, makes some deeper cuts and rearranges the pins, transforming it from a mess to a magnum opus.
Mr. Miller walks us through the various organs and how they work together. When class is over, we all seal the frogs in bags before putting them in a plastic container on Mr. Miller’s table. I return to my table after placing Klay’s and my frog in the container.
Ethan turns to me as I sit. “I think some reciprocity is in order.”
“You think I owe you something?” I ask.
“I entertain you, don’t I?” he asks. “I like to think I make up for your rather dry company.” He gives me a knowing look.
He’s not quite right about Klay. I wouldn’t call him boring. More like terrifying, or that button labeled “Do not press” that you know you’re going to end up pressing one day.
Ethan takes my silence as agreement and continues. “I’m not requesting much, only your phone number. I’d prefer it the old-fashioned way as well—on a piece of paper.”
There’s a glimmer of humor in his eyes, but I can’t quite figure it out. It seems harmless enough.
“She should get out her phone,” Klay says, leaning toward the two of us.
His interruption surprises me so much, my heart nearly stops before speeding up.
“So, she has your number, too,” Klay says. “She can write her number down afterward.”
Ethan’s eyes narrow at Klay for a second, but his face relaxes. He shrugs. “Of course.”
I grab my backpack, pulling it onto my lap. I unzip the front pocket. I reach in.
Instead of feeling the hard plastic of my phone, there’s a cold, moist texture. I look down.
The internal organs of a frog are splayed open inside the pocket, the liver and the gallbladder falling between my fingers. I glance over at Klay, but even before I see his head bowed over his phone, I know it’s not him. I just put our frog in the container, and this frog is missing its limbs.
I look up at Ethan. He’s smirking, barely able to contain his laughter. His smirk changes into a full-blown grin.
“Oh, come on, it’s hilarious,” he says. “You can’t honestly believe I wouldn’t use a dead frog for a prank. I did think you’d find it in your next class, which would have made a great story. But Klay had to sabotage me.”
I press my lips together. I should give him the benefit of the doubt. It’s Klay who has been my torturer, and Ethan would know nothing about that. To him, it could come across as a harmless prank.
“You can’t blame the man for having a terrible sense of humor,” Roman says, leaning back in his chair, his gelled hair nearly touching the front of my and Klay’s table. “He was raised by lawyers. He wouldn’t know a joke if it ran him over.”
Funny. That’s what I was thinking the same about him. Two peas in a pod. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were trying to one up each other.
“Sadie,” Ethan says, his eyes scanning my face. His face falls and his hand presses over his chest. “My intention wasn’t to hurt you. I apologize a thousand times.”
I don’t know why, but I turn to Klay again. He glances back at me. He barely raises his shoulder in a shrug. It’s odd for him—the passivity and uncertainty of it. I don’t know why I’m looking to him for an answer when he has no desire to give me anything but frustration and torment. It’s an instinct I don’t quite understand.
“Apology accepted,” I say to Ethan.
He returns to grinning. He claps me on the shoulder before squeezing it tightly.
“I knew you were cool,” he says as the bell rings.
He stands up. He and Roman leave together. I scoop the frog out of my bag with my hand. Klay hesitates before standing up. Mr. Miller, he, and I are the last ones in the class. Klay turns to me.
“I should have dissected you,” he says, his voice soft but sinister. “It’d be a first for me to see a body without a backbone.”
He walks away. I stare down at the dead frog in my hand. Maybe Klay should dissect me. Or, at the very least, take apart and examine my brain because it’s constantly sabotaging what common sense tells me to do. If anyone would be willing to tell me what’s wrong with me, it’s Klay.
And, because of my defective brain, I trust him.
10
Sadie
During lunch, I sit at a table with half of the chairs missing. After taking a bite out of my ham sandwich, I check around me. I pretend to be taking in a general view, but I find myself searching for someone with dark hair, dark eyes, and a dark streak whose only desire is to make me miserable.
Klay, however, either doesn’t stay on campus for lunch, or he’s staying in a classroom during it. Ethan and Roman are also missing. In fact, I don’t recognize most of the people in the lunch room. It seems like most of the seniors don’t eat here.
I eat slowly. When I’m done, I take out my biology textbook. I crack it open to the anatomy pages. I absorb all of the information. When we have class tomorrow, I won’t be the one fumbling around, waiting to be given a task to do. Klay won’t have to treat me like a child.
When the bell rings, I head to my locker. When I open it, the odor of cleaner fluid wafts out. Cleanliness has never felt more divine.
I drop off my lunch bag and head back downstairs to go to my media arts class, room 111. It’s another class that’s on the opposite side of the school from where I am—it’s like my schedule was designed to add cardio to my day—so by the time I walk in, the class is a
lready almost full.
As I pass by everyone to get to my desk, I catch their side-glances, their smirks, and their hands covering their mouths to stifle a laugh. It’s death by a thousand cuts, yet I don’t know why I’ve been chosen to be executed.
I sit down at my desk. The computer screensaver shows the school’s name bouncing across the screen. I keep my head down as I sway the mouse back and forth until the screensaver vanishes, and it’s replaced by the sign-in screen. I type in my username and password.
When the desktop initially appears, the icons take several seconds to pop up. Even if they were there, it would be impossible to ignore the background.
The first part I notice is my face. I have no idea when it was taken, but it must have been recently because my hair appears to be the same as it is now.
The second part I notice is that the body attached to my face isn’t mine. The body is too slim, the breasts are voluptuous to the point of taking over most of the woman’s body, and the ass is too small. I’ve also never had a professional shoot done, much less a professional shoot while I was naked.
To the left of this image, bold font swaggers across a white background.
Are you in need of the Patron Saint of Pleasure?
Hello. My name is Sadie or whatever name you prefer to give me.
I’ll be anything you want me to be because my grandma has medical bills we can’t afford. If you want to assist an elderly, sick woman and assist my desire to be dominated, just give me a time, place, and some cash.
Heat burns through my whole body. The embarrassment triggers a dizzy fever. I stagger to my feet, nearly running out of the room as bursts of laughter go off.
I keep moving with no destination in mind. Part of me wants to run out of the school and never return. Another part of me wants to go straight to the principal. I consider the latter, but the last thing I want to do is draw more attention to that graphic. The second to last thing I want to do is show a male principal a prostitution ad that features my face and another woman’s body.
