London Prep

by Dodd, Jillian

  “Repeat after me,” Noah says, turning in his chair so he’s seated to the side, facing me.

  “Okay,” I say hesitantly, wondering what he’s doing.

  “Helen,” he starts.

  “Helen,” I repeat.

  “Next time you’re at the shop, would it be possible for you to grab me bananas and almond butter?”

  I roll my eyes at him.

  “Come on,” he urges.

  “Would it be possible, Helen, the next time you’re at the store, for you to get me bananas and almond butter?” I repeat.

  “Wow, look at that.” He grins, crossing his arms in satisfaction. “Hard, wasn’t it? No, practically impossible. I almost can’t believe you got the words out. Also, we always have honey and bread. That’s why I didn’t include them in the list.”

  “I can’t believe you’re making fun of me!”

  I reach out to give him a poke. He grabs my wrist, not letting it get any closer to him.

  “I can’t believe you were going to starve yourself to be polite,” he counters.

  I give him a no duh face but then turn my attention to the front of the room when Mr. Johnson takes a seat at his desk.

  “Settle down,” he says, leaning back in his chair with a smile.

  Frankly, he always looks too happy. He’s practically glowing every morning. But, hey, a happy teacher means a happy student. So, I’m not going to complain.

  “Since we finished up our projects yesterday, you all know what that means,” he says.

  Everyone around me groans, and my previous joy goes away.

  “Since we will be starting a new chapter this week, I’m going to assign a small project that will be due on Monday.”

  The moaning gets louder, and Mr. Johnson gets up from his desk, pacing in front of the class.

  “Now, because it’s due so quickly, you won’t be assigned any other homework than this until Monday, apart from reading. This is a difficult chapter, and I want to make sure we spend enough time breaking it down. So, instead of focusing on shorter assignments, I’m going to hand out just one question to each of you. You will have to break it down into multiple parts to answer it as we work through the week.

  “Then, on Monday, you’ll hand in one copy and make another for yourself. You’ll spend Monday going over your work with a classmate then present your problem and solution to the class on Tuesday.” Mr. Johnson smiles, probably feeling pleased with himself.

  And as much as I hate to admit it, it’s clever. This way, we will be forced to learn the material because we have no choice. All of our questions are different. This is a full-on frontal assault to those of us who are bad at statistics. And I simultaneously respect and hate Mr. Johnson for it.

  When he hands out our pieces of paper, I read over my question, my eyes going wide.

  I think our eyes collectively go wide because he interjects, “It’s all right if you don’t know how to solve this yet. By the end of our lessons this week, you will.”

  I want to pout my way through Statistics, but instead, I decide I should probably take notes. Because I already know this question is going to haunt me through the weekend.

  Buzzing about the party.

  Latin

  I slam my notebook on my desk when I get to Latin, still feeling irritated about my statistics problem. Nothing I learned today will help me solve it.

  “Someone’s in a mood this morning,” Mohammad says, taking his seat next to me. He eyes my Latin book, surprised he doesn’t have to share his with me. Well, at least for today.

  “Statistics project,” I mumble, trying to clear my head.

  “Ohh,” Mohammad says, wrinkling his nose.

  “Tell me about it,” I agree, trying to push it out of my mind.

  “Well, at least you practically live with a math genius,” Mohammad says, trying to perk me up.

  “What, Noah?” I ask, playing with the hem of my skirt. I’ve somehow managed to get away with it rolled up the past two days, but after being in a rush this morning from adding in the run and full meal, I kind of just threw it on.

  “Yeah. He’s, like, really smart,” Mohammad confirms, looking at me like I should know this already.

  “Seriously?” I say, surprised.

  He told me he was good at statistics, but I guess I just figured he was tooting his own horn.

  “Seriously. He’s top of our class in Math—always. And I think in Art as well. He usually takes it every year if he can. At least, I think he took it last year.” Mohammad’s gaze shifts, and I can tell he’s thinking back, trying to remember.

