by T. J. LONG
“Then he looked at them all pissy like he wanted to punch them.”
My mouth falls agape. “What the hell,” I huff out, folding my arms over my chest.
I’m happy to know Tristan doesn’t want me with anyone else, but now I feel confused, like maybe that means there’s a chance we’ll get back together. Hope blooms in me, but I know the saying, “Hope breeds eternal misery,” exists for a reason.
The late bell rings, and I wonder if Tristan is late because he is too busy telling his “bros” I’m off limits. I roll my eyes at the thought but my brain allows a smirk to form on my lips, and when I look up, I see him entering the room. We make eye contact. Shit.
I count to ten in my head to calm myself down. My breathing isn’t even.
We break the awkwardness of the stare when Mr. Welsch questions Tristan about his tardiness. Finally, I’m able to breathe again.
“Mr. Donaly, I know it’s the last day of classes and you’re looking forward to your summer vacation, but punctuality is imperative in my classroom on the first and the last day. I hope you have a valid excuse.”
Mr. Welsch is a stern, balding British man that doesn’t know how to let loose. In fact, I’m sure if someone checked, he’d have a big stick stuck up his ass. There’ve been rumors swirling that this will be his final year.
Yet, as much as I don’t like him, I can’t blame him. I wouldn’t want to be a teacher for these kids. My guess is he isn’t too keen on the whole “I’m rich and entitled so give me good grades or I’ll tell my daddy” routine, which I know many students pull here. When your parents pay 35K a year for your education, you expect extra benefits, like getting grades that you don’t deserve.
Tristan looks annoyed and grabs at his perfectly tousled hair, letting a breath escape before he answers. “Yeah, I was in the bathroom, Mr. Welsch. Duty called.”
Everyone in class laughs, causing Mr. Welsch’s face to turn an ugly shade of red.
“Sit down or leave, Mr. Donaly,” he says in an irritated tone. He slams his palm against the wooden desk to reiterate his displeasure.
Tristan, looking completely unbothered, saunters to the back of the room where Ann and I are seated. He takes his usual seat to the left of me, all the while avoiding my stare.
I thought, given the circumstances of us no longer being an item and the lack of eye contact on his walk over, he’d take another seat, especially since it’s the last day and there are plenty of others for the taking. Despite hoping he’d see me in my whole get up, I’m not sure how I feel with him so close to me. I worry I might forget about the breakup and touch him or say something stupid. My brain is always filled with hundreds of what ifs.
“Attention, please.” Mr. Welsch stands at the head of the class waiting for our undivided attention. “Since it is the last day of classes, and I’m sure you’ve all heard the rumors, I thought it was time to let you know they are indeed true. I will not be returning for your senior year.” Whispers break out. “Do quiet yourselves, students. I’m sure whoever they hire to replace me will be a wonderful addition. Now let’s get back to the task at hand. Today, as a last hoorah, I would like a 300-word essay on your plans for the summer.”
Everyone lets out a sigh. My eyes narrow and my mouth falls open. I give Ann a head tilt. It’s her fault I’m here today. Who gives an actual assignment on the last day of school?
Today was supposed to be relaxed. Since it is an optional day, I guess we’re being punished for showing up. Annoyed, I look around at the empty seats. Lucky bastards. Then, I duck my head back down and get to work.
My assignment is almost finished when I feel a tickle on my left leg. I ignore it, thinking it’s a draft or my skirt touching me, but when it happens again, I look down to see Tristan’s finger gliding up my exposed thigh.
I turn slightly in my seat toward him, and when I gaze up, his eyes are staring daggers into me. My breath catches in my throat and I feel my muscles tense. I swallow down my nerves. His finger leaves me and I’m desperate for him to touch me again. If I can’t have his touch, I’ll take whatever I can get. God, I’m pathetic. I reach for my phone and send him a text.
Me: What was that?
Tristan: What’s with the skirt?
