by Jade West
“It’s just fun,” she said. “Lighten up. Show me what he did to you, I want to see.”
“You’re drunk.”
“A little,” she giggled back. “But so what? So are you.” She lowered her face to my tits and looked up at me, and she was doing that sexy thing again. My skin prickled. “Did he do this, Hels?”
I gasped as she flicked her tongue over my nipple.
“Relax,” she said. “I’m just playing…” Her breath was on me, and it made me shudder. “I bet he loved your cute tits, Hels.”
She was still giggling as she sucked on me, and her fingers reached up to tease my other nipple, just like Mr Roberts had done. Suddenly I was back in his passenger seat, nervous and hot and needy. I let out a strange little moan, and I wanted to rock my hips, wanted to touch where the tingles were.
“Lizzie… this is… this is weird…”
But she didn’t answer me.
“Lizzie… this feels…”
She sucked harder and it made me squirm. I could feel Mr Roberts’ hair under my fingers, remembered the way I’d held him to me. Lizzie’s fingers were rougher, they pinched and flicked and she used her teeth to nip me.
“Lizzie… wait… stop…”
But I was already rocking, tipping my head back and closing my eyes. And it was easy then, so easy to pretend it was him. I shifted position, until I was sitting on my heel, and rocking felt so good.
“Oh God, Lizzie, I want him to touch me again…” I whispered. “Oh please, please, let him touch me again…”
I heard her moan, and it felt so nice against my skin.
“I want to touch him, Lizzie… I want to see him… I want to suck him… I want to know how he tastes…” I rocked harder. “I want him inside me… Lizzie, oh God, I want him to fuck me… I need him to fuck me… he’s all I want… I want Mr Roberts…”
But she wasn’t Mr Roberts.
She was Lizzie.
“Stop…” I said. “Lizzie, stop, this is… just… weird.”
I pushed her away by her shoulders and she pulled a face when I pulled my bra back into place. “You said you’d do what I said! Jeez, Hels.”
“I just… I want Mark…”
“Oh, so he’s Mark now, is he?” She smiled but for a second her eyes didn’t. “I bet you didn’t tell Mark it was weird when he played with your tits, did you?”
I didn’t even have an answer. She was still giggly, but her shoulders were tense.
“You’re no fun tonight, Helen Palmer.” She poked her tongue out.
And then there was a knock. A loud knock. And I leapt from the bed like a rocket, eyes wide as I flung myself against the door. The handle turned down, and the door bounced open just a bit before my weight pushed it shut again.
Another loud knock. “Helen?” Mum’s voice sounded through. “Your dad will take Lizzie home now, you have school tomorrow…”
Lizzie rolled around on the bed, stifling giggles, but I wasn’t sure it was so funny.
“Ok, Mum… We’ll be right down.”
My heart was racing and I felt all screwed up. I did my buttons up quickly, but I stayed in position until I heard Mum heading back downstairs.
Lizzie was still laughing, as though this was the funniest thing in the whole universe.
And I laughed, too.
I laughed because it was just a silly game. Just silly practice for Mr Roberts. That’s all.
She got her bag and hugged me tight and she was back to normal.
“You need to think about going on the pill, Hels.”
“The pill?” I laughed. “He doesn’t even want to see me again.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Oh, but he will. He will do it again.”
I hoped so. How I hoped so.
“Oh, and you should shave,” she grinned. “Your pussy, I mean. I did it last week, Scottie went mad for it. Roberts will love it, too.”
“He will?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah, he will. Definitely.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Trust me, Helen, I know what I’m talking about.” She planted a wet kiss on my cheek, complete with smacking noise. “Catch you tomorrow, bestie.”
I walked her downstairs and waved her off from the front door, and she blew me a kiss as Dad drove her home.
And then I felt weird. And nervous. And alone.
Really alone.
I considered firing up the cam diary, but decided against it.
Alone would just have to do for now.
I stared after the car.
Was she right?
Would he really want to touch me again?
***
Mark
I wasn’t waiting for her. Wasn’t watching the clock as the lessons ticked by, wondering where she was, and if she was ok, and if she was thinking about me. I wasn’t preoccupied with Helen Palmer, because teachers don’t get fixated on their teenage students.
I’d always been a poor liar, especially to myself.
My mind could ramble through any rationalisations it wanted, but the truth of the matter was in my gut.
I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
I expected the repercussions of my actions to come calling at any time. Maybe it would be the head teacher, or maybe a member of the board. Maybe even the police. A word please, Mr Roberts. Outside. We’ve had an allegation. A very serious allegation.
I wouldn’t even attempt to defend myself.
But two days in and it hadn’t come, and why would it?
Helen had shown no desire whatsoever to throw me to the wolves, despite what I deserved. Her eyes had been full of honesty. Honesty and tears.
The memory still pained, and made me feel like the abominable bastard.
She was last in again, her eyes flitting to mine nervously before she joined her classmates. She stared at her notepad, scribbling notes as I spoke about the coursework schedule for the run up to Christmas, and all the while I tried not to stare at her. I wrapped up the talk and the students made their way to their benches, resuming their pastel work, and Helen was gone from me again, her shoulders angled away as her heels tapped on that damned stool leg. I circled the room twice before I dared to venture any closer, and even then I was wary, as though I could no longer trust my own body. I pushed my hands in my pockets as I surveyed her work, just to be sure.
