by Anthology
My parents were still around half of the year when they gifted me that car, but I knew it was just another donation toward the penance of their guilt for not being around.
I was eleven when they started traveling. Dad is in investments, and Mom stayed home with me. But once my dad hit it big with several high-yield investments and maturing CDs, he took half his earnings and invested them elsewhere, and the other half he’s spent with Mom around the world. They just got back from Japan the other night, after leaving two days before my eighteenth birthday.
I’m no dummy. I get it. Money doesn’t buy happiness, but it sure as shit helps. Which is why at the age of twelve I told my father to take the next one thousand dollars’ worth of my allowance money and invest it in the same companies he had. And he was happy to help me out, hoping I’d follow in his career-obsessed footsteps.
It’s been six years since I invested that first thousand dollars. And I have a little over one hundred thousand dollars today. It’s certainly not enough to retire, but by the time I need to pay for college and additional investing, I won’t need to worry.
My bed vibrates, and I walk quickly (I won’t run—I can’t be that eager, even by myself) to my phone and snatch it up to read the text.
Hey, Simon. ;) Thursday’s discussion will be on whether or not single-sexed schools are better for students. Good luck! See you tomorrow. Miss Shields
I exhale, closing my eyes after reading her name.
She gave me a wink.
A wink!
Maybe she agonized over that seemingly insignificant emoticon. I imagine her in my head, smiling and deliberating whether or not she should give me that wink. Pulling her hair from the bun, releasing it so that its length drops to her hips. She tugs at her lip, smirking, knowing she’s flirting with disaster. That forbidden pull I imagine her feeling makes her fingers twitch with excitement as she types every letter.
I wish I could tell her what it does to me to read it. There are a lot of things I wish I could tell her. But I can’t.
Not yet.
After a silent dinner with my parents, I make the excuse that I need to go to the library to study. But really, I’m escaping to my place.
I’ve given up on my parents ever being anything more than financial assistance. With the exception of my mother attempting to buy my love through my obsession with chocolate chip cookies, they both checked out of my life long ago.
I’m not going to talk about how many times I cried myself to sleep when I was little, wishing my parents had time for me. What would be the point? Maybe if I was a bit more self-aware, I’d see the connection between my lack of parental love and my fixation on an older and unattainable woman. But that would require more reflection than I’m capable of.
My place obviously isn’t a secret to others. There’s been some vandalism and graffiti done over the years, remnants of old bonfires. But I think of it as mine, and it’s a place I’ve never brought anyone. A place where I can relax and take a break from being Simon Blackwell, III.
Some claim this place to be an abandoned church, others say an old Alms house. No one really knows for sure, but it’s my getaway. There are only two walls left, made from more earthen elements, but there are also shards of stained glass and scattered bricks on the ground around it. The trees have grown up and through it over the years, so that their canopy is the only thing that comprises its roof.
As I approach the thick wooden doors, I realize this place has been visited more by strangers in the past year than by people like me. I try not to touch anything when I come here, and leave it the same way I found it.
I don’t bother using the front doors because a tree blocks the other side. So I walk around to find my spot: an old cedar that has twisted its way through the ground in the center of the structure.
I get through the dense foliage to find the entrance, and am surprised to see a girl sitting on the floor with her back propped against the tree I had always considered mine.
And she’s crying.
I want to see if she’s okay. But. I’m no dummy: I've seen enough horror movies to know that approaching a woman with long, dark hair, crying in the middle of the woods is a certifiable death sentence.
Her phone chirps, and as she looks down at it she begins to sob again.
I realize—as I stand there like a creep, watching some strange girl cry her eyes out—that I want to make her smile. But I have no idea what to say.
She still hasn’t seen me, and with the dim lighting I can barely make out the color of her hair, let alone see what she looks like. I can’t even tell how old she is.
She could be young girl lost in the woods without knowing how to get home. Or she could have been attacked by something out here and need help. Shit, I may have stumbled on a very serious situation.
I hold my hands in front of me, palms out, as I make my initial move toward her. It’s meant to be a placating gesture, one that says I’m not a knife-wielding psycho, I promise!
She still hasn’t seen me—though by the sound of her noisy crying, a bomb could have gone off and she wouldn’t have noticed. Her phone beeps again and I stop moving. She looks down to read the message, and with a hard scream she throws the phone in my direction.
My initial thought when the phone slaps me across the forehead is ‘Nice arm.’ The second thought that races through my head is ‘Fuck, that hurt.’
“Ouch,” I say, reaching down to pick up the phone on the ground.
She jumps to her feet and lets out a gasp. “Who are you?” she asks defensively, yet breathlessly.
“Don’t be scared. I’m not going to hurt you,” I begin, rubbing my fingers over the small bump on my forehead. “Are you okay?”
She clears her throat, and after a short pause whispers, “I’m fine. Thank you.”
“Are you lost?”
“No,” she says with a humorless laugh.
