In Mr. Walker’s, I brush by people painting. Walker sees me, keeps talking. He’s showing Ed Lawrence how to do hair highlights with a sponge.
Sculpture studio. Drop my bag on the floor. Pull the string on the overhead light. Sit. Everything where I left it. Check my paints. Has anyone been in here messing around with my stuff? Doesn’t seem so. Check the water. Still have water. Dry this brush on a rag. Adjust my legs. Whores. That’s all these bitches are is whores. My canvas is fine. Board-canvas. I hate stretching them. Board canvas is my life. Photo emulsion is my life. Acrylic is my life. With the occasional interruption of whores. Just paint. Sit here and paint. Reproduce this photo the best I can and don’t get emotional. Definitely don’t get emotional.
Mr. Walker at the studio door. “Need anything?” Sweetest man in the world.
“No.”
Ok. He closes the door. Almost all the way. Back to teaching.
It’s a class out there and it’s a class in here. We proceed side by side. Where’s my slab-brush? Where’s my sandpaper? There. Get some brown. Tear off a strip of sandpaper, rub off the paint with it. Sand off a layer of acrylic. Down below to what I painted yesterday. I’m a boat in an ocean. The paper hat we folded. Set my boat in a mud puddle. Set me down and wind blow, blow. I paint with brown. I wear brown. I paint with black. I wear black. I paint with red. I wear red. Maybe a little olive green in there. Pea green, like you. And some white. Sweet pea, William. Sweet pea, my Pony Boy, steeped in olive green acrylic.
I’m painting this photo of you. The one I took without you knowing. When you were in Miss Theobald’s class, looking at a book of Man Ray. It’s what I’ve been painting for the last two weeks. Trying to get it right on canvas. I’m not very good with acrylics. And I’m going for a perfect reproduction.
After kneeling in this studio for ten minutes, I need to adjust. Jenna’s panties are sticking out of mine a little uncomfortably. I don’t want them to fall all the way out. I get up (carefully). I (carefully) go to Mr. Walker’s easel.
He keeps painting. He’s a great painter. And he has a perfect job. He just paints all day and lets us paint beside him. He half-turns his head and looks at me through thick glasses. “Yes?”
“I need to go across the hall.”
“Be my guest. Oh wait. Take that in case someone sees you.”
I take an ultraviolet hall pass from the table next to him. Mr. Walker and I have an understanding about all this hall-pass/hall-sweep stuff. It’s ignorant. Mr. Walker is definitely on the level. I glance at the floor of the sculpture studio—none of my notebooks are open or anything. Then I (carefully) cross the hall.
School bathrooms are gross enough to turn even me off, so this will be quick.
I’m back in the sculpture studio for a minute and Mr. Walker is at the door. You’re with him. Olive boy in a pony suit.
Mr. Walker says. “You have a guest.”
William, boy. Pea boy in a pony suit. You sit beside me.
Mr. Walker leaves the studio door open. Goes back to his class.
I say. “If I don’t kill myself then I’m gonna have to stop talking to people.”
You say. “Then stop talking to them.”
That is a good idea. That is a good idea. If I can’t make them not-stupid then I might have to. I might have to stop talking to them. The only problem is. Who am I gonna talk to?
You sit behind me and put your legs on either side.
“Did you need me for something?”
“I didn’t come for you.” You pick up our doll. It’s our naked Barbie. You’re twisting her. Making her straddle a pencil sticking out of a heating vent.
I look at you pointedly. Put my hand on the Barbie. You know what I mean. Today. You know what I mean. I’m brushing my fingertips on your skin and you get distracted. When we make out there’s something of you that’s not there. I think you’re thinking. Thinking too much. About things that are not here. Discussing things in your mind with yourself. Which I understand. Saying things in symbols. Maybe words. I turn your face to mine. Bite your lip. Look at me. Here you are. I am the Barbie. You are the pencil. Love in a box of pencils. See, there. I have some irony, too. I know a kiss is a farce, that love is a joke being played on us. I know that. But I like our joke. And I think you like it too.
