Teach Me Dirty

by Jade West

  I was trying to formulate a response when the phone pinged again.

  Helen: I thought you wanted me.

  Helen: I shouldn’t have said anything.

  You should have.

  Helen: What happens now?

  Helen: Is this over?

  Helen: Please don’t say this is over.

  The conundrum was a tough one. To say it was over and devastate a sensitive young woman in the middle of her final year, or continue with something that should never have started in the first place.

  I couldn’t take her virginity, I couldn’t be that man. She was worth so much more.

  But I wanted to, my God, I wanted to.

  I wanted to make her mine, and show her how beautiful that could be. I wanted to love her, and teach her, and coax out her darkness and drink it from her lips. I wanted to hold her, and press my mouth to hers, and love her so gently.

  Helen: ??

  I typed out the only reply I could. The only reply I could commit to with any truth in it.

  I’m sorry, Helen. I don’t know what else we can do.

  I wasn’t expecting her response. Wasn’t expecting it at all.

  Helen: Fuck your apology, Mark. And fuck you.

  ***

  Helen

  “For fucking real? Are you shitting me? You told him to fuck off?” Lizzie’s face was a picture, and it was almost worth the text to Mr Roberts just to see it. I rolled over in bed and she slipped under the covers with all her clothes on. “I’m impressed, Hels bells. That’s some sassy shit you’ve got going on.”

  “It wasn’t sassy,” I said. “I was hurt. I didn’t mean it.”

  “You should mean it. What a douche.”

  “He isn’t a douche. He’s just…” I struggled for words.

  “…A douche?”

  “He’s not a douche, Lizzie.”

  “Well, he’s sure acting like one.” She draped her arm across my waist. “What kind of guy freaks out over a brand-new pussy? Most guys would snap your hand off.”

  My tummy fluttered and pained at the memory. That horrible moment he pulled away from me, just when I thought I had him. “He’s too… decent.”

  “Maybe he is gay after all.”

  I managed a smile. “I can safely say he’s not gay.”

  She rested her head on my shoulder. “So, what happens now?”

  I shrugged. “I cry forever. Accustom myself to the spinster lifestyle.”

  I could feel her smile on my skin. “Or we could hole up with ice-cream and slushy movies for all time. I’d like that.”

  I wondered where he was. How he was feeling. How much relief he was feeling now it was all over. I hadn’t heard a peep from him, not all night, and I’d stayed awake as long as I could. Until I’d realised he definitely wasn’t replying, and then I’d cried myself to sleep. “He thinks I’m a big baby. A stupid little girl.”

  “So prove to him you’re not,” she said. I rolled over to face her and she raised her eyebrows. “He’s really got you good, hasn’t he? You look like you’ve been crying for twenty years.”

  “I’m just sad. It was like a lifetime’s worth of Christmases, everything I ever wanted, everything I ever dreamed of. And then it was gone.”

  “Temporarily gone, Hels. Don’t be naive.”

  “He was serious. He looked horrified.”

  “So? He wants it, you’ve just got to make sure he can’t resist it.”

  I shook my head. “I’m done with all the fancy knickers and pretending to be cool.”

  “There’s a stronger weapon in your arsenal than those things, my sweet Hels.” Her smile was wicked. Devious.

  I was blank, and I must have looked it. “Which is?”

  She grinned. “This is why I love you, Helen Palmer, you’re so innocent. Like genuinely. It’s really cute.”

  “That just about sums up my entire life, thanks very much, Lizzie.”

  “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. He really has got you all grouchy, hasn’t he?” She tutted. “It’s jealousy. That’s the strongest weapon in your arsenal.”

  “Jealousy? You think a man like Mr Roberts is going to be jealous?” I scoffed at the absurdity. “Jealous of what, exactly?”

  “All men get jealous, Hels. Women, too. Everyone gets jealous, even if they are super good at hiding it. It’s like a fixed law of humanity.”

  “Even at the outside chance that Mr Roberts could be made jealous, how would I do it?” The thought made me feel all lurchy and horrible.

