A Little Crushed

by Viviane Brentanos

  “Thanks.” Max grinned as he took the offered cup; Will’s zany humour always managed to cheer him up.

  “Tell me, my good Aussie Neanderthal, were we that blatant in our youth?”

  Max followed his line of site to where a group of lads huddled against the far wall, eying up the young ladies Max barely recognised as his pupils. The air spat and crackled with testosterone.

  “Girls did not look like that when I was at school.”

  “And if they did, they certainly were not interested in me.” Max nodded his accord. “Nice job on the hall, by the way, although a tad over the top on the mistletoe.”

  “That would be Chris Holmes.” Will shot him a sly gleam. “I think she may have plans.”

  Max said nothing.

  “So why is it we are here again?”

  “Because, my dear Will,” Tom joined them and slapped Max on the back, “our free-thinking Aussie substitute, here, thought it would be fun to play good teacher/bad teacher with Mr. Clemmons.”

  “Guilty as charged.” Max winced as the hired, definitely amateur DJ scratched and mashed away furiously. What he lacked in talent, he more than made up in enthusiasm. “Clemmons is such a pompous arse. It’s only a Christmas party, for crying out loud, not Woodstock. Let the kids have some fun.”

  “I quite agree.” Tom grinned. “Supervised fun which is why I roped in my dedicated staff.”

  “More like press-ganged.” Will grunted as he sipped from a plastic cup. “And why does the no alcohol rule have to apply to us? This fruit punch is vile.”

  “We educators must lead by example.” Max blasted him with a mean impression of Mr. Clemmons.

  “And talking of examples, here comes a not so good one.” Will let rip with a low wolf whistle.

  Max hung onto a groan. Christine Holmes sidled up to them, resplendent in killer heels and clinging black cocktail dress. He’d been avoiding her of late, and he felt bad for doing it.

  “Hey, boys.” She placed a possessive hand on his arm, her smile bright but the expression in her eyes injured.

  “Hey, Chris.” He patted her hand, trying for casual. “You look good.”

  “Thanks. Probably a little too much for this shindig, but I thought we could perhaps go on somewhere after?”

  “Great idea.” From behind, Will administered a sly nudge to his back. “I’m in.”

  Max bit back a chortle. Will knew perfectly well she’d meant a cosy pas de deux.

  “In for what?” Fiona appeared, dressed far more suitably in cream silk.

  “Chris wants us all to go clubbing after our kindergarten stint.” Will enlightened her.

  “I see.” Fiona skewered him with her best schoolmarm look. “And is Liz up for this?”

  “As she is eight months pregnant, I doubt it.” Chris added her barbed two cents. “What a shame. You’ll have to go home early.”

  “Now, now children.” Fiona smiled. “Play nice.”

  “Yes, let’s.” Slipping an arm through Chris’s, Will led her away. “Allow me to escort you to the bar.”

  Max had to laugh; Will really was naughty.

  “Well, it seems to be going well.” Wearing his headmaster frown, Tom surveyed the hall. “No one vomiting yet?”

  “No, but the night is young.” Max kept his face dead-pan. “Although I did detect the faint aroma of spliff as I walked in.”

  Tom paled to bleached bone white.

  “Oh, do chill out.” Fiona leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek. “You have turned into to such a fuddy duddy. And Max, stop it. It’s been torture living with him since he agreed to the party. Come on, you old man, I need a glass of that revolting-looking punch.”

  Max watched them disappear into the madding crowd. A wave of deep affection tinged with regret engulfed him. Over the past weeks, he’d spent a lot of time at the Black family home, watching Tom and Fiona with Lucy. He couldn’t help but feel a stab of envy at the perfect picture they made together, causing him to hope that, one day, he and Kate would be as blessed. How many evenings had he helped Fiona tuck her little daughter up in bed, after reading her a bedtime story? He tried to imagine Kate in such a setting. The image was not there. Kate and children didn’t go together.

  “Max?”

  Chris was back—and without Will. “Here.” She handed him another plastic cup. “I brought you a refill.”

  “Thanks.” He took it although he’d drunk so much he felt like a pregnant whale. “You’re not partaking?”

  “Are you serious? All that sugar?” She attacked him with a flirtatious bat of her eyelashes. “I do have to watch my figure. Anyway, we can share a nice bottle of Chablis later.”