My eyes are adjusting to the darkness, and as I take a few steps forward, I begin to make out her facial features.
She’s pretty. Like really, pretty. With long, dark hair and dark eyes. She’s got one of those faces that make you notice—even with black shit on her face from her mascara. I wanted to tell her she didn’t need that crap; she was really freaking hot without it.
“I didn’t think anyone really knew about this place. Why are you here?”
I look around and shrug. “I used to come here a lot when I was a kid. It’s been a while.”
She nods in the darkness and smoothes down her shirt in an obviously nervous gesture. “Oh, well, are you planning on coming back anytime soon?”
It’s a strange question. Why is she asking? Does she want me to stay? Or is that a diplomatic way of telling me to fuck off?
“I can,” is all I come up with.
She wraps her arms around herself as though trying to hold herself together. It makes her look even more vulnerable. “See you around then,” she says, and ducks underneath the tree, walking toward me.
I close my eyes as a waft of her perfume hits me. The vanilla scent stands out in the musty woods. Just as she passes, her hand grazes mine. She could have gone around me. But she seemed to make a point to touch me in this small way.
Why?
And why did my skin tingle from the feel of her cold fingers?
It’s the strangest thing I’ve experienced in my life—and that’s saying something.
Chapter Five
Number Eight: The Ford
June 6, 2014 (Three months ago)
I honestly hadn’t planned this. Francesca, the Ford, had been eyeing me in debate all evening, and I’d returned the glance from time to time. But I certainly didn’t expect to have her bent over the sink later that same night in the faculty bathroom at the high school.
I wouldn’t have thought that kind of thing happened in real life—I mean, it was a dream come true. If I would’ve known joining the debate team would guarantee easy access to all kinds of pussy, I would’ve signed up so m
uch sooner.
I made a mental note to carry condoms at all times, and gave Francesca extra points for spontaneity. She was definitely a Fusion rather than your ordinary Focus: you’d never look at her twice, but once you took her for a ride, you couldn’t help but be surprised that for a mid-size vehicle she had one hell of an EcoBoost engine.
It wasn’t as if I didn’t respect these girls—I did. I respected them over and over and over again.
We both got something out of the arrangement: They got a chance to experience the thing all their girlfriends were talking about (because I knew exactly how much they talked about all of my many attributes), and I got another chance to perfect my exceptional extracurricular skills.
Which is exactly what I needed if I wanted to prove to Miss Shields—Katie—that I could be the man for her.
I stared into the mirror at my reflection with a smirk. Francesca threw her head back as I brought her to orgasm, but I covered her mouth so she wouldn’t scream.
She was really pretty.
Definitely a Fusion.
Too bad all I wanted was a Jaguar.
Chapter Six
The next day at school after my random run-in with the mystery girl in the woods, I walk through the halls in a daze. My mind can’t focus on anything—not on Miss Shields or the debate topic or my classes. All I can see is a gorgeous face with mascara running down her cheeks. A simple touch in a darkened building.
The seventh period bell rings, and just as I make it out to my car, I remember that it’s Tuesday and I have to meet with the debate team to research our topic.
What was our topic again?
I’ve got to snap out of this!
I swing by the restroom on my way to the English department to check my hair, and as I reach the library, I turn the corner to find my seat.
The library is in the center of the school, and all of the bookshelves are low, keeping an open view of four hallways that lead to it.
All voices hush as soon as I enter, and I see the girls whispering. Out of reflex, my eyes search for Miss Shields, but she’s not here yet.
After finding a few discussions online about same-sex classrooms, I scan the information and know which stance to take. Most of the conclusions to these debate subjects are so obvious; it’s painful to have to explain my reasoning to anyone. But it’s worth it for Katie.
I stand from my seat and pan the room. Miss Shields is walking down the hallway toward the library, and the swing in her hips makes me instantly hard.
I imagine that the reason she slows her pace is to make sure I’m taking in every second of the sexual tension between us. She’s wearing dark stockings, and a red and white polka-dot dress. The buttons that keep the dress together are straining over her ample tits. In my fantasy, Katie puts her finger in her mouth and sucks, simulating what she wants to do to my aching cock. My eyes home in on the white lace bra that’s just barely visible. I wonder if her nipples are hard, and what they would taste like when I teased them with my tongue.
Miss Shields reaches the library and stands at the edge of the carpet, folding her arms over her chest. She turns to speak to a student I hadn’t noticed had entered just behind her.
I don’t see her right away, because my gaze is fixed on Miss Shields’s ass. But then a small movement catches my eye—a slight flick of long, dark hair—and I turn to focus on the pretty face behind Miss Shields’s shoulder.
The girl from the woods.
It seems ridiculous that I’d let something take me from my fantasy so easily. In my mind, I already had my hands up Katie’s dress. But something about the girl from last night makes me forget about it instantly. I find myself—inexplicably—only seeing, only thinking about the girl I had only met the night before.