You kiss the side of my neck. Kiss behind my ear. Put your hands on my stomach. All of this gives me some nervous comfort.
I say. “I don’t want to talk.” And I go back to painting.
You say. “I know that.”
I twist so I’m facing you. “But you have to stay.” I squeeze you.
“I will.” You open a notebook. It’s got some scientific scribbles in it I don’t understand. Perfect boy.
I paint. Sand down the browns. Mix in water. Dry the wet brush on a pad of newsprint. Use a corner of a rag when I have to scratch my face. Don’t want paint from my hands to get there. You write, Pony Boy, you make your scribbles. I don’t understand those plans. I am sure that I do not want to. And while you draw your plans, I’ll work on my reproduction of you. There are things you say on paper. There are things you say in words. Perfection is knowing when to say things on paper and when to say them with words. You are perfect, Pony Boy. I don’t know how you got that way. But I don’t question it.
I do not look at your plans, your notebooks. I do not ask questions about them. I draw piglets in their margins from time to time, mock you by casually underlining sections I deem important. Make words that rhyme with fragments of words that appear in your notes. Write them in pink, or green, or purple, or blue. Always carry gel pens. Keep them in my pockets. Keep one in the top of my bag. Note to self: never write on people’s skin, no matter how cute you think it makes them look. Ink is bad for the skin. It seeps into the blood and then into the brain. You do not want gel pen ink seeping into your brain. Am I correct? Yes, I think I am correct. You do not want ink in your brain. The place for ink is paper.
Barbie doll at my side. You’re poking me with her leg.
Her legs are at right angles. “Is she horny?”
Your voice in my ear. “She needs it.”
I half-turn to you. “In here?”
“In the auditorium.”
“It’s locked.”
“Not through the balcony.”
I kiss you. “I’ll see you in the darkroom later. Now I’m painting. And I need to paint or I’ll go crazy. Leave me alone. Work on your plans. Meet me—ow!!”
You bit my ear.
I push you back. Turn. My knees on top of you. “You hurt me.”
You lift my skirt and slide under me. Then you bite me. Slow, firm, gentle. Your teeth raking my neck.
The bell rings. Fourth period.
I look at the open door to the sculpture studio. Everyone’s cleaning up their stuff but no one’s looking in here. They’re probably too scared. No. “No.”
“What’s wrong?”
I push you off. “I’ve got to go to work class.”
Work class. That’s where we do community service work around the school. But not because we committed crimes. Just because we go to school. Work class for me is right before lunch. Today our job is painting parking bumpers. That’s the thing that’s supposed to stop you if you pull your car too far into the space.
Dobos is our work class administrator. He’s swirling a couple melted pieces of ice around in a red plastic cup. It has a sippy-cup lid on the top. Like the kind you give to a toddler so they don’t spill apple juice in your car. This is the cup Dobos always drinks out of. “Flunk Annie Flunk. Flunk Maureen. Flunk Devon.” This is the way Dobos speaks to us. “I want to see some effort! Do you want to flunk?” Dobos is walking up and down our ranks.
We’re standing in the teachers’ parking lot waiting to get started.
“Do you know how fucked up you are?”
A smattering of “no”s from the crowd. This goes faster if you answer him.
“You’re so fucked up you don’t know how fucked up you are. Flunk Manny.”
Manny looks sideways. It’s hard to know the appropriate reaction to the things Dobos says.
“I brought you out here to think about how fucked up you are. And by the end of this period.” Dobos swirls the ice in his sippy-cup. “I want you to be able to tell me how fucked up you are. That’s something you should be able to tell me about yourselves.”
I’m looking at the back of Jenna’s head. Her satin brown hair. One tail of her white shirt, untucked, coming from the bottom of her jacket.
