You park in the student lot.
I get out of the bug. “See you soon.” I wave a kiss and head off. You’ve got things to do. And I’m not in the mood. You go toward the theatre.
I’m at the courtyard. Stairs going into the main entrance. Part of the building passes over the area where we wait in the morning to go in.
BJ standing on one of the concrete bench/table things with his hands in the air. Doing some hackey sack move. He flips it up. Dyson misses it. It rolls away. And Dyson’s running to catch it. With his tattooed head, his chains jingling.
Molly’s face deep in a tiny blue book, her playbook. She reads it with stern eyes. Her back against a square column. Ass on the concrete. Last year Dyson had Molly convinced that the world was gonna end and now they don’t speak anymore. I don’t think BJ ever really believed it but he went along with it. Sharon? I don’t know if Sharon believed it. But Molly definitely did. I never really knew how to approach the whole issue. What’s the nice way to tell someone they have a messiah complex?
BJ sits down in front of Molly. Molly wraps him in her legs. She’s wearing a teal leotard under a fur coat and she presses her breasts into BJ’s back. Molly’s breasts are smaller than mine but they work out ok in a leotard. She’s brushing her hands through BJ’s hair. Biting his neck. She wore that same leotard yesterday. If I was alone with Molly I would cut up her tits with a mirror shard. And I would cut up her whole body. I’d probably torture her. I’m very sick.
Molly sees me. “Top of the day.”
Top of the day yourself. I say. “Hi.”
Lowering her book. “How does the wintry sun meet you this morning?”
I just ignore her. I’m sick of this Renaissance Fair bullshit.
Molly tries to stand and come after me but BJ sits her down and she goes back to biting his neck. She’s very well trained.
Dyson kisses one of his chains and puts his arm around me. “And where is William?”
“How should I know?” I take his arm off. “I can’t keep track of your boyfriends.”
Dyson sits next to Jared. On the concrete in front of them is a chess mat. Dyson looks at me and kisses his chains again. Jared is tapping pieces on the concrete, the mat, his head, and swapping and changing pieces on the board—check check check. Tap tap tap. Swap. Tap. Check. And with his other hand, he’s writing. Schematics? Architectural plans? There’s some angles in there. The guy is either an idiot savant or maybe possibly he’s got something. Either way, Jared’s definitely a thug. Him and Dyson robbed a Burger King earlier this year.
I go sit by my puddle. It’s muddy today. My mud puddle is away from everyone. Over by the wall. I drop my bag and sit on the concrete. I’m folding a tiny piece of paper. Making a paper hat. If you crimp the edges right, it’s a hat-boat. I place it carefully in the pond. Watch the sleeves. Watch the sleeves. Don’t want to get them dirty. Float the hat-boat on the water. Breeze blowing. It feels more like May than February. This would be a good day to skip. Let’s skip, William. Let’s go to the park and ride the spring ponies, the spring ponies, ride them back and forth, back and forth. Let’s hide in the treehouse. Ride the welded streetcar. I will suggest this to you when I see you next. Go paper hat. Float boat. Ride on your tiny wind.
The bell rings and everyone moves at once.
I look around. I watch them go up the main steps. All these people. And they’re all so clockable. Most of them I can tell you everything you would ever need to know just by looking at them. Tell you easier than I can spell their name. A name is very important. If I can spell you, often I know everything I need to know about you. If I can do you like C-a-r-o-l or N-a-d-i-a or M-a-r-c-u-s then I definitely have you. For a Jared it’s not as simple, and we have to look beyond spelling. But spelling is very important. I look out at this crowd. Some of you are playing hackey sack. And some of you are writing textbooks. Basically what you’re doing right now is what you’ll be doing for the rest of your lives.
I’m up the steps and through the main doors. I go through the metal detector and raise my arms for the wand. A group of girls examines me.