  “Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it?” She smirked at me. “We need to get you a boyfriend.”

  I laughed aloud. “A boyfriend?! Like that’s going to happen anytime this century. I’m in love with Mr Roberts. He’s the only one I ever wanted, in case you haven’t noticed already.”

  “Yeah, well, you want to catch the monkey you need to open your horizons up and get a bigger monkey trap.” I pulled a face at her analogy and she did, too. “What I mean is, you need to rethink your strategy…”

  “And get a boyfriend?”

  “Don’t sound so disgusted… there are other male specimens in the world besides Rampant Roberts, you know. Some of them are even alright…”

  “None that I’ve noticed.” I stared at the ceiling, at the twinkle of fluorescent star stickers still up there from primary school.

  “Best case is that Mr Roberts can’t handle it, and boom, you’re in. Worst case, maybe you even like the new guy and ditch the virgin shit. It’s a win-win.”

  “And who’s going to go out with me?” I couldn’t even look at her. “I hardly get a queue of offers, Lizzie. I’m the outsider. Nobody notices me.”

  She took my hand and squeezed it tight, and pulled the covers higher around us both.

  “You leave that to me,” she said.

  ***

  Mark

  I can’t remember a time I was as nervous as I was waiting for Helen to turn up in my art room. Monday came and went and I didn’t hear a peep from her. It felt strange, and empty in my classroom, even though I’d rarely have seen her on a Monday anyway. And that’s when I realised it wasn’t the classroom that felt strange and empty. It was me.

  Fuck you.

  I’d deserved that. I still deserved that.

  And she deserved better than me and my mixed messages. So I’d steered well clear through the weekend. Even though I was preoccupied to the point of insanity, my brain spinning through events on loop, through the day, through the night, through everything, I kept well away from her.

  When she arrived for her lesson on Tuesday morning, she looked different. She looked drawn and sad and lacklustre.

  She wouldn’t meet my eyes, just sat herself directly behind Harry Sawbridge while I took class, and that big oaf blocked my view obliviously, yawning his idiot face off. The guy should never have been in my A-level art class, he was both lazy and talentless.

  She returned to her usual bench when I stopped speaking, and I ached to go over there. Her shoulders were tense as she painted, and her brush strokes were jerky little lines that lacked any real finesse. And it pained me, it really pained me to see her that way.

  I took my time approaching her, and she didn’t acknowledge me until I spoke.

  “Is that a new technique?”

  She shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care.”

  “You always care, Helen.”

  “Not today.”

  I sighed, and leaned in closer, hoping nobody else could hear me. They were gabbling on about the holidays anyway, and about the winter ball. Gabbling on about anything but the paintings in front of them. “I think we should talk.”

  “To say what? I want you and you don’t want me? I already know that, thanks.” Her voice was hissy and her eyes were pained.

  “That isn’t how it is.” My voice was nothing but a whisper.

  “How is it, then? Do you want me, or not?”

  “It’s not that simple…”

  “Then you don’t. I’v
e got nothing to talk about.” She jabbed her brush against the canvas and it smudged.

  I leaned in so close my mouth was at her ear, and I closed my eyes, just to savour the smell of her, hoping, praying that none of the useless idiots in the room would notice me. “I want the best for you, Helen. That’s all I want.”

  She turned her face to mine and her eyes were angry and hurt. “Who are you to say what’s best for me?” Her voice was just a breath. “I’m not a child.”

  “But you are in my care.”

  “Not for much longer,” she said, and turned her attention back to the painting. “In a few months I’ll be gone, and you can forget I ever existed.”

  And then I was angry, too. I gripped her wrist, squeezed it, and her eyes widened. “If you think I’m going to move on and forget you existed, you can’t know me at all.”

  “You won’t let me know you.”

  “I’m trying not to, for your own good.”

  “Spare me the for your own good stuff. It hurts, Mr Roberts, it really hurts.”

  The bell rang and she pulled away from me. She gathered up her things and brushed past me without even a passing glance.