“Good afternoon, everybody!” Miss Shields says. “We have a new student on our debate team. Please welcome Arleen Carson.”
Arleen Carson.
My mystery girl officially has a name.
It’s a weird name. An old name.
Katie gives a swift nod and glances over to me. But for the first time since I can remember, I’m not paying any attention to her.
Miss Shields clears her throat and continues. “The topic for Thursday’s debate is: Same-sex education and whether it aids in educational growth or hinders necessary socialization. I’ll be over here.” She points to a table in the opposite corner, where she’s already placed her laptop and papers to grade. “Feel free to come to me with any questions you may have.”
We split up into two large groups, and sit at separate tables for researching. Arleen has pulled up a chair at the corner of my team’s table, and I try not stare. Yet, I find myself gaping at her like an idiot.
Arleen isn’t a supermodel, but she’s definitely pretty. I had already forgotten since last night. Her hair is lighter than I thought, too. I wonder what it feels like. Is it as soft as it looks?
Stop being such an emotive douche, Simon! I yell at myself.
“Simon?” Juliana asks. “Do you already know which side you’re on?” She licks her lips slowly, which really just makes her look like a drooling, rabid animal. I squint at her. Does she realize she looks as though she’s trying to eat her own face?
“Yep. I’m set,” I say, smiling.
“Let’s hear it, then,” Juliana challenges.
I shrug. “It’s really a no-brainer. I’m not saying I would ultimately enjoy a classroom with all guys, but when you think about the end-goal, what education should be, the answer is simple.” I look around the table at my rapt audience. But Arleen isn’t swooning or smiling or doing any of the normal girl things I have become used to. Arleen sits in the corner, seeming disinterested.
So I began to speak louder. You know, in case she’s hard of hearing or something.
“In order for our society to grow and become stronger, we need to be educating our students in the best ways we can. All the studies point to this being beneficial for the student, causing the number of yearly graduations and successful careers to flourish. In one study, it suggests males learn better in a warmer classroom, while girls in a cooler one. For an optimal learning environment, this is what needs to happen. I only see it as beneficial. Besides, it’s not like we wouldn’t see our friends of the opposite sex during lunch or after school.”
I hear a murmur to my left, but choose to ignore the sniggers that follow. Pretty sure it was a snide remark about what I was known to do after school hours.
“There’s also another study that says teenaged boys are embarrassed to take elective courses such as choir or art classes. It makes them appear feminine. If we offered courses that were males-only in our school, it would eliminate any ridicule or shame in taking them.”
“But your vision is skewed.” The whisper comes from the corner of the table.
“Excuse me?” I chime, appalled that anyone would question my logic.
Arleen sits up straighter and looks me straight in the eyes.
“Teenagers are young and impressionable,” she begins. “If we start segregating our sexes, who’s to say the next step wouldn’t be to separate social classes, minorities, and people with disabilities? Each child learns differently, and yes, there are ideals for those environments, but what would our system be producing but students, and eventually adults, who believe that everything should be catered to them? We live in a world of people who feel like they’re entitled to anything and everything. No. This would be stoking that unstable fire and allowing it to burn everything around it. You put a student like that in the real world and they’ll never survive.” She looks around the table briefly and then her eyes lock on mine again. “Who here was on a community sports team when they were younger?”
All of us nod.
“And how many trophies and awards did you receive?”
“One every year, even if just for participating,” replies Josie, a girl on our team.
“And how is that fair?” Arleen’s eyebrows scrunch together and her postu
re straightens.
“I don’t understand the connection,” I say.
“This idea of same-sex classrooms, along with every trophy you ever received for ‘participating,’ has only clouded your idea of what the real world is all about. Out there,” she points toward the window, “you aren’t entitled to shit. People aren’t going to cater to your every wish and demand. If we start separating boys from girls—putting you in a class where success is likely—it’s only catering to the idea of your sense of entitlement. In the real world, men and women work together. Work space temperatures aren’t monitored. They don’t care if you’ve read Hemingway or whether or not you’re an alto or a bass. If you don’t get the work done, you’re going to get fired. And I can tell you with absolute certainty that they aren’t going to give you a trophy when you leave for simply participating.” She shakes her head and her expression turns grim. “They will tell you you’ve failed. And if you’ve never heard that sentence in your life, the first time comes as a total blow. If we segregate students, we’re adding fuel to the fire and creating a country full of pussies.”
I try not to grind my teeth but I can feel everyone’s eyes on me.
My cheeks burn and my mind spins. I look around, and even the girls in the Simon fan club have shifted their eyes and are staring down at the table.
I lost a debate. This is a first.
Fuck. I don’t lose. Ever.
I glance back at Arleen, and she’s packing up her backpack.
She’s not smug. She’s not rubbing it in. She made her point, and she beat me. It’s clear she has nothing more to say.
Even Miss Shields is a bit shell-shocked by what just happened, she seems as surprised as everyone else. I can’t even summon up a flirty smile for her.