I smile inwardly knowing that I’ve gotten to him, even if it is just by wearing a silly skirt.
Me: What’s wrong with my skirt?
Tristan: You know what’s wrong with it. You’re trying too hard to get attention.
Ouch. My smile falters and I’m left feeling punctured. He should know me well enough to know I’m not the type of girl that goes out of her way to get male attention. Afterall, he had to pursue me in the beginning. I thought he was cute, sure, but guys intimidated me. That’s one of the reasons I had yet to date anyone. I am too shy and unsure of what to say or do. In my head, I am a romance queen, but in real life? That is a whole different book, written in a language I can’t comprehend. He has to know I’m trying to look my best for him.
Me: I’m not trying to do anything. Just wearing my uniform like everyone else.
Tristan: Brian and the guys seem to think you’re looking for some... attention.
Me: Don’t know what you heard, but that’s not the case.
Tristan: Those guys only want one thing from you.
As if I were new to this school. Of course the guys want sex, and apparently, Tristan isn’t an exception to that. And since every single one of the players on his team knew that we weren’t doing it, he clearly ran his mouth about how he wasn't getting any.
Idiot. Had he taken some initiative, he would have gotten some. I never asked to be treated so angelically, like I’m breakable. I was his for the taking; he just never pushed. Never showed me much interest at all in that way.
I assumed it was because of the V-word.
After six months together, we only had two make-out sessions, although Ann says even those don’t count. Apparently, it’s only an actual make out if you touch the goodies under the clothes. Both times I could tell he was into it because I could see the fabric of his jeans pushing forward with every kiss. Then, when his hand would leave my face and grope my chest, I would try to let him know I liked it, too, by moaning into his mouth.
It’s almost like my moan was an alarm for him to leave. He would fall back and drape his arm around my shoulder; then he would clear his throat and leave.
He’s the one who didn’t want to take it further, but he told all the guys it was me. Now I get to be prude Taylor.
Me: Well, you’d know, you’re one of them.
Tristan: Ok, Taylor.
Me: Do you really think I’d go there with one of your friends?
Tristan: When you dress like that it gives guy’s ideas. I shouldn’t even say this, but some of these guys don’t know what the word “No” and “Stop” mean.
Me: So I’ve heard.
Memories of Brian cornering me flood my brain and I use all of my strength to not tell Tristan about it. I want to yell, “How come your friends want me but you don’t?” But I don’t say it. I don’t say anything at all.
At the end of the day, I need to remember that he isn’t mine and I’m not his. As much as it seemed like he was trying to come off like a concerned friend, he’s the one who actually hurt me, and I need to keep reminding myself of that.
My brain plays devil's advocate. If I told him about Brian this morning, who’s to say he’d even believe me? I’m sure he will hear different versions of the story and they will twist and turn like a game of telephone. It always starts off innocent, and by the end, it takes on a whole new life. I bet this will be a raunchy one.
I’m a few hours away from summer, and then I won’t see either of them for a few months. By the time senior year starts, I’ll be old news. I just have to make it through the day.
The bell rings, signaling the end of the period and pulling me from my thoughts. Tristan stands and lingers next to me, not making eye contact.
“Hey... um...” He
rubs his hand over his sloped, freckled nose and tugs on his dirty blonde hair. I remember rubbing my hands through that hair. The memory takes me to the last time I watched him toss the ball with his teammates. It was the day before the party, the party where he slept with somebody else—a stranger.
After school I walked to the field where I spotted his tan, shirtless body as soon as I reached the fence line. Everyone says ball players have the best bodies and it’s true. When he spotted me, he ran to me, a smile on his face. Beads of sweat ran down his body like drips of honey. The smell of his sweat when he leaned into me for a kiss had my body on fire. The pheromones were making me dizzy. I reached up and ran my fingers through his damp hair. I was hopeful the next time we made out I’d get the nerve to take it further. If he tried to stop things again, I would speak up; I had to. I was ready, and I wanted him.
