Chaste

by Angela Felsted

  She stands at the front of the class. “Molly McCormick, you’re sitting with Brandon White.”

  Brandon, who plays double bass in the orchestra, smiles at me as if to say he’s sorry. I stand up. He moves to sit next to Molly. At least I know Brandon won’t hit on her.

  Mrs. Williams keeps calling out names, looking twice as gleeful whenever anyone groans.

  “Quinn Walker,” she says, pointing to the table behind Molly. I pick up my bag and carry it to my new spot. “You’re with Katarina Jackson.”

  My jaw drops. No way! The girl touched my butt. It was degrading. She has no respect for anyone but herself. And to make matters worse, Molly will kill me!

  I glance at Molly.

  She’s already glaring daggers in my direction. Guess I can’t count on any support from her. The room sways a little. What I’d give for a couple hours of sleep. I rub my eyes. Man, I should’ve called in sick today.

  “I go by Kat,” my new lab partner says to Mrs. Williams.

  “I’ll call you what I choose, Katarina. And don’t wear a belly ring to my class again. This school may not have uniforms, but you still need to dress in something appropriate. Do none of you have any self-respect?”

  Kat narrows her eyes at our psycho teacher, pushes her skin tight jeans down another half inch on her hips and then slams her bag down on the top of the table.

  “Can you say trashy?” Molly says to Brandon so loud that Kat and I can hear.

  “Shut up,” Kat snaps. “You prissy little b—.”

  “There will be no cussing in my class!” Mrs. Williams interrupts. “You will act like decent human beings while you’re here. I can’t do anything about your sorry upbringings, but at the very least you will respect my rules.”

  Mrs. Williams continues reassigning seats while I keep my eyes glued to the corner of the desk. After what happened this morning, Kat is the last person in the world I want to sit with. I don’t care if she has confidence and Preston thinks she’s got it going on. No amount of hotness can make up for treating people like crap.

  “I hate that woman,” Kat mutters under her breath. She has a deep voice, kind of like Diane Sawyer’s. One that would likely sound amazing on the radio. Then I remember who her father is and think, well, duh.

  Nothing grates on my patience more than dealing with ignorant people like Kat. Her words in the hallway replay in my mind: fake religion, fake people. That girl wouldn’t know real if it bit her in the butt.

  All my life I’ve been told to be nicer. All my life I’ve been told people will watch me, take note of my mistakes and use them to judge my religion. I try and try to live up to their expectations, but in the end, I always manage to mess something up. Because when push comes to shove, I’m all too human.

  Why are people like Kat allowed to make mistakes when people like me tarnish our beliefs with every misstep we make? Her words about me sting because nothing I do is ever enough to appease the critics. People like Kat will stereotype, people like her father will condemn and people like me will always feel like we’re living under a magnifying glass.

  Does Mrs. Williams really think it’s a good idea to pair a Mormon boy who’s sick and tired of being judged with the daughter of the most judgmental pastor in the area?

  Our teacher finishes the seat assignments. “The moment I laid eyes on this group, I knew you’d be trouble,” she says. “When I was your age, no one talked back to their teachers. We believed in discipline. Spare the rod, spoil the child—”

  “And you ended up with a bunch of messed up adults who drink, or work, or hoard junk to deal with their issues,” Kat blurts, right after she slaps her hand on the table.

  I look at her for the first time since she sat down. Her eyes are smoldering with anger.

  “Ms. Jackson, you will hold your tongue!” Mrs. Williams tells her.

  The girl needs to chill. If she wants to make our wacko teacher single us out in a bad way, she’s off to a great start. Last I heard, Mrs. Williams isn’t the most unbiased grader. I’m sure she won’t hesitate to grade us harder if she thinks it’ll teach Kat a lesson.

  I nudge my partner in the elbow to make her stop, but she just glares at me.

  “Class,” Ms. Williams says. “Turn to your lab partners.”

  Wonderful, just wonderful, the wacko teacher is trying to torture me.