Security. We have cameras in the hallways. Surrounded by semi-spherical mirrors. The mirrors are made of plastic so if someone breaks them they won’t hurt anyone. All the doors are locked so that you can’t get in from the outside. They are kept that way all the time except for short segments during lunch when you can take a break outside or in the morning for a few minutes when everyone comes inside. We have armed security guards. They used to carry just pistols but now they have big guns. They don’t always carry their rifles, except at the doors. But the main office has an ammo room now. It used to be someone’s office. Now it’s walled with guns. Guards are on the court during basketball games. During plays there are guards at the theatre doors. You’re watching Our Town, or The Miracle Worker, and there are rent-a-cops with major artillery standing behind you. I guess they’re watching too. It must be uncomfortable to watch a play with a rifle in your arms. I mean what are you thinking? They’re looking for some kid to start shooting. Is it gonna be someone on stage—one of the actors? Someone in the audience? Are they gonna come from behind, John Wilkes Booth style? Are they gonna come in the theatre from outside the school and start shooting? It just seems like a lot to worry about while you’re watching a play.
We have security drills. This is in addition to fire drills and tornado drills. Here we don’t have earthquake drills. Security drills are where we pretend that we’re being attacked by people with guns. The guards stand at the doors. We lock doors. We unlock doors. We lock them again. We move from one room to another. We practice going from our various classrooms to being all together in the auditorium. I’m not sure what the purpose of that is. So we can all be shot at in one central place? Aren’t you an easier target when everyone’s together? What if we’re in the middle of a security drill, locked in the auditorium, and there’s a fire?
None of the outside doors have windows. They’re steel fire doors. The inside doors are wooden and have a tiny square window at the top. The windows are plastic. Inside each window is a criss-crossed wire mesh. Every window on the outside of the school has an additional wire grid plating. Diagonal grids of wavy bars. This is so that in a tornado the shards of plastic won’t fly around and cut you. Or to keep out burglars or something. Not that there’s anything to steal. I mean what would you steal? It’s a fricking school. What are you gonna steal, a whiteboard?
Security is a joke. They stop and ask for these ultraviolet passes. Shine their little light on them. Make sure they’re really ultraviolet. Give me a break. You can print that shit out on the internet.
You’re not supposed to be allowed to bring knives into the school. Not even a one-inch knife on a keychain. But of course everyone has them. If they say we can’t have them, people bring them in just to break the rule. I guess it’s a good rule. People stab each other with X-Acto knives all the time. I saw this kid in shop class, Anton Reddy. He got stabbed in the chest by this kid Blaise in the machine shop. They were just playing around. They weren’t even fighting. But a piece of Anton’s chest came out and they suspended Blaise. It was a very exact cut. This little chunk of Anton’s chest came right out. But the point about the X-Acto knives is that they’re available in school. They’re in the shop room. They’re in the art classes. There’s a rule you can’t bring knives to school but the school already has knives in it. There are knives that are required to be in school. So essentially we have a rule that there have to be knives in school, but there’s also a rule that there can’t be knives in school. There’s a law downtown like that. It’s illegal to sit on the sidewalks downtown. But they don’t care if say a pregnant woman sits down on the sidewalk because she’s tired. The law is just there so they can arrest people they want to arrest anyway. Or the way we “punish” people for skipping class. The ones who actually get caught for such things. They put you in the lunchroom. It’s called hall sweep. If you’re cutting class, “wandering the halls,” they put you in the lunchroom for the rest of the period. So let me get this straight. If I don’t want to go to class, and I’m wandering the halls, then you’ll put me in the lunchroom for the rest of the period, preventing me from going to class. You’re helping me not go to class. If they wanted you to be in class they would put you in class. But that’s the thing. They don’t want you to be in class. Pseudo-intellectuals—Jenna for example—will argue this type of thing with you to hell and back. They’ll say that you can’t have “people like that” in class with the people who really want to learn. But Jenna’s wrong. People who are sort-of smart trip themselves up with thoughts. If the mission of the school is to teach people, then helping people not go to class is not something you do. There’s actually no discussion that needs to happen after that point. Except pseudo-intellectuals like Jenna think that there is. But their arguments are based on—basically stuff that’s too disgusting for me to think about. Stuff that ends with -ism.
The security guard never really checks my bag anymore. He just pokes around the top. Pushes around some Somerset Maugham. Maybe a little Kierkegaard. Then says. “Arright young lady.” And waves me on.
I love that guy. I heft my bag off the table.
Some voice from somewhere: “I think it’s just indecent. I hope you never become a mom.”