I blink away the memory and notice his expression, wondering why he seems so frustrated with me and this skirt stunt. I guess I’m not behaving like the Taylor he knows, the “innocent” Taylor.
He finally breaks the silence and stares at me. "Look, just be safe, and maybe I’ll see you around.”
Well, I guess that’s that.
“Yeah.. sure,” I say as I meet his gaze.
He must see the sadness hiding behind my eyes because he turns away quickly and walks out the door even faster. He clearly isn’t interested in getting back together. Hell, he could barely look at me. I’m not sure what I was expecting out of today, but this wasn't it.
I sulk out of the class with my head hanging low. Ann comes up fast behind and links arms with me and we walk down the hall to our next class. “So what did the ball-diddler say?”
I can’t help but laugh. Ann has a way with words and laughing is exactly what I need right now. I pull my phone from my bag and hand it to her. “You can just read it.”
As she reads our text exchange, her face contorts into different expressions: eye-rolls, smirks, then bunches her lips. “Little innocent Taylor, you’ve got some balls on you. Am I rubbing off on you after all these years?”
I give her a sheepish smile and shrug.
“He’s right about those guys though. I’ve heard stories.”
Yeah, we’ve all heard the stories. I think every high school has them. The jocks throw parties, and the girls get drunk and taken advantage of. That’s one reason I’m not too keen on the Shrewsbury Prep party scene. I only go with Ann enough to fulfill my duty as a high school student so I am not called out as an outcast.
“What I gather from this text is he’s a wee bit jealous but he’s also trying to look out for you. It is weird given the circumstances of your breakup though.”
“I guess I’m more confused now but... screw it.” I throw my arms up in the air. This whole thing is too emotionally taxing. “Summer is almost here and I want to have fun in the sun with my bestie. I’m so over all of this.”
I pull her close to me and lean my head on her shoulder so she can't see the frown growing on my lips. Eventually, Tristan and the hurt he caused will be a distant memory. I just hope it happens sooner rather than later.
***
The day passes faster than expected, and before I know it, I am walking to seventh period. Walking to class alone feels more than strange. I look around at the people moving past me, some alone, some as part of a happy couple. Tristan used to meet me outside of class and walk with me. He’d hold my hand and kiss my cheek before walking down the hall to his class. The left side of my mouth tips into a frown, but I snap it back fast. Not anymore. Now, I’m alone.
I reach my classroom and settle into my seat as the teacher lets us know we can have a free period to do whatever we want. She kicks her legs onto her desk and pulls out a book. I smile. What a good idea.
While the other students snap selfies and swipe left and right on Tinder, I pull my phone from my bag and open the Kindle app. My guilty pleasure happens to be reading trashy romance novels, and right now, I’m in the midst of a great reverse harem story that I’m dying to finish. The heroine, Amanda, just confessed that she’d like to be shared by all four of her suitors. I tap the screen and begin to read about hands roaming her body, over her tits, rubbing her nipples between their fingertips. Then, hands are grabbing at her ample ass and a moan is escaping her full lips, as the feeling of being completely taken by them grows within her...
My thighs tighten together as wetness pools in my panties. My face feels warm and my heart rate is accelerating. I shouldn’t read this here. It’s not like I’m able to touch myself to ease the pressure building in me like I do when I’m at home.
Yes, I masterbate. I can’t help it. The books I read and the thoughts I have are that of someone far more experienced than I, a sexual goddess, not a virgin. I had hoped to work up the nerve to bring some of my fantasies to life, but Tristian found someone else before I found the courage to speak up. I suppose I’m stuck touching myself until I find another boyfriend… It only took seventeen years for the first one to come around. I side eye.
I’m startled when a note is tossed on my desk, breaking me from my sex trance. I look up to see who’s thrown it. My eyes meet baby blues: Jed, a boy that I’m friendly with in class who happens to be on the baseball team with Tristan.
My fingers graze the edges of the paper and I look at him and ask in a hushed tone, “Is this for me?”