  “Chris…I don’t think I can leave. It wouldn’t be fair to Tom. After all, we are suffering this torture because of me.”

  “Max, is that all it is?” She looked ready to cry. “You’ve been so distant of late. I thought you enjoyed the time we spend together.”

  “I do, Chris.” He touched her cheek. “But it’s complicated; you know that.”

  “If you mean Kate, I understand. Listen, I’m not expecting a commitment from you. We’re both adults. Surely we can have a little no-strings-attached fun.”

  “Chris, I’m sorry. That’s not who I am. I enjoy your company, really I do, but I will not cheat on Kate, and for the record, it’s nothing to do with being adult or not.”

  “Wow.” She drew in breath between clenched teeth, pain of rejection registering in her eyes. “That put me in my place, didn’t it?” She stepped back and hip jutting to one side, surveyed him through a film of tears. “Something’s off, here, Max. While I admire your integrity, why do I get the feeling more is going on in that too handsome head of yours? I don’t think this is about Kate. Kate has always been there, and to your credit, you’ve always been up-front about her. No.” She shook her head. “Max…is there someone else?”

  “Chris, please, let’s just enjoy the rest of the evening. My head is pounding as it is.”

  “All the more reason for us to leave. Kids’ parties are not quite my thing.”

  He had to hand it to her; she was tenacious. “Kids?” Bringing the cup to his lips, he turned to survey the now over-brimming dance floor. “They don’t look much like kids to me. They’re young adults now. Makes me feel quite old, in fact.”

  “You’re not old, Mr. J.” Julie chose that moment to strut by in a pair of satin shorts that would not have looked out of place in a porn vid. “You’re hot.” She speared him with a mirror-practiced sultry gleam. “Can I get you under the mistletoe after?”

  “Mmm…” He rubbed at his chin. “Let me think about this one. No.”

  “Meanie.” Blowing him a good-natured kiss, she sauntered off to torture some poor unsuspecting youth, no doubt.

  “I rest my case.” He turned to Christine, but she was gone. Relief poured over him. His head really was thumping, and he wished he was back in his cozy little sitting room, in front of a roaring fire. His thoughts homed in on Rebecca. She wasn’t here, but he knew she wouldn’t be. He’d missed their Saturday afternoon together. He found her a captivating companion—intelligent and witty, a charming mixture of childish innocence and cold cynicism. They still clashed because she didn’t take criticism well and could be infuriately obstinate at times. Although too impulsive, flip and often downright impudent, there was nothing false about Rebecca. She was fresh, honest, totally without guile. She reminded him so much of himself at that age. Perhaps it was why they’d formed such a close bond.

  “The siren of Thamesford gone?” Will flanked him again. “Well, reconnaissance mission completed. I’ve done my rounds, and I only found one illicit stash of beer hiding in a plant pot. No guesses as to whose.”

  “Don’t tell me. Brendon.” Max gritted his teeth. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t trust that boy.

  “Got it in one, and I think he had a few before he got here.”

  Max looked over to the corner of the room where Brendon and his c
o-pilot, Andy, sprawled at a corner table, arrogance written all over their too good-looking faces. A coven of adoring females sat with them and by their rapt expressions, hung on their every word. Max was not comfortable with what he saw. Will was correct. Brendon was clearly on the way to being drunk.

  “Tell me,” he leaned in to Will, “what’s your opinion of Brendon?”

  “Brendon?” Will didn’t even pause to think. “He’s a little shit and a bully. He’s intelligent enough but spoilt and cocky. He’s very competitive and hates losing at anything and definitely fancies himself with the girls. Just your typical over-sexed eighteen-year-old. What can I say? Why?”

  “I think we need to keep an eye on him and his running mate. I have a bad feeling about him...”

  * * * *

  “Becs, Vicky is a genius. You are stunning.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Rebecca stood in front of the girls’ cloakroom mirror and made a face at the alien image glaring back at her. “I look like an idiot.”

  “Are you serious?” Emma pushed her up against the sink. “Either you are insane or blind. Look in the mirror, and tell me what you see.”