  “The amount you know never ceases to amaze me.” It’s kind of funny that Noah is good at both math and art. It’s not the most usual combination.

  “It’s one of my many talents,” Mohammad says, flashing me a pearly smile.

  “How was History?” I ask, curious about his morning class.

  “Everyone’s buzzing about the party tonight. The girls kept whispering about getting together and how they were doing their hair. I even intercepted a note that talked about how someone was going to raid their dad’s liquor cabinet and sneak a few flasks into the party.”

  “You intercepted a note? How on earth are you able to do that? And didn’t the person passing it care that you read it?”

  “That’s the thing about notes. You hand it off, thinking it’s safe, but it’s only fair for the person helping you pass it to take a peek. And it’s great because even if the person sending the note sees you reading it, they can’t do anything about it, or they draw attention to the fact that they are passing notes in class. So, they never say a word.”

  “You’ve really thought this through,” I say, giving him credit.

  He just nods at me.

  “Well, since you’re so in the loop and seem to hear—or find out—everything, what am I supposed to wear tonight?”

  “Well, my personal belief is the shorter, the better,” he says with a smirk but then refocuses. “But so far, I’ve heard a few things. I’m not the best with descriptions, but I’ll do my best. Uh, one girl is wearing a short dress with a sweetheart neckline—not sure what that is. Another is doing a cocktail dress that’s black with shiny beads. Another is wearing something red and lacy. The girls behind me were debating jersey dresses. They say that they either make you look amazing or like a stuffed sausage. Though I’m not really sure why they would wear a sports jersey to the club.”

  “You actually do know everything,” I say, laughing at his descriptions. I love that he remembers it all but has no clue what any of it actually means.

  “Mmhmm,” he confirms.

  “So, from the sounds of it, club clothes. The shorter and tighter, the better.”

  “Basically. See, like I said before, I know all.”

  Always on your mind.

  Lunch

  “Thanks,” I say to Noah as he slides me one of the lunches we packed this morning. I open it up, happy to have a lunch I actually want to eat, plus I don’t have to wait in line with everyone else.

  He nods at me in response, taking a bite into his apple, the juice slushing in his mouth.

  I’m ready to start on my sandwich when Harry and Mohammad sit down at the table with us. Harry’s tray contains the usual chips and soda while Mohammad has a mound of chicken and rice.

  “So, what’s your take on Mr. Johnson?” I ask, looking at Noah since he has the class with me. “He’s always so happy when he gets to class. Too happy.”

  “Mr. Johnson, the Statistics teacher?” Mohammad asks, scooping up rice into his spoon.

  “Yeah,” I confirm.

  “Maybe he’s coming from a blow job.” Harry grins at us, playfully sticking out his tongue. “A little morning head would put any man in a good mood.”

  “Ew, no,” I say, wrinkling my nose at him. “That’s the last image I want stuck in my brain.”

  “If you want, I’m sure I can replace it with another.” He laughs, raising his eyebrows at me,
shooting me a wink.

  “Speaking of teachers,” Noah cuts in, “what’s the update on Miss Gunters?”

  “Oh, she still wants me. She’s been licking her lips at me in class. I swear, she winked at me today,” Harry confirms, sipping on his soda.

  “When she wasn’t teaching History, of course,” Mohammad adds, trying to keep a straight face.

  “Obviously,” Harry replies seriously, like he should know better. “I’m thinking, one of these days, we need to come to school early. Figure out what they’re up to. Who knows? We might find Miss Gunters snooping through my gym locker. I’m telling you—”

  “Oh, come on,” I interject, not believing him for a second.

  Harry bites his lip, connecting his blue eyes to mine. I want to laugh at his comment, but with him looking at me like that, I’m finding it hard to even focus.

  “If Miss Gunters is as kinky as you say and Mr. Johnson is always overly happy in the mornings …” Mohammad insinuates, that pearly grin coming out. “Who knows what goes on in the teachers’ lounge?”

