“Thanks. It’s a small box; it’ll only take a second.” She gives me an appraising look and smiles. “But judging from your muscles I bet you could move a piano. Here…follow me.”
I follow her through The Chat-N-Chew coffee shop, admiring the shape and movement of her body. I love the way her hair bounces on her shoulders. I love the way her jeans seem to have a life of their own. I love the perfume that lingers in her wake. She pushes open the back swinging door with her hip and we walk down a long dark hall.
“Sorry, the bulb’s out. Almost there.”
She opens the door at the end of the hall, light floods out and I follow her into the small warm stockroom. It smells musty and damp but not unpleasant; it reminds me of the changing rooms at the beach.
“It’s over there. See it? The brown box on the top shelf.”
I move across the room and reach for the box but I just can’t get to it. I search for a ladder, a chair or maybe just something solid to stand on.
I hear the door shut behind me and turn towards Julie. She has a coy smile and a playful gleam in her eye.
“Why don’t I just lock this so we can have ourselves some uninterrupted fun.”
I hear the lock click into place and then she’s slowly, seductively walking towards me, moving gracefully like distant smoke on a cloudless day. She unbuttons the top button of her blouse, her fingers quickly moving down to the second…the third…the fourth.
“This is going to be the best day of your life. Today’s the day all your fantasies come true. Anything you want me to do…I will. And when I say anything, I mean…anything.”
Her blouse is off and she’s just a few feet away from me. Her large firm breasts seem to be straining against her white lace bra. She smiles even wider while reaching behind her back; a moment later one strap falls down her left shoulder then the right. She looks deep into my eyes, slowly licking her lips, casting a powerful sexual spell as the bra falls to the floor.
“Steven? Steven Bishop.”
My eyes snap away from my desk and focus on my substitute algebra teacher, Mrs. Oliver.
“Yes?”
“Are we having ourselves a little daydream? Am I boring you, Mr. Bishop?”
“No.”
The whole class is looking at me. I feel like that drop of blood we pressed onto a slide and slid under the microscope in this morning’s biology class.
“I could be wrong but you don’t seem to be paying attention. Would you care to tell the class what I was just talking about?”
“No.”
I can hear a few of the kids around me starting to snicker.
“Well, I think I’m just going to have to insist.”
What does she mean, she’s just going to have to insist? I glare at her and make eye contact. She’s made her point. Everyone knows I don’t really talk, a one-word answer, that’s about all anyone ever gets from me.
I used to have a terrible stuttering problem, the words would never come out of my mouth, every day the other kids would torture me with their constant teasing. It got so bad I didn’t want to go to school. It got so bad I stopped talking so they would leave me alone.
I don’t stutter like I used to, then again I really don’t talk that much either. I guess I just got used to keeping my mouth shut. My silence became my protective shield.
“I’m waiting, Mr. Bishop. Also, can you sit up straight in your chair? This is not a social club. On second thought, why don’t you just stand up and address me properly.”
Stand up? Why? I can feel the life draining out of me quicker than a ripped bag of sugar. What is she trying to prove?
This is the type of situation I hate, this whole standing in front of people and trying to talk routine. I’d rather have to deal with some idiot trying to take a swing at me than have to deal with this. Fighting is clear-cut, you either win or you lose and as long as you give as much as you get there’s nothing to be ashamed of.
I slowly rise to my feet. The room has grown quiet; everyone is waiting for me to say something. This is what they live for, right? If they had tails, they’d all be wildly wagging with excitement. Sometimes when I get really nervous I’ll stutter, something I have no control over – I bet that would make their day.
I clear my throat. “You were asking if you were…b-b-boring.”
Figures, first thing I say in class all year and I stutter. Someone laughs behind me. I quickly look around the room: grinning faces grow instantly serious; eyes get cast upon desks. It’s one of the perks of being the big guy.
Mrs. Oliver is growing more aggravated. “Mr. Bishop, I want you to tell me what I was talking about before that.”
I fold my arms across my chest and spit out the word.
“Algebra.”
“Are you trying to be funny?”
“No.”
She just stares at me, an icy glare. It’s like she’s probing my mind, assessing my level of threat for her perceived authority. I glare right back. Sending my own message.
“I want you to answer my question or you can march yourself down to the office.”