  “Cleopatra. I look as if someone’s punched me. But I do like the hair, I admit.” She twisted and turned, still awed by how her sis had managed to tame her unruly mane into a sleek curtain of shining hair. Granted, it had taken two bottles of serum, several diva tantrums, and jet-propelled straighteners to do it, but Rebecca had to admit, it lent a certain air of sophistication.

  Conscious of her cleavage, she hoisted up the bodice of the peach silk Grecian style frock Vicky had dug out of her cast-off bag. No wonder her mother was upset. The label on it read one hundred pounds. “You don’t think it’s too much, do you? I feel so exposed.”

  “Rebecca Harding, this dress is divine. I hate to admit it, but your sister does have impeccable taste. You look so…so classy, very Audrey Hepburn. And, just for the record, I think it’s great you’re doing this for Peter. Brendon is such a wuss.”

  Rebecca grunted her agreement. “Oh well, time to face the masses.” With one last tug at the bodice, she followed Emma into the gym.

  As soon as they opened the double swing doors, a wall of sound hit them. Rebecca gaped at the teeming mass of bodies she barely recognised as her fellow pupils. She wanted to go home. “Everyone’s staring at me, Em. Oh, please tell Peter I can’t do this.” She turned to make her escape, only to be dragged back by Emma’s vulture like talons.

  “Don’t be so wet.” She pulled her toward the bar where their dates waited. “They can’t get over how great you look.”

  Propping up this theory, Julie and her gang of ‘pole-dancer’ friends circled her. “Wow! Nice gear, Becs.” Julie gave her a once over. “Should I be threatened?”

  “Hardly.” Rebecca shot her what she hoped was a disdainful look, but her heart wasn’t in it. Pulse racing and stomach doing the can-can, she searched the crowd.

  “She’s right.” Peter grinned and raised his plastic cup in salute. “I must say, Becs, you do brush up well.”

  “What....oh thank you, although some remnant of the old me is telling me to kick you in the shins.”

  “Not very good at the art of subtlety, are you?” Emma whispered before pinching her arm. “He’s over there in the corner…with her.”

  The urge to turn and stare almost overpowered her. No good. Self-control was not her forte. She turned only to find herself face to face with Brendon.

  “Well, well, well.” His alcohol fuelled breath hit her in the face, making her want to heave. “What do we have here?” His shark gaze swivelled round and latched on to Peter. “Well done. I’m impressed. Not convinced but ten out of ten for trying.” He turned his attention back to Rebecca. “What’s in it for you? You look amazing, by the way.” He ran his tongue over his lips in a way that made her stomach contract.

  A worm of the old fear burrowed its way up from where she’d worked so hard on burying it. She willed herself to remain in control. For Peter’s sake, she had to hold on to her temper. He looked ready to explode. “Brendon, why don’t you go and bother someone who is deranged enough to appreciate you. I don’t know why you think you’d impress me. You are nothing but a huge bore. My dog has a bigger IQ than you and is actually better looking, so run along and leave us in peace.”

  “You think you’re so smart, don’t you.” Although he smiled, Rebecca knew she’d hit a nerve. “One day, you’re going to come tumbling down off that pedestal you and your chums, here, have put you on, and I can’t wait for that to happen.” He stormed off, followed by his faithful hound, Andy.

  “Way to go, Becs.” Emma giggled. “Did you see his face?”

  Rebecca had, and it scared her.

  “I suppose I ought to be mad, seeing as, basically, you just de-nutted me in front of him, but thanks, Becs.” Peter did his best to make a joke of it, but Rebecca knew he was shaken.

  “Leave it mate.” Simon did the guy shoulder squeeze thing. “He’s not worth it. He’s such a dick. Come, my dearest Em, time for a boogie, methinks. Coming, Becs? I want to see if you can dance as well as you play soccer.” Simon beckoned her to follow.

  “Oh no.” Rebecca backed away as Peter advanced. “I told you. That is not in the game plan. Off you go and play, children. I am quite happy here, thank you.”

  “You’re a lost cause, you know that, don’t you?” Emma murmured against her ear. “Give it up. He hasn’t even noticed you.”

  Mouth open, ready to fire off a barrage of scathing retorts, Rebecca changed her mind. Emma was right. Mr. J. was too engrossed with Miss Holmes. Oh to be ten years older and blonde. Oh hell, now she knew she needed help. She wished she was blonde?