  ***

  Helen

  I was still reeling from art class, my heart hammering, when Lizzie grabbed my arm from behind me.

  “Well?”

  “It was terrible.”

  She grimaced. “As good as that, hey?”

  “He wanted to talk, I blew him out.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Feels shit, though, I hate it.” We made our way through the English block corridor, past the library and out the other side. Lizzie pulled me behind the building, pressing us into a dip in the wall, and I was glad, really glad. She lit up a cigarette and I took it straight off her.

  “Jeez, Hels, getting desperate for the nicotine in your hours of misery, aren’t you?”

  I didn’t even answer, just stared out at the playing fields. I remembered the place empty, just Mr Roberts and me talking and laughing and painting. and my stomach tightened. I gave Lizzie back her cigarette. “Thanks.”

  “I’ve been drawing up a boyfriend shortlist…”

  My stomach tightened again. “What?”

  “A list of potentials.” She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. It was scrumpled and scribbled on and looked a tatty mess, but there was a list in the corner.

  “Terry Edwards… no way! He’s in the football team.”

  “So?”

  “So, no.”

  “Fine.” She grabbed it off me. “Gary Eaton?”

  “Arrogant.”

  “And hot.”

  “Arrogance wins. No.”

  “Stuart Belcher?”

  “He would never look at me. And there was that rumour that he kicked Wendy Ree’s cat.”

  She shrugged. “Fair point.”

  “Keith Perkins.”

  “I’m not even going to answer that.” Keith Perkins was crude, and disgusting. An all-round idiot.

  “Fine.” She gave me a look like I was the most difficult customer in the world. “Harry Sawbridge?”

  “Harry? No way.”

  “No?”

  “Just no. That would be weird.”

  “Why weird?”

  I stared at her. “He’s in my art class.”

  “Yeah, duh. That’s good, no?”

  “No. It’s just weird. I just… he doesn’t even like art.”

  “But he’s doing art for A-level.”

  “Yes, but he doesn’t like it. He never listens to anything.”

  “But he is doing it. And Roberts will see him with you. All the time…” She smirked. “That’s kinda the whole point of the jealousy thing.”

  “I’m not even convinced about this jealousy thing…”

  “He’s the best option. He’s kinda cute. Nice eyes.”

  “He’s got no artistic talent whatsoever.”

  “But he’s cute, right?”

  I shrugged. “If you say so.”

  She folded the piece of paper back up then tapped her nose. “Leave it with me.”

  “What are you going to do?” My heart sped up. “Don’t do anything, Lizzie!”

  “I won’t do much… just scoping the lay of the land…”

  “Lizzie!”

  She smiled so brightly. “So, Hels Bells, how do you fancy Harry Sawbridge as your winter ball date?”

  My jaw dropped. “My winter ball date? I’m not even going to the winter ball… I never go to that kind of party stuff…”

  She handed me the dregs of her cigarette and I smoked it to the butt. “I think you might change your mind,” she said, and wiggled her eyebrows.

  “Hell would have to freeze over. For real. Demon penguins and everything.”

  “That’s your stance is it? Definitely not? No way? Not in a million billion years?”

  I threw the cigarette butt in the hedge. “That’s my stance.”

  “Such a shame,” she said, and there was mischief in it. “Because a little birdie told me that somebody’s favourite art teacher is chaperoning this year…”

  ***

  Helen

  Maybe Lizzie really did have a voodoo witchcraft bottle, because the next day in art class the unthinkable happened. I had taken my usual spot, keeping my back to Mr Roberts in fear of looking like some sad little girl all over again, when I heard a rustle of bags and the scuff of a stool over floor tiles. I always sit alone. Always. It’s been that way forever in art. I just don’t like many people, and they don’t like me. Plus, I love art, I live for art, and company and art don’t usually work out so well.

  There was whispering and laughing behind me, and my hackles prickled, just knowing it was about me. And then there was Harry Sawbridge’s voice, interrupting my thoughts like a sledgehammer.

