by Schow, Ryan
“No, I’m good.”
The last time I didn’t follow the instructions, I turned into a gosh damn jellyfish.
After a minute, because he seems to be in a good mood, I say, “You’re from Germany, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“How well are you with German history?”
“I’m as familiar with it as any patriot, I suppose.”
“Do you know about the Nazi’s?”
“You’re not going to insult me again, are you? Because here we are, getting along so well. You have not cursed at me, threatened me, blackmailed me or shot me and I’d just like to keep it that way.”
“No insults. I was just wondering if you knew anything about Josef Mengele.”
He sits in contemplative silence, then—without an ounce of expression—says, “He was called the Angel of Death. A wicked man, but a pioneer in the mind sciences division and radiation therapy. Of course, I know of him. Everyone knows of that criminal.”
“Mind sciences? Radiation therapy? I thought he was SS, that he ran Auschwitz.”
“Before Auschwitz, he was SS.”
“Didn’t he kill something like four hundred thousand Jews and Jew-sympathizers?”
My curiosity has me checking him for every expression. He can’t possibly be Mengele, but he could be one of Mengele’s kids, if he had any. It’s the gap in those motherfreaking teeth.
“He had them gassed, yes.”
“What a monster.”
“Why are you inquiring about him?” he says, disinterested. “School project?”
“Investigative Journalism assignment,” I say. “We’re supposed to write a piece on someone from the past, an influential person in history.”
“You find him influential?” Gerhard says, almost like he’s pleased.
“I find him curious. Americans have a thing for serial killers and mass murderers. That’s why every so often someone interviews Charles Manson, why the Son of Sam was the focus of more than a few movies, why Jeffrey Dahmer is one of the most recognized names in America. He ate gays, by the way. Kept parts of them in his fridge.”
His pleased look fails him. Back to the frown. “Yes, well good luck on that,” he says, returning to his work.
On the way out, and maybe I should have kept my big mouth shut, I say, “I don’t mean anything by this, but you and Mengele bear a striking resemblance.”
Looking up, he says, “When I was a boy, we did not have braces. In fact, many of the children I went to school with had imperfect teeth.”
“It’s not just your teeth.”
“You are an inquisitive girl, filled with inappropriate observations and questions. Just because I am German does not make me a Nazi, and comparing me to one of the most diabolical characters of the last one hundred years will not earn my affections, although yours is a valiant, if not misguided, effort.”
“I wasn’t trying to earn your affections, Dr. Gerhard—”
“Maybe you should, after everything you’ve put me through. After everything I have done for you.”
“I’ll leave,” I say, sorry I even said anything.
“See that you do.”
As I’m leaving, I actually feel bad for being mean. How in the hell could I think there was any relation? It’s preposterous! What is wrong with me and my dumb brain?
Nervous Poop
1
Phase two of our plan for finding version 2.0 of the non-triplets is to throw a party for all the new girls, an informal orientation. Using a newly installed graphic design program, Maggie creates a bunch of really cool flyers. We print out exactly eleven of them. On the bottom of the party announcements, it says “By Invitation Only.”
That’s right, no plus-one’s.
By Monday afternoon of the following week, every single new girl knows about the get-together and has promised to attend. The party is scheduled for this Wednesday, at eight o’clock, which gives us the time we need to prepare.
After taking Gerhard’s testosterone readjustment pills, I’m back to my old self, which is to say I’m not so horny all the time. And thank God because the whole Jake Teller thing is still freaking me the hell out. I want to tell Maggie what happened, but this is the kind of secret you take to your grave. Especially with all the bad press about teachers hooking up with their students these days. They don’t call it love, they call it predatory advances on a minor.
They call it molestation.
Statutory rape.
The thing between me and Jake, though, it’s none of the above. At least that’s what I tell myself. The very thought of seeing him again leaves a pit in my stomach the size of Texas.
Never-the-less, I put all this out of my head as best as I can and allow myself to feel excitement about seeing my friends again.
I pray they’re three of the eleven attending our party.
2
By fifth period my day is going smoothly, which is a pleasant change from dealing with Cameron and her pictures, suffering the push and pull of my sex drive, and wrestling with my conscience regarding Jake. That’s when it happens. I suppose it was inevitable, and perhaps well deserved.
Whatever the case, I didn’t see it coming.
In the hallway, I’m walking along, minding my own business when two sharp stings hit me in the ribs and a burst of white hot, electric pain snaps my jaw shut so tight I just know my molars are going to crack. Heat and sickness and electricity charge through me and before I know it, I’ve hit the ground hard, thumping my head on the carpeted floor. Then it’s a bunch of frothing at the mouth and shaking and eventually it’s lights out.
When I finally come around, everything natural in me feels off, as if my blood is now flowing the wrong way, or my nerves are half baked and half iced over. It’s a hot, brutal laziness in my body I can’t explain. Like sticking a knife in a light socket, but worse. My eyes flutter open and I see Maggie and Brayden kneeling beside me, trying to rouse me.
“Oh my God, Abby,” Brayden says. “Are you alright?”