Who said that? Was that about my clothes? Is that fucking Jenna? Why is it that people who are such bitches to me are also so hot? Maybe they’re just hot to me because they’re bitches. I can’t tell. It was Jenna. There’s that pack of them up there. It’s Jenna, Sara Krey, Jessica Tak, and Kristen Picket. And Jenna’s looking straight at me. Fucking whores. They’re gonna become moms? I’d like to see that.
They’re still talking about me. I’m walking past them and they’ve all stopped to stare. They’re looking at my stockings, then back at my face, then at my skirt. Jenna says. “Too bad you learned how to dress from your mom.”
I say. “Too bad you got your face from yours.” And I keep walking. But it’s not true. Jenna’s face is fine. I mean, from an objective point of view, her face, her skin, her hair—it’s perfect.
From behind me I hear. “Try not dressing like a whore. Bitch.” That’s Jenna.
Then Kristen Picket with. “They’re giving free abortions at Planned Parenthood.” Which doesn’t even make any sense. But I let it go.
Choke your ass next time. “Do you want to get choked?” I say that under my breath. My face is burning. But I keep walking. What are you gonna do with people like that? I’m headed for the office. Ten minutes till homeroom. Although I’m probably skipping homeroom today. I don’t hear anything more from Jenna and Company. My heart’s beating a little fast. Hopefully they’re not back there filling a Coke bottle with sulfuric acid and about to spray it on me. That happened once in this hallway. Not between me and them. But still, I think about it when I’m here. I think people who just have babies and do nothing else are cop-outs. I mean people who all they do with their lives is have kids. Of course I was born, and it’s kind of a strange thing to say “thank you” for, but I guess if I was being interviewed and someone asked me, I’d say thanks to my mom for having me. Some people imagine their weddings when they’re young. Did you know that? They see themselves getting married and making babies and being happy. Apparently most people do this. Like it’s normal to imagine such a future. But I don’t see myself getting married. Unless you wanted to. I think there’s something wrong with me.
Down the hall I’m filling out forms in Mr. Baumgartner’s. At the circle table. Couple kids waiting, another kid at the table with me. Girl I don’t know. New girl. Transfer. I’m writing with my gel pen so I don’t have to press so hard. Graduation Year Desired: this one. Course Hours Completed: all of them. Summer School/Additional Credits: list the details. Reason For Decision: Because this place fucking sucks. Reason for Decision. Write: omitted. This field intentionally left blank. Because this place is a stewing ground for illiterate racist idiots? They should have checkboxes and that should be one of the options. Check. Because I find it difficult to learn inside a prison? Check. Because: I want you all to go to hell? Smiley face. Double underline. Please go to hell. Would you like us to go to hell? Please check one: yes/no. Yes, definitely. Today if possible. Permanent residence desired. I will send you postcards. Sign my name. Student ID Number: unknown. Look it up yourself. Signed and dated. Fuck y’all. Have a nice year. Without me. Happily without me.
I stand. The transfer kid checks out my stockings. I put the form on Mr. Baumgartner’s desk and I’m out the door.
Mr. Baumgartner calls me back. He tries to stop me.
I don’t answer. I close the door in his face: shut nice and neat.
Through the glass, Mr. Baumgartner saying something. He’s on mute.
I wave. Smile. Turn and go.
I’m in the main office negotiating with this psycho-bitch employed by the school.
She passes my form back over the counter. “You need to put an X here.”
“Are you kidding? I already put an X in like three different places.”
“This X means that you acknowledge you waive the right to request school-reimbursed textbook expenses after this year.”
X. Quick and Easy Done. Pass it back to her.
She’s shaking her head. “Won’t you miss hanging out with your friends next year?”