  “Hi, Helen. Mind if I sit here?”

  He was already sitting here. I moved my sketchbook a little to the side to clear some space for him. Manners don’t cost anything, after all.

  “Sure.”

  The laughter was growing more raucous, and my heart did a stutter as Mr Roberts barked out an order for quiet.

  He sounded unusually grouchy.

  I didn’t look at him, but I did look at Harry, and Harry was looking right back at me.

  “Nice painting,” he said, which was ironic considering it was probably the worst painting I’d done in my entire life. The lines were messy and erratic, and not in a good way. It was sloppy and lazy and dull, and terrible. It was a terrible painting.

  “Thanks.”

  He turned his canvas towards me and his was worse.

  “Nice work,” I lied.

  “Thanks. It’s inspired by Dali.”

  “Picasso,” I said. “Guernica was by Picasso. I finished mine the other week.”

  He didn’t look bothered by my correction. “Yeah, can’t really get into it. I don’t like painting like other people. What’s the point in it?”

  I could have launched into an impassioned monologue about the beauty in the masters and hoping to learn through even the slightest successful emulation of their work. Normally I would have, but my soul had dried up. I said nothing, just smiled and carried on jabbing paint on top of paint.

  He didn’t stop looking at me, and I felt myself burning up. “Guess you like Picasso, then?”

  “I love Picasso.”

  “Yeah, so do I. He’s cool. I like all of them… Picasso, Leonardo, Raphael, Donatello… Michelangelo…”

  I couldn’t stop the smile. “The artists or the turtles?”

  “Both. I like the rat, too. Used to watch them when I was a kid.” I had nothing to say to that, and he grew twitchy, flicking his paintbrush back and forth between his fingers. “Say, Helen, are you going to the ball?”

  My heel tapped against my stool, knees juddery. “I, um… don’t know.”

  “I’m going,” he said. “I was thinking maybe you could… if you wanted to… we could…”

&nb
sp; I couldn’t even look at him. My cheeks were burning up.

  “…I was thinking… if you wanted…” He sighed. “Do you want to come to the ball with me?”

  Everything in me said no. No, I don’t want to come to the ball with you. I don’t even want to go to the ball. I don’t want to be sitting here, talking to you and painting a shitty picture. I don’t want anything but the feeling of Mr Roberts’ hands on me again, of him looking at me the way he did before, of him talking to me like I meant something.

  And then I felt him, the familiar heat of him, the way he smelled, the way he moved. He stepped between our stools and stared at my canvas.

  “I hope you aren’t distracting Helen, Harry.”

  “No, sir. Just talking.”

  “Less talking, more painting, if you want to finish that painting this term, that is.”

  “Yeah, sir, I’m doing it.” Harry looked at his canvas, communication over.

  I felt Mr Roberts staring, but I didn’t look at him. “Your wrist is too tense,” he said, and his hand was on mine, taking the brush from me.

  “It’s fine.”

  “Shake it out,” he said.

  “It’s fine.”

  He placed my brush on the palette and took hold of my wrist. “You’re tense. Distracted.”

  “I’m not having the best week.” My voice was petulant, and I cursed myself.

  “If we relied on a sunny disposition to produce our best work, Helen, I think you’d find art galleries would be considerably less impressive affairs.” He grabbed my shoulder and turned me towards him, and then he crouched, so he was looking up at me. He balled a fist to his stomach. “Dig deep,” he said. “Take it, all the crap inside, take it and mould it, and forge it… make it something beautiful. Make it something that means something.”

  “It does mean something.”

  “Transform it, Helen. Use it.”

  I could feel stupid tears pricking. “But I can’t use it. I don’t know how.”

  “You do,” he said. “I know you do.”

  “What if I don’t want to?”

  “You do want to.”

  “Don’t tell me what I want.”

  Harry’s neck twisted, eyes wide at our exchange. Mr Roberts saw it, too, and it stopped him in his tracks. He got to his feet and handed me back my paintbrush. “Ok, Helen. If you need some help, you know where I am.”