  “I don’t care if you two get along.” She lets out an exaggerated sigh. “But do know that I plan on grading you in pairs, which means that where one partner is lacking, the other must pick up the slack. I need you to take some time to get to know your partner. Then share what you learned with the class. You have five minutes.”

  I turn to Kat and look her straight in the face. She blinks and a corner of her mouth lifts. Uh oh. I’ve seen that look before. It’s the same one she wore before touching my chest in the hallway.

  “Interests?” I squeak, glancing at the second hand of the clock as it clicks away in the too quiet room. She just sits there like the bump on my nose, refusing to utter a syllable. “Kat, there are two minutes left. Help me out here, will you?”

  I cup my hand around her ear and whisper that I like music and slasher movies before I pull back and mouth the words, “Your turn.”

  Mrs. Williams calls on Molly, who goes on and on about Brandon “the amazing bass player,” gushing about how he wants to play in a jazz band someday.

  Then it’s Brandon’s turn, but I don’t hear anything he says about Molly because Kat finally leans over and whispers in my ear.

  My mouth gapes open in shock.

  Oh no, she didn’t!

  6

  Katarina

  So maybe it wasn’t Christian of me to whisper, “If you meet me behind the bleachers after school, I’ll make you into a real man.” But the boy is so obviously repressed, I couldn’t resist. There’s nothing more fun than watching Mr. Nice turn red. And man is he turning red.

  “Mr. Walker?”

  I suppress a chuckle when I see that Quinn has hidden his shaking hands under the table. He takes a breath and pastes on a smile. It almost looks real, but I know better. The boy knows how to kiss up, I’ll give him that much.

  He swallows.

  “Go ahead, introduce Ms. Jackson.”

  I brush my hand across his knee, watching him go stiff as his addled brain tries to come up with something to say. This should be good, watching kiss-up boy stumble over his words in the middle of class.

  “This is Katarina Jackson, Pastor Jackson’s daughter,” he says in a voice that’s deceptively calm. I hate that he has to bring up my father, but I glue on a fake smile as he keeps going. “She helps her dad write radio addresses about the evils of body art. Then, after her parents are asleep, she goes to tattoo parlors to get her naughty places pierced. I happen to know she has a secret tattoo.”

  Everyone in the room takes a collective breath. Mrs. Williams stops shuffling the papers on her desk. Even I’m riveted as I focus on his lying mouth.

  “It’s written across her left thigh, and it says: Quinn Walker is a god.”

  I wince. Um, no, I don’t think so. Then glance back at my friend John, who managed to keep his seat in the back of the room. He’s sitting next to Tasha, Mike’s other ex-girlfriend, and they’re both laughing. Not funny. That was so not funny.

  Quinn puffs out his chest, smiling like he’s beaten me at my own game. Yeah, right. Watch and learn.

  I throw my shoulders back and tilt up my nose.

  “This is Quinn Walker. He’s Mormon,” I say, speaking into the heavy silence. “He likes working with fake, passionless things. And when he grows up, he’ll make wax sculptures of pretty celebrities, dress them in veils and make them his wives.”

  So maybe I took a few liberties. It’s no worse than what he said about me. And it’s not entirely false either. The boy looks like a Ken doll and acts like he’s made of plastic.

  Tasha breaks out into menacing laughter. Quinn balls his hands into fists under the
table. I’ve hurt his pride.

  Good.

  Quinn Walker has way too much. And I’m just getting started.

  “His daily routine consists of holding a cello between his knees and pretending it’s a woman before practicing his kissing skills on random pieces of fruit.”

  Quinn’s face pales as everyone in our physics class has a good laugh.

  “Are oranges good kissers?” Tasha yells.

  “I have a pineapple at home you can practice on,” someone calls.

  I puff out my chest, feeling prouder than ever. Then I notice John frowning, as if he thinks I’ve crossed some invisible line. Whatever, guys are tough. And let’s be honest, he was totally asking for it.

  Quinn looks at me. Then he looks at Molly. She opens her mouth like she wants to bite my head off. Mrs. Williams slaps her clipboard on her desk, and the class falls silent.