I try to speak but my mouth won’t form words. My brain is delaying everything I want to say. Then, whatever turned me into a veritable mute releases its grip and I manage to ask what happened. Sadly, I sound completely drunk.
“Blake tazed you.”
“That brazen little snatch,” I hear myself say. It sounds more like, “aht raisen itl nach,” but whatever.
My muscles are finally loosening up and both of them help me to my feet. Everyone’s looking at me, but not out of concern. I get the feeling they’re wondering how I’m going to handle this. Or maybe they’re thinking I totally deserve this. Which I do. For what I did to Blake and Theresa, even I’m smart enough to know what I deserve most is jail time.
Blake’s retaliation, I hate to admit, is thoroughly justified.
My senses flood back fast. I roll my neck, flex my fingers, shrug my shoulders a couple of times to confirm I’m okay. No permanent damage. I run my hand over a knot in my head where I hit the floor and, thankfully, it isn’t huge. In fact, for some strange reason, I can actually feel it getting smaller.
“We have to get her back,” Brayden growls.
“No,” I tell him, my voice sounding mostly normal again, “I deserved that.”
Maggie says, “You do, but you don’t. She was rude first.”
“If you don’t get her back,” Brayden says, “she’ll think you’re weak. Everyone will.”
“They will not.”
“Don’t you watch Sons of Anarchy?” Brayden says. “You need to hit back and hit back hard. You need to be the Alpha here.”
The bell rings and everyone scatters for class, the three of us included. Professor Coralyn Justice isn’t happy about me being late. What matters most, however, is that I didn’t soil my pants.
Thank God for the little things.
3
Every minute that ticks down takes me closer to sixth period. Closer to Jake. I hate admitting this, but when I get re
ally nervous—some people have to pee, some people sweat a lot, and some people chew their nails—I have to poop.
It’s disgusting, I know, but it’s true.
Dr. Oz would say I’m not the only one, that nervous poop is a common problem. He would say it’s more common than you think, but that people refuse to talk about it. He would say I’m not alone.
And after this last episode with Blake, perhaps my poop would come out smoking.
Okay, TMI.
So I’m sitting in Professor Justice’s class with my legs clenched shut and inside I’m crying right up to the moment the bell rings. At this very moment, I’m out of my chair and heading to the nearest bathroom to do my business.
The closest bathroom has three girls in it, all three of them in the mirror checking their hair and makeup and I’m like, are you for real? Holding my head down, I step into the furthest stall, pull out a protective barrier so I’m not sitting in anyone else’s butt acne or crotch rot, then wait for the three girls to leave.
But they’re not leaving!
My stomach is a low rumble, a churning that feels like period cramps, and that’s when I realize if I wait for the three mouseketeers to leave, I’m going to be late for class. I yank the first sheet on the toilet roll hard, letting the toilet paper gather in a bundle in my hand, then I rip it off and stuff it down between my legs into the water. It’s supposed to give my turds a pillow-soft landing. But even the best Olympic divers make some sort of a splash when hitting the water.
The rumble hits hard, I clench like a son of a bitch, then decide, the hell with it. I let my colon roar. It’s PG-13 violent, no…wait…it’s a hard R violence that has me feeling relief and immense shame at the same time. The air is polluted with my noise. Soon to be polluted with a whole lot of stink. I’m talking toxic. Ferocious. All this because I don’t know how Jake will react to seeing me.
God I’m so stupid sometimes!
Outside the stall, one of the girls says, “Jesus, have some dignity!” and another says, “Oh my God, I just threw up in my mouth.” Feet rush to the bathroom door, which opens to the noise in the hallway. When it closes, there is a vacuum inside the bathroom.
Finally, some freaking peace.
4
I’m late to sixth period and Jake calls me out in front of the class. It’s not cool, but then again, maybe I’m misreading. Hopefully I’m misreading.
He says, “Miss Swann, will you please stay after class so that we may talk about my expectations for you being on time?”
“Yes, Professor Teller,” I say.
“Just Jake.”
Even called out, I’m having residual feelings. The memory of the kiss, the thought of him seeing my breasts, my nipple, it has me feeling the resurgence of that need. I’m thinking, hello, I’m taking the hormone pills! Shouldn’t I be feeling more…stable? Less obsessive?
“Okay, Jake,” I manage to say.
The rest of the hour passes and all I can think is how I wish I knew more about Psychology. I want to know if I’m going to get in trouble for being tardy, or if he plans on seducing me because I’d opened that door already.
Is it bad that I’m hoping for seduction?
Even with these new hormone pills, it’s hard to not think about how delicious Jake Teller looks. He’s a walking billboard for the kind of man you get if later in life you’re gorgeous and talented and maybe a supermodel or an A-list actress like Nicole Kidman or Charlize Theron or Jennifer Aniston.
To think I’ve already kissed him. To think he’s had his hands on my breasts. Holy Toledo, I’m starting up again. The heat. The need. But thankfully the pills are working, because what I’m feeling is more like a warm fire and not so much me crawling so deep into my fantasies I want to tear my clothes off and get fully illegal. My sex drive is still here, but thankfully the volume’s been turned way down.