This bitch obviously doesn’t understand. I don’t have any friends. Just smile at her. She’ll lose interest in a second. They have difficulty concentrating on one subject for long periods of time. I take a paperclip from her organizer and while she’s blubbering I run it into my arm. The skin above my wrist. Just poke it right in. Puncture it. How do you like that? You don’t. You don’t notice. I could probably ram this paperclip in both my eyes while I’m standing here and you’d keep talking. What was that? You don’t think it’s a good idea that I miss my senior year? You don’t know that these summer classes are going to fulfill the standard graduation requirements? Well too bad. Too bad for you, you widowed whore, but keep talking. Drag this paperclip against my arm all day if I have to listen to you. Cut that white ball of hair off a potentially bald head. Is that a wig you fucking—punch. I punched another hole in my forearm. That one’s bleeding. A little dead white sliver of skin coming off around part of the hole. From where I scraped it before. Oh you noticed? Yes I’ll take a tissue. Set the paperclip down on her desk, bloody tip and all. Yeah, slide your chair back you sheltered suburbia bitch, I know where you park your car. No I don’t need to go to the nurse. “What’s she gonna do, issue a bandaid?” Give me a piece of that Scotch tape from your dispenser. See. All better. Fixed. Quick and Easy Done. Q.E.D. You were saying? No. Please continue. I don’t need to see a counselor. Please continue. I was enthralled. Let’s have another piece of tape. I’ll tape your mouth shut if you say another word. Say it. Say it. Say something else.
Tape you shut.
Spencer next to me talking to another of these office bitches. “Well. I wouldn’t say that I’m exactly happy to be back.” Then insanely quickly: “But I’m glad you’re happy that I’m back.” Then normal speed: “I’m.” Then a drawn-out pause. I’m—“elated that today is Tuesday.” Then insanely quickly: “As Tuesday is the best day of the week but.” Then a drawn-out pause. Then at normal speed: “Under the circumstances, no.” Then a pause. “I wouldn’t.” Then a pause. “Say.”—“That.”—“I”—“Am.”—“Exactly.”—“Happy.” Then insanely quickly: “To be back.” That’s Spencer.
Here’s Spencer’s fucking bitch clerk at the desk. “So. It’s already first period. Give this note to Mr. Meechen.”
Spencer shuffling with his briefcase. Just for show. Not opening it. Not getting anything out of it. Not putting anything into it. For all we know there’s not even anything in it. But just for show. Clacking it on the countertop faking a knee spasm jerking his leg upward and slamming it on the briefcase causing an involuntary shoulder jerk hitting himself in the eye with the corner of the briefcase throwing his head backward and his whole body jumping back a foot. This is a kid in eleventh grade. I can’t wait to see what he’s like when he’s thirty.
Spencer’s bitch clerk smiles politely at him. I doubt the look on my face is that supportive. “Ok!” She says meaninglessly.
Spencer sees me on his way out of the office. He adjusts his glasses. They go from crooked. To straight. “Cheerio.” An elaborate tip of an imaginary hat, a courtesy, a bow. He ends up on one foot somehow.
“Cheers.” I say.
Auditorium. You and Mrs. Reece and them will be in there practicing. Play opens Friday. The Diary of Anne Frank. I never got into theatre. Lean back on the double doors. Through them. Stage lights on. House lights off. Mrs. Reece, fat, sitting smack in the middle of the auditorium. Smattering of students around her. She’s watching the stage intently. She doesn’t see me come in. I hear your voice. Raspy, muted, deep. Like your sister’s. It’s not the voice I would expect given your face. I slip behind the curtain. Set my bag down gently. June is here, goofy little June. Ass on a crate. Elbows on her knees. Chin in the palms of her hands. Tacky fishnets over pale legs. She’s looking onstage. Is she watching my William?
That fucking bitch is watching my William.
Bright white of unpainted backdrops in the spotlights. Light coming through from the stage to where we are behind the curtains. June glares at me and I’m sure I glare back. She’s a simplistic whore. What else do you want me to say?
I go and stand between her and the stage. If she’s watching William, make her work for it. You can’t spend all your time bumming around backstage at high school plays. I mean come on. And it is you she’s watching. You’re doing a scene with Molly. Molly’s supposed to be your daughter. Which is kind of weird because I’m pretty sure you like each other in real life. I know she likes you. I think you like her. You probably do. I mean she has a pussy. And she writes weird intellectual poetry. Which I’m sure you like. What can I say? It’s not my style. I think intellectuals are full of shit. But if that’s what you’re into. What can I do. Now June. That I will never understand.
I turn my head back to June. The bitch has stood up and is watching your scene. Her eyes dart to me. Hatred. Good. Hate me. I want you to.