  “Quinn and Katarina,” she says in a low voice filled with tension. “You will co-author a paper on the meaning of the word childish. Twenty pages with a minimum of ten references, due the beginning of next week.”

  I can’t believe it, twenty pages! That’s like … four times longer than the five-page paper my English teacher assigned this morning. “But—”

  “No buts,” Mrs. Williams says. “Any more outbursts from either of you, and I’ll kick you both out of class.”

  I roll my eyes. The boy behind us begins introducing his lab partner, a perky blond who used to be in my film class.

  “I have one mom and one dad,” Quinn hisses in my ear. Surprise, surprise, the boy’s so angry, he stopped kissing-up for a whole thirty seconds.

  “That so?” I rub my foot against his ankle. He visibly squirms in his thrift store jeans, and I realize this might actually be fun. Nice boys are so easily rattled. “But you’ll take at least three wives, won’t you?” I flash him a mocking smile.

  “Polygamy was done away with in 1890!”

  The class falls silent as our crazy teacher marches over to our table and points to the door. “Get out,” she whispers in a menacing tone. “Both of you.”

  I pick up my bag and trail my new physics partner out the door. I, for one, am relieved to get out from under that horrible woman’s nose, to get away from the creepy skull on her desk and the way her eyebrows furrow in disgust every time she says my name.

  “Thanks a lot, Quinn.”

  “Get away from me,” he snaps, turning to walk down the hall. I follow on his heels. That boy needs to learn to stay out of my territory. School’s hard enough without people like Quinn sticking their noses in other people’s business. And just to be clear, I’m still pissed about that stupid impromptu meeting with Mrs. Burns.

  “Bring a snack with you after school,” I say, wondering how much farther I can push him. I don’t usually try so hard to annoy preppy nerds, but this one has an ego. His good act isn’t born of desperation. He actually wants to appear holier-than-thou. “You’ll have quite an appetite by the time I’m finished with you.”

  “Kat,” he says, turning around so fast I have to take a step back. His angry blue eyes sear into mine. “I don’t go out with bad girls who treat me like crap.”

  “Who said anything about going out?” I taunt, taking a step forward to squeeze his bicep. “I just want to have a little fun.”

  “At my expense,” he says through clenched teeth. “No. Thank. You. I’d rather not mess around with a girl that’s slept with half the basketball team.”

  “That’s not true!” Angling up my chin, I dare him to look me in the eye. Then I puff out my chest so he’s forced to acknowledge my assets.

  He shakes his head. “You’re sexually harassing me.”

  I start laughing because … are you kidding me? It’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. Guys want sex. It’s all they ever think about. Just figures this one’s too much of a girl to admit it.

  “Come on, Quinn. I saw how you reacted when I touched you this morning. Don’t go crying wolf because I hurt your precious ego.”

  “You think you’re so smart.”

  “You’re the one who started this.” I take a step forward and invade his space. “Be honest. You want sex like every other guy. You’re just too brainwashed to admit it.”

  This morning he had on this super strong cologne that made me want to puke. But now that it’s worn off, I catch a whiff of baby powder. I love baby powder, and for a moment I freeze, unable to do anything but breathe it in.

  The bell rings and I see Mike stomping down the hall with a look of pure murder on his face. “You touch my girlfriend again and I’ll kill you, Walker.” He wipes his dark hair out of his eyes. They flash with heat. Anger courses through me.

  How dare he call me his girlfriend! How dare he treat me like some kind of helpless damsel in distress! I step in front of him and point my finger into his chest. “Not only am I not your girlfriend, but I can take care of myself!”

  Reed and Steve, two of Mike’s good friends, take hold of Quinn’s arms to keep him from bolting. This is why I never should have slept with Mike. Before we did it, he took me seriously. My opinion mattered. I could do no wrong. Now, of course, it’s like he thinks he owns me, which is just plain stupid since we aren’t even together.

  Mike snakes his arms around my waist and kisses me. Not a nice respectful peck, but a possessive kiss with lots of tongue. He sucks my lower lip between his teeth. Damn! I can almost hear myself moaning. My body turns traitor; it purrs like a warmed up engine. The nerve!

