Promiscuous

by Isobel Irons

  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 anyth
ing 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?’

  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.”