You are giving some fatherly advice to Molly’s character. Molly is playing Anna Frank. You are Mr. Frank. Your hair is poofy and beautiful. When you are done I will kiss you. I may kiss you everywhere on your body, right in front of these people. Pull you into the shadow of the stage curtain. Touch you everywhere. Molly is leaning back on you and you put your hand on her head approvingly. You would make a wonderful father. And I know just how to arrange that. You’re so loving and careful. We just have to fuck first. Can’t seem to get that to happen. I mean it’s a logistical problem. It’s mainly a logistical problem.
The lights go out. Was that the end of the scene? It seemed like kind of an awkward ending.
Mrs. Reece’s voice booming from the seats. “Go get some water, go to the bathroom, meet back here in ten minutes.”
Unintelligible talk from kids in the seats.
Mrs. Reece. “Hurry back. Work out your bodies. Do some stretching. You have ten minutes. Be here at 25 after.”
Molly walks past me. “Hey.” She says.
June’s voice. “That was great Molly!”
You try to walk past me. I grab your belt. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
We’re in the curtain folds. I bite your neck. Your hands on my torso. The bottom of my breasts. I’m pulling you to me and your tongue is on my neck.
“So I have ten minutes with you, huh?”
You bite me hard.
The lights are off and Mrs. Reece is getting some water herself so we move to Anna Frank’s couch. Or Anna Frank’s parents’ couch. Or maybe it’s their spare couch. The one that didn’t make the cut to go in the living room. The one pushed to the dark of a backstage corner. Between the stage curtain and the back wall. I’m lying down. My back on the scratchy fabric. You’re kneeling on top of me. I look over the back of the furniture across the set. June’s gone. Back to class? Molly too. To do stretches. Probably right outside in the hall. The weight of you on top of me. Your hands, your wrists, my ankles, pulled tight and awkward in leather boots. This is why I wear stockings. This is the reason I wear these boots. Skin sheared by silk. Cased in leather. Your leg is on my crotch. Pressing in to me. Then bright light. Someone opened the door.
It’s Jason. And Mrs. Reece with him.
Jason screws up his face. Affected surprise. And says. “O-kaaay.”
Mrs. Reece says. “William, I need you on the stage in eight minutes.” Then Mrs. Reece looks at me. She shakes her head.
Why do they do that? Bizarre looks. Disapproving stares. Don’t I deserve a verbal admonition?
Mrs. Reece lets the door fall closed.
You are intent on me. You are holding the back of my neck. “Let’s go upstairs.”
Upstairs. In Anna Frank’s bed. I guess this is where Anna Frank’s parents have sex. There’s some scene in the bedroom. I think the whole family sleeps here actually. The shop class built a second floor into the set. It’s just one room with a mattress and a lamp in it. You get there by climbing a ladder. Was Anna Frank’s bedroom like this I wonder?
I’m pulling up your shirt. My hands on your navel, your belly, your nipples.
You’re kissing me and your hands are going down my skirt.
I stop your hand before it gets to Jenna’s panties.
This second floor shakes when you even sit down on the bed. You must have to be very careful when you do scenes here. The bed isn’t even on a stand. It’s just a mattress on a plywood floor. A lamp plugged into an extension cord. Unpainted particle-board walls. No blankets. A funny smell in the mattress. The real Anna Frank bedroom was probably worse.
I don’t know if I want to have sex with you right now William. I don’t know if I can. In my dreams it’s always in a hammock. I think I must have had some questionable childhood experience in a hammock. I imagine bare feet. Ropes. Feet on ankles. Wriggling toes. I imagine our hair together. Running together like water. Or wind. Strands of it entwined. Our hands locked. Our entire self locked.
You’re whispering dirty things to me.
In a few minutes the rehearsal is gonna start again. Maybe they can keep going without you. And you can stay here with me. We can make love while they do some other scenes. “What are you doing second period?”
Your fingers on my neck. You say. “Going to class?”
“Boo.” I can feel your weight on me. “Meet me in the paint lab.”
You’re pressing me into Anna Frank’s parents’ mattress.
“What are you doing after school?”
You bite my bottom lip.
“Come to the print lab.”
You stop biting me. “After the test?”
“The test? It’s called the PSAT. Yes, after the test.”
“Ok but now you have to go. We’re gonna rehearse—”
“I know.” I punch you in the stomach.
You laugh.
“Are there any scenes of the play without you in them?”
You give me one light kiss on my forehead, which I hate.
I take that as a no.