  I knee him in the groin.

  He bends over and grabs his crotch.

  “I’m not your play-thing,” I say.

  Reed and Steve let go of Quinn and rush to Mike. My new physics partner takes a few steps forward, touches me on the shoulder and asks if I’m okay. His pity is the last thing I want.

  “Get out of here,” I snap.

  He stands there a few seconds, like he can’t decide whether to thank me or run. I see he needs a push. So I wink in his direction.

  “Thinking you might come after school now?” I ask.

  Quinn wrinkles up his nose and stalks away. As if I’m nothing more than a dirty slut. Nice boys are such cowards.

  7

  Quinn

  I slam my locker open after school, hang my backpack on the hook and wish it weren’t so wrong to hit a girl. For once I want to knock every woman in my life on their rear ends: Kat, Mrs. Williams, Molly, Amy, my mother. I’m so effin’ tired of falling short of their expectations. When Preston taps me on the shoulder, I jump.

  He holds up his hands. “You okay, man?”

  “Fine,” I bang my locker shut. “I’d give you a ride but—”

  “You have some after school music junk, don’t you?”

  I nod. “Chamber music. It’s good, though. I need to blow off some steam.”

  Preston hits me on the shoulder. “I don’t know what you did, but you’re my new hero. Must be nice to get so much attention from the hottest girl in school.”

  “Are you nuts?” I hit my forehead with my palm. “Kat is a sociopath.”

  “Who cares, she’s got it going on!”

  “Hey Quinn, you coming,” the two Emilys in orchestra say from over my shoulder. All my life there’s been an over-abundance of girls named Emily in my classes. It’s as if there was a shortage of baby names to pick from the year I was born.

  The Emilys pause to wait for me, one tall and one short. They both have straight, dirty-blond hair, and if not for the height difference, they could be sisters. “You gonna let a bunch of girls boss you around?” Preston laughs.

  Short Emily shoots him a dirty look.

  He snorts and leaves.

  When we get to the orchestra room, I find my cello case sitting against the wall. This one is a rental. I keep my good cello at home. After opening my instrument case, I take time to rub my cello down with a soft cloth, tighten my bow and extend the metal end-pin from the bottom.

  “Molly was seriously pissed last pe
riod,” short Emily tells me as she takes out her viola. “What’s the deal with you and Kat?”

  “Nothing,” I say as the door behind us opens and Brandon, the bass player, comes into the room. “Nutty Mrs. Williams made us partners. Now I get to write a twenty-page paper on the meaning of the word childish. And somehow I doubt I’ll get any help.”

  “That was one messed up class, wasn’t it?” Brandon says, rubbing his goatee. “I’d switch chairs with you if Mrs. Williams wouldn’t have a fit. Did you hear what happened the last time someone defied one of her seating charts?”

  I shake my head. There are so many off-the-wall Mrs. Williams stories I never know which ones to believe.

  “Lets see,” he taps his chin. “Remember last year when Ty Smith was quarterback?”

  I nod.

  “Well, I think all that popularity went to his head. Because Ty and one of his friends switched seats without permission in Mrs. William’s class. So to show them just how serious she was, she made them sing ‘I’m a little tea pot’ in front of everyone for more than half an hour.”

  “That song must be fifteen seconds long,” I say, thinking there’s no way Brandon’s story could be true. “How is that even possible?”

  “Ty and his friend had to turn it into a skit,” he says. “You know, like those really cheesy ones they make you do in boy scouts. Everyone was laughing, but not because it was funny. Ty had a nervous breakdown on the football field that day.”

  “Yeah, right.” I snort.

  Mr. Youk, our orchestra teacher, walks through the door with Kat’s good friend, John Lindner. Could this day get any worse?

  “We’re moving to the choir room,” Mr. Youk says. “They have a piano.”

  As we walk across the hall, I think what an unusual combination of instruments we have. Tall Emily plays the violin, short Emily the viola, Brandon the bass and John the piano. Since when do jocks play the piano?

  “Hey John,” I call. “When did a tough guy like you decide to hang out with orchestra geeks?”