“Excellent blending,” I said. “Great choice of greens.”
She smiled but didn’t look at me. “Thank you, Mr Roberts.”
Her cheeks had the hint of a blush, and it transfixed me. I watched her fingers on the pastels and imagined them in my hair all over again.
“Good work, Helen.”
I stepped away and I was certain I could feel her eyes on my back, but when I turned she was still working, her foot still tap, tap, tapping. Her hair was more flyaway than usual, the woody tones vibrant and deep.
I should know better than to let my imagination gallop into fantasy at thirty-eight years old. I should know better altogether. I forced myself into some kind of order, some kind of professionalism, and focused on the specifications for the Aladdin’s Cave panto set instead.
The final hour of the day took a long time coming, yet passed by in a blink. The school bell was upon me before I knew it, and the sixth form ball meeting loomed.
I really did feel Helen’s eyes on me as she packed her things, shooting me a series of anxious glances as she loaded up her school bag. She lingered, pretending to reorganise her pastel case while Kelly Merrick ran through some coursework queries. Helen waited until the door had closed behind her fellow student before she approached, and by then I was already late. She stood at a healthy distance, her eyes closer to the floor than they were to mine.
“Mr Roberts, I’m sorry, I just… about the set painting next week… I was wondering if you had a minute… please…”
But I didn’t, and the last thing I wanted was Jenny Monkton heading down to locate me. I didn’t trust that she wouldn�
�t sniff out the tension in the room, even if she’d missed it in the car. Teacherly instinct is a powerful thing.
“I’m sorry, Helen, but I have a meeting.” I checked my watch. “Ten minutes ago.”
Her cheeks bloomed pink, darkening her sweet freckles. “Oh… I’m sorry. It was nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
She didn’t believe me. I could see it in her eyes. She slung her bag over her shoulder and picked up her art case and she was gone quickly. So quickly that her name was still in my throat as the door swung closed behind her.
Helen, wait. Just wait.
Helen, there really is a meeting. A cruddy meeting that I don’t want to go to.
Helen, stay. Come to where it’s beautiful, and we’ll talk again, just two souls sharing the same view.
Friends. We can be friends.
I turned off the lights and made my way to the bloody winter ball meeting.
***
“So, are we all happy? The Three Friars Hotel, on the eleventh, seven til midnight.” Jenny was looking at me, asking me.
I found it so hard to nod in the affirmative. “Fine, yes. All good with me.”
“Great!” she said. “In that case, Mark, I’ll pick you up on the way, and Janet, you’ll meet us there at six, before the students arrive.”
I was already dreading it.
I sidestepped an offer of Friday night drinks and headed back to the art room, where Helen’s burning cheeks haunted me. I should have made a minute for her. I could have made a minute. And now what? I couldn’t exactly turn up at her parents’ house. Hi there, it’s Mark Roberts. I groped your daughter’s beautiful young breasts and I loved it, it’s all I think about. Is she in?
I checked my tablet for her cam diary updates, but she wasn’t online and hadn’t checked into the site for hours. Shit.
Maybe she wouldn’t turn up for set painting on Monday at all. Maybe that’s what her questions had been about.
The idea stewed in my stomach, the potential unacceptable.
Think, Mark, think.
The student records office would be locked by now, and I had no social media accounts that would easily link to Helen’s without any raised eyebrows, and I didn’t have an email address or a telephone number for her.
Think, Mark.
Maybe I could night stalk her bedroom window, throw pebbles at the glass until she opened up for me.
It would have been worth it just to know she was coming to the panto painting.
The panto painting…
I headed back to my desk, flicking through the set specifications and the scripts and the costume and brochure outlines before I struck gold. The volunteer sign-up form was in my lap, complete with names and form IDs and contact details.
Contact details.
Helen’s name was almost at the top of the list, and the number listed was a mobile.
I scribbled it on the back of my hand.
***
Helen
I had no appetite, spooning my soup around my dish aimlessly while Dad droned on about his new starter, Frank, and how funny the guy was. A proper Much Arlock chap, through and through, apparently. From good stock. Hardworking and reliable and boring as hell from the sounds of it. Mum was already dressed to head off for nightshift, and Katie was pretending to be a cat.
“What the hell’s got into you today?” he said, finally. “You’ve got a right face on you.”
I shrugged. “Just been a long week.”
“Did you hear that, Angela? Helen’s had a long week,” he scoffed. “I wish I had a long week if that’s your bloody definition of one.”
Mum smiled at me at least. “I thought you’d be happy, love, with all that art stuff going on next week.”
But I wasn’t going to paint the set. Mr Roberts didn’t want me there, and I didn’t want to make things any more awkward than they were already. It had been written all over his face today; his hands stuffed in his pockets as though I was unhinged enough to try and grab hold of him or something. And then his fake meeting at just the right time. That and the forced normality.
The whole thing was cringeworthy.