Dobos picks off the first two girls. “Get your paint. You two.” Jenna. Kristen Picket. “Get in pairs. Lead man gets the mop. Tail man gets the paint.” Dobos pushes Jenna and Kristen by their shoulders. He pushes them at their row of parking spaces. Then he points directly at my face. “You’re tail man.” He pulls me forward and picks my partner. Jessica Tak. “Tak. Get your ass over here. You’re lead man. Flunk Annie Flunk. You two take the second row. How many can you do in an hour? First one to finish doesn’t have to clean up. Race Annie Race.”
“Why can’t we paint with rollers?”
“We can’t afford rollers!”
“Or brushes?”
“Flunk Jenna Flunk.” Dobos gives Annie Markowicz the next mop. “Burn Annie Burn.”
I’m painting my second parking bumper with Jessica Tak. Jessica Tak is a prime candidate for a MacArthur Genius Award. Based on her broad contributions to society. She’s not helping me. I’m running the mop. I’m pushing the mop bucket. I’m probably gonna be the one making trips to replenish the paint. In fact, if Jessica Tak gets any more helpful, I’m gonna give her one million dollars myself. We’re gonna hold the MacArthur award ceremony right here in the parking lot. Cunts like Jessica Tak are the type of people who if you’re painting parking bumpers and you use up your mop, and they have a spare mop, and you’re painting parking bumpers together, she will hold back on you and keep the other mop “for herself.” Thinking somehow that in this fucked up situation there is such a thing as her benefiting from keeping the extra mop for herself. Cunts like Jessica Tak aren’t the type of people who understand that step one is dipping the mop into the paint bucket. Step one-and-a-half is getting an entire row of parking bumpers painted before Dobos decides to keep you during lunch. Or flunk you. And step two may never happen because by the time you get to step two you probably already got flunked. Cunts like Jessica Tak think that they’re probably gonna get to step ten. They’ve worked up in their minds how great step ten is gonna be to the point that they’re complete fucktards when it comes to helping you with step one. Cunts like Jessica Tak are the kind of people who while they’re sabotaging you on step one will stand there doing nothing except pinching the clean mop between their legs. And staring you down. While you’re bent over painting parking bumpers with a dirty mop in toxic lead paint and inhaling the fumes. Jessica Tak makes it very difficult for me to feel good about giving her her MacArthur. This is the kind of person I tend to get stuck with in work class. Not because I’m doing anything to attract them. Just because of all the people out there, most of them are like Jessica Tak.
Jenna and Kristen are on the row in front of us. Marcel and Jared are on the row behind us.
“Do you know how long I was fingering that girl?” This is Marcel.
“No.”
“I fingered the fuck out of that girl. I fingered that bitch for like half an hour. It took me forever to make that bitch cum. I tried to take my finger out and she put it back in. So I’m fingering her with like three fingers. And I sneak my hand out for a second and it’s like this shit. Smells like blood. By the time that fucking bitch came I had period blood all over my hand. I’m like, dried blood and shit. Fingered that bitch for thirty, forty-five minutes before she came.”
I reach toward Jessica. “Gimme that mop.”
“Oh. I think we might need this tomorrow.”
“We need it now. Hand it over.” She keeps it. She keeps twirling it between her legs. Thanks whore-beast. I’ve got your MacArthur right here and I need to finish painting these parking bumpers so I can give it to you. Thanks for helping me out. No need to say anything now. You’ll need to save that energy for the acceptance speech. With the million bucks you can buy yourself a new face. With the extra we’ll get some soap to get the pussy blood off Marcel’s hands. And some latex gloves to finger girls with next time. Fucking asshole. “She probably didn’t even cum.” I suggest.
“Oh, she came. She came after forty-five minutes!”
Jared chimes in. “She was probably faking ‘cause she wanted you to get your hand out of her cunt.”
“She put my hand back in, fool. I fingered the fuck out of that pussy. Then she came.”
“Did you fuck her?”
“Of course. Why do you think I spent so long making that bitch come? Then I could do my thing.”
Upon hearing this Jessica farts. It smells like processed ham.
“Ok. Whatever.”
“I fucked her, bro.”
Jessica’s fart smells horrible. I want to throw up. What does this girl eat?
“Whatever. You fucked her.”
“I did.”
“Good for you.”