  Elbow leaning on the bench masqueraded as a bar, she watched her friends gyrate in time to the latest Gaga. A rush of affection swelled inside her heart, paired with an envious twinge. They seemed so carefree and happy. She loved them to bits. They’d been her rocks throughout her ordeal, and yet, she felt so detached from them. How could they understand what was in her heart? Standing in the room, engulfed by all so many people, she’d never felt so lonely.

  From beneath the curtain of hair, she glanced over to the far corner of the gym, where Mr. J. stood on door patrol. Miss Holmes remained glued to his side, every now and again, leaning in to whisper in his ear. Rebecca was too far back to read Mr. J.’s expression, but she saw he smiled. She wanted to cry. If only he would look up and notice her, but he seemed too absorbed in whatever sweet nothings Miss Holmes shared with him. Of course, the old Rebecca, the pre-frazzled brain cells Rebecca, would have marched up to them and made her presence known, battered the biology teacher with her most disdainful glower, and demanded Mr. J.’s attention.

  “Becs, you’re so pathetic. Just do it.” Smoothing her skirts, and checking her boobs remained covered, she pushed her way across the dance floor only to find they’d disappeared. Consternation booted out anxiety. To her right, the swing doors still moved, telling her they’d gone into the corridor. She knew it was daft to go after them, but some weird masochistic force pushed her through the double doors and… Her breath froze in her lungs as an incredible hurt twisted her guts. Hand over her mouth, she held in a disappointed cry. How could he? How could he be kissing her? Turning on her satin flats, she pushed through the main doors into the dark, damp night. Peter was on his own. She was going home.

  Good plan but hardly implementable. Rebecca shivered in the dimly lit car park. Her get-up was scant protection against the freezing English night, but she was damned if she was going back to fetch her coat.

  Cold and despondent, she considered getting a taxi. Saturday night in Thamesford was notoriously bad for public transport, but of course, she remembered she had no money. She could walk it, she supposed, but the prospect was too daunting, and if caught, her father would ground her for good.

  Hearing footsteps behind her, her stomach clenched in fear. She spun round, her hand raised, ready
to lash out. “Brendon...” Her heart beat again. “What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing. What’s up, Becs? Have you just found out your ‘boyfriend’ is a faggot?” His alcohol dulled eyes gleamed in the neon glow of the street lamps. “I told you to stick with me.” He moved in closer.

  Rebecca took a cautious step back. His stale breath brought bile to her throat. Her heart hammered so hard she thought it would burst through her chest wall. Fists clenched behind her back, she willed herself to outstare him. She couldn’t allow him to see how much he scared her; she’d had enough practice at doing that.

  “I’m going home, so why don’t you run along and leave me alone? Don’t you get tired of bothering people?”

  “Not you. You are so worth bothering, especially in that get up.” Expression wild, his gaze dropped onto her breasts, as he licked his lips in a blatantly lecherous manner. “I know you want it.”

  Rebecca swayed. A thousand insidious memories clicked open and shut in her mind. He had spewed the same filth at her over and over again, making her feel so dirty and too vulnerable. She felt herself falling into a black void, dragged down by the hands of hell.

  “Come on, babe.” She heard the words, distant as if coming from the bottom of a deep well. Dangerous and threatening. Pain raked her spine as Brendon pushed her up against the railings and pressed his body against her, trapping her in the reoccurring dream nightmare. Reality blurred with horrific recollections. It was no longer Brendon who held her prisoner.

  No one was coming to save her. He was closing in. His acrid stench filled her nostrils, and she whimpered. Down she went again, knees connecting with a sharp stone, cutting into already too abused flesh. Her skin crawled as her pursuer curled a calloused hand around her neck. “Not so fast, you bitch…”

  Not again; never again. Blind rage coursed through her veins, and with a frenzied howl, she put her hands on his chest and pushed him away. She lashed out, nails flaying his face. Brendon staggered back, screaming in pain, his hands on his cheeks. Blood poured between splayed fingertips. Rebecca hit out again and again, not stopping when he stumbled to the floor, kicking at his head, his stomach, anywhere she could reach. He tried to crawl away, but in her revenge-crazed turmoil, she heard and saw nothing.