Then it occurs to me: could this be a real attraction? Looking around, half the girls are looking right at him, tracking his every move. They have this sort of whimsical look in their eyes that says he can do whatever he wants and they won’t tell a soul. Not even their parents or the cops.
Okay, so maybe I’m not such an outcast.
At the end of the hour, everyone leaves and I head to the front of the class, so nervous I’m wondering how I’m going to screw this up. In fact, I know for certain I’m going to screw this up. Thank God my colon’s empty. I mean, there is that.
“Abby,” he says with that smile.
“Jake.”
OMG, my insides are soooo gooey right now! I look at his jaw, that faint shadow of stubble and my hands want to touch it. My mouth wants to kiss his lips, and I ache to run my hands through his hair. Suddenly my mind is like, what’s under all those clothes?
Snap out of it!
I blink twice, fast, coming back to planet Earth.
“You were late,” he says.
“I was nervous about seeing you. Especially after…well, you know.”
“Me, too,” he says, less scholarly, more…human.
“You’re my teacher,” I say, as if that should cover everything. I mean, technically it should, but it doesn’t. Not by a mile. To be honest, I don’t even know why I said that.
“How old do you think I am?” he says.
“Twenty-five, maybe twenty-six?”
“Twenty-two,” he says.
“Well I’m almost seventeen.”
“We’re not that far apart in age, not so far that we should feel bad about what happened.”
“I do feel bad,” I say.
“Why?”
Then, unable to meet his eyes, unable to find my full voice, I say, “Because I can’t stop thinking of it, and I don’t want it to stop.” Looking up at him, I say, “But it has to stop. I have to stop thinking about you. About that kiss. And your hands on my…on me.”
“You’re right,” he says, but I can tell he’s having the same dilemma as me. He wants what can’t be had. I mean, where would we go from here? I’m still a virgin, and a guy like Jake Teller, a college graduate—a man—would surely expect sex. He would want it like I want it and something like that, it changes a girl. It has to.
The sensible part of me says I’m not ready for sex. I barely even kissed a boy before making out with…a man. A total freaking hottie of a man!
“I’m still a girl,” I say, when inside what I’m thinking is that I’m still feeling like a fat girl. Like a dopey girl. Like a freaking nerd. He gives me a funny look and, okay, I admit, it sounded better in my head. “What I mean is that you’re grown up and I just got my period a few years ago.”
Oh, sh*t, did I just say that?
“Now that you put it like that,” he says with a fair amount of sarcasm.
“My point is, I’m not really experienced in being a woman yet, at least not in that area, and besides, there was this guy I heard about who was eighteen and had sex with his seventeen year old girlfriend, but their parents found out and now he’s a registered sex offender.”
“Are you serious?” he says, his expression having fallen sour.
“Statutory rape.”
“The girl pressed charges?”
“The parents pressed charges. They guy married his girlfriend the day he got out of jail and they’ve been married five years now. They even have a kid.”
“Just because I like you doesn’t mean we should have sex. It just means I like you, even though sex is in the natural progression of any healthy relationship.”
“When I’m eighteen and not your student, maybe. Definitely.” And this is where I start talking myself off the cliff. It all starts with some good old fashion self-pity. “But, I’m sure you’ve had other girlfriends, girls who know what they’re doing better than me.”
“Stop complicating this so much,” he says. Outside the classroom, the noise is dying down and clusters of kids are departing, heading back to their dorm rooms, or wherever.
Jake looks at me, disarms me with those eyes, stills m
e with the fingers he uses to lift my chin. His eyes take a moment to look over me, to the closed door, then back down on me. His gaze is a physical weight.
I’m pinned down and boneless.
“I like the way you touch me,” I say. “The way you look at me, as if you’re seeing my every secret.” Inside I’m twisting with desire, weakened by my need, and it isn’t my hormonal DNA.
No, this isn’t my new DNA at all.
This is real.
There’s a breath of wanting between us, then he leans down and kisses me and it’s like I’ve been underwater and in darkness forever and now I’ve just surfaced into the light. His lips on mine feel like home. So perfect. So soft.
Then he pulls away and says, “Hold on to that memory, and when you’re ready, or even if you need a reminder, please let me know.”
“I want a reminder now,” I say, hopeless.
“And as for the sex, let’s revisit things when you’re a senior, no matter where we’re at, and if you still want then what I so desperately want right now, I’ll drop whatever I’m doing to see you.”
“You’re so mature,” I hear myself say. Then I roll my eyes and blow out a sigh. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
Pulling back, he says, “On that note, you should go before we get caught.”
Smiling, tucking my hair behind my ear and willing myself to go, I leave the classroom feeling like I might just be leaving the love of my life. But then again, when it comes to matters of love, what do I know anyway?
I’m a fat girl in a skinny suit who just got my period a few years ago.
5
So I agreed to host the party in my room. At first, I was like, “Yeah, let’s do it,” but now, the closer I get to the date, the more I realize maybe I made the commitment in haste. Which is a nice way of saying I really screwed the goat on this one.
Or maybe not. I don’t know. I’ve never thrown a party before and I’m terrified I’ll somehow mess things up. But maybe I won’t.