It’s starting to look like this isn’t going to end well, at least not for me. I might as well try to save some self-respect and just ‘march’ myself to the office.
I’m reaching for my backpack when the door opens. A tall girl with spiky black hair, sunglasses and an attitude walks across the room to the teacher.
“Hi, I’m new. Here’s my note from the office.”
Mrs. Oliver quickly scans the note. “Class is half over. Where have you been?”
“Well, you know how slow bureaucracy moves. I’m lucky to be here at all. Red tape and all that.”
Mrs. Oliver looks skeptical. “It’s fourth period. That’s a whole lot of red tape. Are you telling me you’ve been in the office all morning?”
“Um…sure, why not.”
Mrs. Oliver lets out a long sigh. “Everybody, this is…” She consults the note from the office. “Rebecca Moore. Today’s her first day in our school and she’ll be in this class from now on. Rebecca, is there anything you’d like to say to the class?”
She smiles and takes a deep breath. “Say to the class? Let’s see…I guess just hi and that you can call me Becky. Um…I’m lead singer for Gambit Queen, we’ll be at The Ancient Mariner this Saturday night. Everyone should come out and see us. I think you’ll have a real good time. I also like writing poems, Death Cab For Cutie and swimming naked in the dark. Um…I used to go to Winslow Academy, which I know is supposed to be, like, the best – not that there’s anything wrong with this place! – but I hated it; everyone there was into their own thing. Oh yeah, check me out at beckymoore.com. That’s Moore with two o’s and an e at the end.”
One of the jocks next to me mutters to his friend. “Just what we need, another freak.”
Mrs. Oliver stands there looking at her, the seconds start to tick away, finally she says, “Ah…thanks for sharing all that with us, Becky. Before you take a seat, could you please take those sunglasses off?”
“Can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t?”
Becky pulls something out of her back pocket. “Oh, I’ve got a note from my doctor. My eyes are light sensitive. I have to wear the sunglasses or I get terrible migraines.”
Mrs. Oliver takes her note. She gently unfolds it. “This is from your doctor?” It looks like it’s about to fall apart in her hands. It’s dirty and the corners are ripped.
“Yeah, I know. It’s kinda beat. I’ve been carrying it around for quite a while.”
“I can barely read it.”
“Yeah, sorry. I went swimming with it in my pocket once.”
Mrs. Oliver studies the note. Holding it one way and then another. After a while she lets out another sigh and simply refolds the note and hands it back to Becky.
“We’ll talk about this later. Find yourself an empty seat. We’re on page thirty-four of the blue workbook.”
Becky quickly scans th
e room and then starts walking right towards me. I’m still standing. This girl knows how to move, she glide’s effortlessly, almost like she’s floating. Slants of sunlight stretch out from the window blinds and caress her face. It’s like her body whispers with each and every stunning movement. It whispers, ‘Look…at…me.’ I can’t keep my eyes off of her. I couldn’t if I tried.
She gives me a little smile before taking the empty chair in front of me. It’s a smile full of endless subliminal conversation like a huge zip file attached to the end of a short email.
I’m still standing.
Mrs. Oliver notices me again. I have no desire to continue our duel. I sense no fire in her eyes either. I can feel her sliding her guns back into their holsters.
“Sit down, Mr. Bishop, and start paying attention.”
There’s a new black hat in class – I reckon she’s gonna save her bullets for her.
I slip into my chair and open my notebook. I notice that Becky’s thumbing through the pages and glancing at the desks around her, trying to find the right page.
I hesitate and debate but finally lean forward and whisper, “Thirty-four.” The number comes out of my mouth stutter free. I take it as a good omen. I believe in omens, good and bad, even though I’m seemingly intelligent enough to know better.
She quickly turns around, smiles and looks at me over the top of her sunglasses. Her green eyes sparkle with gratitude. She whispers, “Thanks,” before finding her place.
My workbook loses what little power it possessed to hold my attention. It’s open before me and I fill in the required answers and turn the pages with the rest of the class but my focus of attention is now reserved for Becky. I study her: the way her head moves, her shoulders, her arms and hands. I try to get a sense of who she is, what she likes to do and where she likes to spend her time.