I pinch my nose with one hand and extend my other to Jessica. “Gimme the mop.”
Jessica holds the mop behind her. “What? This?” She’s shaking her head. “I think we’re gonna need this for the rest of the row.”
Jared and Marcel are watching.
I say. “Jessica. Give me. The motherfucking mop.”
Do you believe she argues with me? My face burns. I can’t even hear what she’s saying. I guess she doesn’t want her MacArthur. I’m a sheepshit. I should kill this girl in her fucking sleep. Tonight. Never have to smell her dumb-ass farts again. Someone who just met this girl would know she’s a cunt by the way she farts. Swear to god. Some people can’t even do that right. Tell by their farts how fucked up they are.
Finally I get to lunch.
“How ‘bout you hand over some pork sides.” The lunch lady is looking at me with bug eyes. “And a nice big pile of mash potatoes. Just take the scoop. Take the scoop. Fucking bitch.” Laughter from beside me. “There you go. Put the scoop in your warty hand and plop it on there. Get plopping. Get plopping. Mother-whore. Plop it on there. More potatoes. I’m in the mood for potatoes. And another pork side. Put three on there. Why don’t you take the day off. Sow. You fucking sow.” I take my tray and skip past the line. Need milk. Need salt.
My lunch lady shakes her head and talks to the one next to her. “I don’t know if I can work here anymore.”
End of the line. I get salt. Milk. Go right past the place where you’re supposed to pay. The checker looks surprised but nobody says a thing.
Where I sit is as far away as possible from the stupid people. Fortunately, Jenna and Company have a different lunch than me. So I don’t have to look at them. My table is all the way in the corner. Just one table between ours and the door. Everyone’s here but today I’m not in the mood for conversation. I’ve got my pork sides. I’ve got my milk. I unload the ham because it’s reminding me of Jessica Tak’s fart. I place three slices side by side on the table.
Molly doesn’t eat meat. I’d like to feed her that ham after it’s been on the table about 30 minutes. Maybe get some flies in here. Molly’s playbook is open. Face-down. She’s sitting on the back of her chair. BJ stands next to her. He’s got his hands on the teal leotard, right below her breasts. They’re pressing their bodies together. Hold on, hold on, I got this. Janel sees me planning something. I’m standing up in my seat. What does Janel care? I give her the eye. She just gives it back and puts a baby carrot in her mouth. Good girl, that Janel. Molly not looking? Check again. Nope. Ok. Gimme that red drink. Red drink. I take the red drink from Molly’s tray and pour it in her milk. Just a touch. They’re still not looking. A little more red drink. Ok. Set it down. Sit down. Janel shaking her head. I sit back down. Lean back. Where’s my camera? Molly reaches back for her milk. Sips it. Oh! Oh! Classic. Molly does a double-take on the milk then back to flirting with BJ. Just drink it bitch. Next time I will get you on film.
Under the table. Slump down. Look under the table. I’m wearing hard-toed boots. This is why I wear hard-toed boots. Molly sits down in her chair. Pushes it forward. Ohhhh! Kicked her in the shin. Fuck you. Molly looks at me. There’s no one else it could have been, except me. I take a bite of my sandwich and smile with my mouth open. That’s right bitch, I want you to know it was me.
Molly says. “Do you know how far a whale can talk to another whale?” She’s posing this question to me.
Nope. I have no idea. I don’t care.
What an encyclopedia. She continues. “Two whales.” Everyone’s listening. “On opposite sides of the earth. Can talk to each other.”
“Really.” Did you know I have Jenna’s panties on my cunt?
“They do it with low-level vibrations. I mean the amplitude.”
“That’s amazing.” See this? This slight little leg adjustment that you didn’t even notice? That rubs Jenna’s silky panties on my vagina lips. It’s the only thing that makes this conversation bearable.
“It’s low-level amplitude. Long-range waves. There’s a sine curve for it. Like this.”
I lean across the table, my butt lifting from my chair. Yes, Molly, please. Show me the sine curve for how whales talk. That is lovely.