Nodding, he gives me a coy smile and turns back in his seat. The paper is folded in a triangular shape, so I take a moment to figure out how to get it open without tearing it. When the paper finally releases from its folded state, I flatten the wrinkles out under my palm and I begin to read.
My throat goes dry and I glance around to make sure no one is looking at me. Heat floods my body, making me feel warm all over.
I scan the paper again. I can’t believe what my eyes are seeing. What is going on today? It’s like I’m a magnet for male attention all of a sudden.
In blue ink reads a trashy note reminiscent of the books I love reading:
Taylor,
Your legs are killing me in that skirt. I’d love to bend you over and take everything Tristan didn’t.
We should go out sometime.
Text me this summer if you want to have some fun.
310-742-8969
- J
I envision the scene he’s written before me. My plaid skirt pulled to my waist, him behind me taking me hard and fast. The pleats on my skirt flying in the air with each thrust, making a whooshing noise that mixes with my moans. The desk legs squeaking as it’s rocked from the delicious pounding I’m receiving.
My cheeks feel hot and my panties have grown wetter, causing the insides of my thighs to feel slick. I blame the book I was reading for my heightened sexual arousal. I would never typically imagine myself in this situation, but today, I’m living in the twilight zone: nothing is as it was.
Once I’m done reading his note for the fifth time, I take my phone and covertly snap a picture so I can send it to Ann. Then I fold it up and put it in my bag. Within seconds, my phone is vibrating with a response. My screen is filled with cry-laugh face emojis and a few drool faces.
Ann: Who is J?
Me: Jed Flemming
Ann: No way! Lol. He’s on the team with Tristan. Do these guys have no shame?!
Me: I know. He is hot though.
I let out a small giggle and I look up to see Jed licking his lips, undressing me with his eyes. My cheeks, still red from my imaginary tryst, become even warmer. Nerves build in me until my eyes instinctively fall to the floor. All this new attention is overwhelming and gives me anxiety, but it’s also brightened my outlook on living the single life. It’s been less than 24 hours since Tristan dumped me and I already have some of the most sought after guys from our school vying for my time. I know they just want the physical stuff from me, but I can’t lie—it feels good being wanted.
The bell rings, signalling school is officially out for summer. I hear screams from classrooms down the h
all. Everyone has been looking forward to summer vacation and whoever just let out that shriek must be extra excited. Kids here don’t have typical teenage summers, hanging around town with friends and chilling at the beach. Any beaches included in their plans are in France, Greece, or Spain, or any other location where their parents own a second home. The lives of the rich and sometimes famous.
Although my parents are well off, we don’t live like the other rich kids at school. Sure, we live in a big house in a gated community, but it’s nothing like the 90210 world that most of my peers live in. My parents aren’t the excessive-living type of people. I'm pretty sure I’m the only one at my school without a limo service or a car of their own.
Mom is a vineyard heir from Southern California, and my Dad comes from the Irish countryside, and distant royal blood. Apparently, his great grandmother, Catherine, was third cousin to Queen Victoria. Neither of them relied on family money to support them, though. My mom owns and operates her own travel and wine magazine, and my Dad is a software engineer for a large corporation. My parents grew up across the world from each other, but after being raised with money, they both understand the darkness that comes with the rich lifestyle. So they wanted to keep me far away from it.
Therefore, I was raised in a typical, non-spoiled, rich kid fashion, with chores, a curfew, and no expensive car purchased brand new for my sweet sixteen. They wanted me to know that money doesn’t mean you are better than anyone else. And it certainly doesn’t mean you should be able to get away with things. So if I screwed up as a child, they punished me, and after seeing how the other kids in my school turned out, I am happy they took such care in my development and didn't leave it to nannies and hired help, like 99 percent of the student body population.
The only luxury I have is my mostly designer wardrobe, but that's only because my aunts love to send me boxes of their out of season clothing; most still come with tags attached.