I want to know everything about her. I’ve never been drawn to someone this quickly. I watch the way her hands move and after a while I know them as well as I know the hands of my watch. When she leans forward or stretches, when she taps her fingers or sighs, I file these actions away and they become what little I know of Becky. I want to know more.
The bell rings and we collect our books and head out of class. Becky smiles at me as we stand up but I don’t possess the nerve to talk to her right now so I simply return her smile. I try to add as much meaning as I possibly can to that smile. I try to add a full conversation. I try to show my interest in getting to know her better but in the end I fear all I manage to do is to come across looking odd.
I walk behind her on the way out of class. Again I marvel at the way she moves, fluid and free. She stops for a moment and consults her schedule before turning left and heading down the hall. I turn right and head for my locker like I normally do after fourth period but after twenty feet I decide I’ve just got to watch Becky walk down the hall. I imagine that she’ll be flowing through the crowd like a bead of water down a windowpane. I just have to watch her. I’m not sure why.
I turn around and follow her at a safe distance. I want to observe, not engage. The more I know about her the better I’ll be when I approach her. I’m not really following her; what I’m actually doing is research.
I had expected her to walk down the hall like she owned it. I’d expected everyone to turn and watch her walk past. I’d expected guys to elbow their friends in the side and point at her with their chins. Instead the opposite seems to be happening. She’s blending in, becoming part of the crowd, becoming invisible.
She heads into the stairwell. I follow after her. When I get to the second floor I don’t know whether to turn left or right. I stand still, scanning the halls in both directions. Everyone flows around me, annoyed that I stopped moving. I don’t see her anywhere; she must have gone into one of the classrooms or the bathroom.
I decide to throw in the towel and head off to gym. I’m always late; it might be interesting to surprise everyone and arrive on time. Coach Chase might have a coronary. I can picture the big guy seeing me, holding his chest and then crashing upon the wooden floor. I turn around and head down the stairs.
As I pass the window I glance outside and notice someone walking towards the parking lots. I stop and watch. It’s Becky. I wonder where she’s going. Is she cutting out of school after only one class?
I continue down the stairs and open the exit door a crack. When Becky turns the corner I slip outside and hurry up the sidewalk. I slowly peer around the building. She’s walking across the lawn.
Maybe she is cutting out after one class. I debate heading back inside and making my way to the gym but I wonder, how could she have a car at school? Only seniors are allowed to drive to classes.
The bell rings. I’m officially late for gym again. There will be no coronary for Coach Chase today, at least not one I can be held responsible for. I look at the exit door; maybe I really should head back inside and run down to the gym. If I change quickly it’s possible to slip unnoticed into class during warm-ups. I’ve done it before.
Gym will have to wait. I look back at Becky. She’s still heading for the parking lots. I wonder what kind of car she drives? When she passes a bank of tall shrubs I make my move. If I can’t see her, she can’t see me. I walk as quickly as I can without it looking like I’m running.
I peer around the shrubs towards the student parking area but she’s gone. I scan the parking lot thinking I must just be missing her. She’s got to be here somewhere. I study the cars thinking maybe she’s inside of one of them. She’s nowhere to be seen. Where did she go?
I hear a click to my left.
I glance toward the sound and see Becky. She’s about fifteen feet away from me in the teachers’ parking lot. I silently take a half step backwards. If she’d been looking my way she might have seen me.
I slowly pull back a branch to see what she’s doing. She’s standing perfectly still next to a new black BMW. Something is gleaming, catching the sunlight in her hand.
It’s a knife.
Before it even registers what she’s doing I watch her hand dart down and quickly slice the rear tire. I hear the air gushing out of it. Then she casually moves around the car like an innocent girl shopping for a new sweater. At each tire she stops and her knife strikes out like a snake and slices.
After circling the whole car, she scratches something into the driver’s door then slowly refolds the blade and slips it into her rear pocket. I hear the air hissing out of the tires. Becky smiles just the slightest of smiles. Then she starts to walk back towards the school. I quickly move to the end of the tall bushes and squat down low and out of sight.
She strides past me, and heads into the school. I watch her walk, marveling at how calm she appears and wondering why she just sliced those tires. I glance back at the car: it’s resting on its rims. I wonder whose car it is? Somebody’s about to have a really bad day.
Becky pulls open the school door and slips inside.
Who are you, Becky Moore?
A Tale of Two Proms (Bard Academy) Page 26