  “Oh fuck,” Harry says, disconnecting his gaze from mine and linking eyes with Mohammad. “We definitely need to find out if they’re shagging.”

  “I think Mr. Johnson might be into guys,” Noah comments.

  “What, because he dresses nice?” I counter.

  “No, I’m pretty sure he’s mentioned having a partner before,” he says, eyeing me.

  And I feel a little stupid for jumping to conclusions.

  “Wait,” Harry interrupts. “Are you trying to say that Miss Gunters is only hitting on me in class as a result of her being wet for Mr. Johnson?” Harry directs the question to Mohammad, looking insulted. “Because I think I’ll have to correct you there. She definitely wants me.”

  “And are you going to give in to it?” I’m pissed.

  Because what the fuck! He can’t just go on and on about a teacher wanting him right in front of me. It’s just … well, weird.

  Harry looks at me and opens his mouth to say something.

  “What can I say?” Mohammad interjects. “Once you’ve had sex, it’s always on your mind.” He is practically glowing now.

  I frown at him. “You’ve had sex?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he says proudly, puffing his chest out.

  “Mohammad!” I am actually surprised by his answer.

  He looks pleased with himself and almost like he’s attempting to mimic a Roman statue. His chin raised up, his shoulders thrown back.

  “Don’t get too worked up. We’re not sure it even counts as sex,” Noah says, rolling his eyes at Mohammad’s pompous attitude.

  “Wait, what?” I say, confused. Because if this is a consent thing, I swear …

  “What Noah means to say is,” Mohammad corrects, “while, yes, I have had sex, there are some interesting circumstances that surrounded the experience.”

  “Interesting?” Noah laughs easily, clearly enjoying Mohammad’s version of the story.

  “So, here’s the deal,” Harry starts. “Over the summer, our boy was getting freaky with this bird in his room. Shit, what was her name? Anyway, he had been dating her off and on.”

  “It was a summer fling,” Mohammad confirms, nodding his head. “Can’t commit to just one when there’s a whole flock out there, waiting to be explored.”

  “Ew,” I mumble, rolling my eyes at him. “Anyway?”

  “Anyway,” Mohammad continues, “we were in my room, and things were getting heated. She was totally into me, and her clothes were flying off.” He emphasizes this point by throwing his hands around in front of him.

  “Flying off,” I repeat, trying to keep a straight face.

  “Flying off,” he confirms seriously. “And all of a sudden, she was naked, and I was naked, and things were a go.” He grins, obviously reminiscing.

  “He stuck the tip in.” Harry giggles.

  “And then his mum walked in,” Noah says, trying to contain his own laughter.

  Both he and Harry are grabbing at their stomachs, trying not to fall off the bench.

  “Holy shit,” I say, my eyes going wide at this new development.

  “Yeah, well, that’s not all,” Noah replies, wiping at his eyes.

  “You see, my mum’s not the type to scream from shock and then give you your privacy,” Mohammad says, shaking his head as his beautiful memory starts to fade.

  “A real ballbuster that one,” Harry confirms, his laughter settling down.

  “So, anyway, my mum proceeds to swing open the door, and I can tell she’s shocked. She starts yelling at me, and I’m freaking out, but then she runs out of my room. I’m trying to throw on my clothes, and now, Caroline is yelling at me, trying to get her clothes on, but then my mum comes back in my room. And she has a broom. She starts whacking me with it and then proceeds to chase Caroline out of the house.”

  “Noooo. That’s terrible,” I reply, feeling bad for the girl. “I would be mortified if I got caught naked by someone’s mom. And then getting chased out of the house, half-dressed. I’m not sure how you recover from that.”

  “Exactly,” Mohammad confirms.

  “It was a shame too. A few more minutes, and you could have at least finished,” Harry jokes.

  “It worked out anyway. I texted her that I was sorry, but she didn’t reply. I didn’t have to call her and pretend to like her. It’s the way a first time should be,” Mohammad says matter-of-factly.