“Leave it if you’re just going to play with it,” Dad said. “Put it in the microwave for later, or chuck it over here if it’s going to waste.”
I handed him my bowl and he emptied the contents into his. I’d just made it to my room when my phone started bleeping from my bag. I rummaged for it, expecting it to be Lizzie, but the number wasn’t in my contacts list.
My stomach felt like it was falling. No. Surely not.
“Hello…” I said, and even on the phone I sounded like a little mouse.
“Helen.”
My heart stopped.
“Hi, yeah…” I couldn’t stop the smile. “Hi.”
And I could tell he was smiling, too. “I’m sorry for the call, I just wanted to apologise, for earlier. You had questions, and I wasn’t there to answer them. I should’ve made time, Helen, I apologise.”
“It’s ok,” I said. “I understand…”
“But you don’t. There really was a meeting and I really was late for it. I didn’t want to leave you under the impression that I was avoiding you.” He took a breath. “I wouldn’t avoid you.”
I was glowing. Burning up at his voice. Insides spinning and tickling. “Thanks… for letting me know, I mean…”
“So, I shall be seeing you on Monday, yes?”
My smile was from ear to ear. “Yes… yes, you’ll be seeing me.”
“Good. Then I look forward to it. What questions did you have?”
“You, um… you just answered them…”
“I see.” The silence was loud but not unpleasant, heavy with words that weren’t spoken. He broke it first. “In that case, I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Yes. Yes you will.”
“Goodnight, Helen.”
“Goodnight, Mr Roberts.”
“It’s Mark,” he said.
Little wings fluttered around my ribcage.
And then he was gone.
Helen
I owed Lizzie big time, dragging her away from sexy time with Scottie Davis for virtually the entire weekend while we went through every item of clothing I owned, once, twice, three times. She’d tried to dress me up like I was going out on the pull, trying tirelessly to convince me of the practicality of wearing four-inch heels through a week’s worth of painting. Overruled. We’d called a truce over a cute little pair of ankle boots I hadn’t worn since last winter, and a loose turquoise dress shirt over jeans. The frilly underwear was uncomfortable, and I felt all trussed up and ruffly on my way to school. I just hoped it would be worth it.
I’d gone with makeup, but only a little. A dab of lip-gloss and the faintest dusting of silver shimmer eyeshadow to make my eyes sparkle. I was still freckly, skinny little Helen, even if I was wearing fancy undies, and that would have to do. Today it didn’t actually feel so bad. I felt good. I felt alive.
I felt excited.
My heart hammered as I passed through the school gates and made my way to the main hall. I was early but the doors were unlocked, and as I headed down the corridor, past the empty canteen, I could hear signs of movement.
Mr Roberts was dragging canvas frames across tarpaulin, positioning them ready for the painting to commence. He looked as though he’d been there a while already; the sleeves of his shirt were rolled to the elbow, and today there was no tie, just an old blue shirt over faded black jeans. He tucked his hair behind his ears and surveyed his finished arrangement. And then he saw me, and he smiled.
“Helen. Morning.”
“Morning, Mr Roberts.” I dropped my bag at the side of the main stage and discarded my jacket and scarf. He was watching me, I could feel it and it made me burn. “Just us?”
“For the moment.” He pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket and handed it over. I scanned the names, ten in total, mine included. I smiled inside as I realised there was just me from sixth form, the
other volunteers were younger, mainly year eights and nines.
I handed it back. “We should have a few hands on deck, then.”
“Let’s see how many actually show for us.”
For us.
He showed me the stage plans, and the outlines, and we laid out paints and rollers and brushes. We talked ideas and responsibilities and how we were going to split the volunteers, and he spoke to me like a colleague, a friend, a peer. He spoke to me like I was an adult.
And sometimes, when our eyes met, he looked at me like I was an adult, too.
I was slightly sad to hear voices approach, but only six of the volunteers arrived in total, and they were all youngsters. It made me feel older. It made me look older. And I liked it, I really liked it. Mr Roberts gathered them round for a group discussion, and we threw around ideas which he and I sketched onto the canvases. By lunchtime we’d split into subgroups and finalised our designs, and in the afternoon we were away; a mini whirlwind of creativity, with splodges of paint covering the tarpaulins and loud, high-pitched voices jabbering across the hall. I was in charge of a team of four, and those little guys were amazing.
Helen, can I use purple here? Helen, what do you think of this? Helen, have I done this right? Helen, can you help me mix yellow gold? Helen, Helen, Helen. Does this look good, Helen?
And throughout it all I’d steal glances at Mr Roberts, and I’m sure I felt him stealing glances back at me. Whenever we’d lock eyes he’d smile, and I’d blush, and I’d feel those hot flutters in my belly at the memory of his hands on me and I’d wonder if he felt it, too. Wonder if he felt anything. His shirt was loose, and he had the top few buttons undone, and when he bent down to roller the bottom section of his canvas it would ride up enough to display the cut of the denim around his ass. He had a nice ass. A great ass.
He had nice arms, too. A proper man’s arms — lean and toned, and dark with hair. I wanted to touch them, wanted to feel his skin under my fingertips, and pluck at the rest of those buttons until he was bare-chested and exposed for me.