  “Done in a minute and then forgotten,” Harry confirms, opening his bag of chips and shoving a few in his mouth.

  “That’s not true,” I disagree.

  “First times are for learning purposes only,” Harry counters, shrugging.

  “Was yours?” I ask curiously.

  “My first time was with an older woman,” Harry says nonchalantly while my heart starts pounding in chest.

  “Seriously?” I ask, wondering if he’s joking about this in the way he jokes about everything else.

  “Yeah. Like I said, strictly learning,” he confirms.

  I look between Noah and Mohammad, wondering if they’re going to add anything.

  “Mohammad,” I say, turning to him, “if you’re going to have sex, at least let it be with someone you like—hopefully, even love.”

  “I did like her,” Mohammad replies.

  “Not enough to care that your mother probably scarred her for life.”

  “That’s sex for you.” Mohammad shrugs as the bell goes off.

  And before I can say anything else, everyone is up and headed toward class.

  I move through the hallway in almost a daze, trying to wrap my head around the conversation we just had. Do they all really think that about sex? That your first time is just something you should get over with? That it isn’t meant to be special and important?

  And this news about Harry sleeping with an older woman—

  The thought is unsettling.

  Desperately.

  Art

  As I walk into art class, I feel like I’m trying to figure out some complex math problem rather than the feelings of a group of teenage boys.

  “You all right?” Noah asks, looking at me strangely.

  It’s probably just his reaction to my face because I feel stunned. It’s finally happened. These boys have my mind fully twisted. I’m feeling frazzled.

  “So, Harry had sex with an older woman.” It’s the first thing out of my mouth, and I regret it as soon as it leaves.

  Because it’s none of my business.

  But I can’t shake the feeling I get when I think about Harry having sex with … well, anyone else, and I need some information.

  Desperately.

  Noah nods, tilting his head at me. His hair flips to the side, and he pushes his fingers through it. “Maybe a year or two ago.”

  “He was young. Like, really young.”

  “Yeah,” he replies.

  “Isn’t that wrong?” I ask, wondering exactly how old she was and how it even happ
ened. And just what their idea of older means.

  “It’s Harry. He thought it was hot. He was all about it. I tried to tell him that it wasn’t a good thing”—Noah shrugs—“but you know him. He just lets this shit happen to him.”

  “Did he ever talk about it after?” I ask, realizing it must have been a big deal if Noah didn’t think it was a good idea. Though he generally thinks everything is a bad idea, so I’m not sure exactly what his opinion on it actually says.

  “Nah, I think he’s proud of it. Though, deep down, I’m not sure he actually is.” Noah brings his bottom lip between his teeth, pulling at it. “Better to wear your insecurities as a badge of honor than try to hide them. That’s Harry’s approach.”

  “You were pretty quiet at lunch today about all that.”

  “So were you,” Noah says, his gaze connecting to mine. He leans his elbow onto our table, resting his head against his palm.

  I search his eyes, wondering if he’s going to elaborate. “What is your approach?”

  “Sex is an exchange,” he finally says. “Yeah, there are bodies involved, but there are emotions too. Or at least, I think there should be.”

  “Is that how you view it?” I ask him.

  “I mean, I guess if it’s right, it’s right. Everyone is different and wants different things from it. But it’s important to consider the emotional side. Because it’s like painting,” he says, his gaze shifting from me to the front of the classroom. “We can put one color on the page, within certain lines, but it will bleed through. Different colors mingle with one another, forming new colors. The painting moves from separate colors to this one beautiful work of art. And that’s what happens with sex.”

  “You’re comparing sex to a painting,” I say, really looking at Noah.

  The way he views it is beautiful. It’s so much deeper than I expected from him. And I’m not sure I honestly understand what he’s saying. I always thought sex was about pleasure. Yeah, you give and receive it because of emotions, and emotions change the amount of pleasure, but I almost had it backward to him. Noah’s saying that it’s all about emotions and feelings. And I like that thought.