Unteachable

by Leah Raeder

  By “made breakfast,” she meant bought McDonald’s. At least it wasn’t her usual liquid meal. I scarfed an egg sandwich and observed the woman who gave birth to me. Sunlight was not kind to her face. Her eyeshadow looked greasy, not covering the dark circles so much as completing them. Her lipstick was thick and tacky. No one still wore magenta except ironically.

  Once upon a time, this witchy skeletal creature was a teenage girl, like me. Her eyes were a clear peridot, her skin poreless alabaster. She was beautiful. Men and boys worshiped her.

  I shuddered. I had the disturbing sense of looking into a mirror that showed the future.

  “What do you need to shop for?” I said.

  “For you, silly.”

  I eyed her suspiciously. “You never buy me things.”

  “It was a good week. We got some extra cash.”

  Translation: I sold a lot of meth to kids your age.

  “And you’re going to spend it on me.” Not a question. A tentative statement.

  “I can’t stand looking at them ratty clothes. You need something nice.”

  Them ratty clothes were good enough for Mr. Wilke, I thought.

  “You can just give me the money,” I said. “I’ll buy them myself.”

  Please, Jesus, don’t go with me.

  Mom smiled. Her porcelain caps shone brilliantly. The majority of her teeth were fake, the real ones rotted out by meth. “If I got to pay to spend time with you, I will.”

  Zip, thunk. Arrow right in the heart. It sank deep, quivering. I knew this woman loved me in some delusional way. I just preferred when we both ignored that fact.

  She chain-smoked in the van. I hung halfway out the window, texting Wesley. Please kill me. Girls’ day out with Mom.

  He texted back, Who’s the girl?

  Good old Wesley.

  We drove through sleepy Carbondale, green lawns and campus commons, to the University Mall. Ice cold AC, that soda pop smell in the slightly carbonated air. Mom took me straight to American Eagle. We passed a rack of pre-torn, pre-faded jean shorts, indistinguishable from what I was wearing except for the price tag. I raised an eyebrow. Translation: told you so.

  “Get what you like,” Mom said. She held a mesh tank against her boobs, turning left and right.

  “I’ll meet you at the register,” I said, slipping away.

  Alone on the hardwood floors under champagne-colored lights, I’ll admit it—I felt slightly glamorous. I couldn’t stop looking at myself in the mirrors. I knew I was pretty. I’d never been one of those angsty girls who needed constant reassurance. When your mom’s skeezy “business partners” hit on you when you’re twelve, you learn fast. I’d been aware of male attention since before menarche. I knew I was desirable. I knew how to wield that as both a tool and a weapon.

  I’d never really thought of myself as beautiful, though.

  The girl in the mirror was beautiful.

  Part of falling in love with someone is actually falling in love with yourself. Realizing that you’re gorgeous, you’re fearless and unpredictable, you’re a firecracker spitting light, entrancing a hundred faces that stare up at you with starry eyes.

  The girl in the mirror stared at me. She blinked slowly, knowingly. She seemed to be looking at something bright—chin raised, eyes distanced, guarded. Button nose and full lips. Her mouth was open slightly, a sliver of white visible. She had the kind of effortlessly slender body older women hated her for. Despite what Wesley said, her breasts were average, even on the small side, but she carried them in a way that made you aware. She carried her whole body that way. Spine straight, each limb flowing loosely and easily. She only had bones when she needed them. Rich chestnut hair spilled over her bare shoulders, an elegant mess.

  I looked at her and thought, I don’t know who you are.

  A group of girls drifted past, laughing in brazen tones. They smelled like a walking Bath & Body Works ad. They were moisturized and shining and tan, but beneath that was pudginess, acne, bulimia, self-hatred. They were processed. I was natural, uncultured and untamed.

  My phone vibrated.

  Britt, the girl from history class, asking about our project. After I’d responded and put it away, I still felt it. His number was right there, snug against my ass. Any moment, I could reach out to him, connect. For now it was comforting just knowing it was there. But I knew this kind of comfort wouldn’t last. I’d need more.

  Mom didn’t bat an eyelash at the armful of clothes I dumped on the counter. I watched the register tick up, growing increasingly nervous as we hit $100, $150, $200. No way would she go for this. She’d stop the cashier. Oh god, she wasn’t stopping the cashier. There was going to be A Scene.

  $242.18.

  Mom pulled out a wad of twenties. I tried not to gawk.

  One of the laughing bulimic girls watched us leave, her eyes glinting jealously.

  I was too stunned to say thank you. I followed Mom to the food court, feeling like a delivery person, about to give this to some kid who really deserved it.

  She bought us a huge plate of orange chicken and picked at it, eating like a bird.

  My body tensed, expecting a blowup. It couldn’t go this long without turning ugly.

  “Want to see a movie?” Mom said.

  My mouth dropped. We hadn’t done that since I was little. I cleared my throat, blinked. Something weird was happening in my chest. It was an actual feeling for this woman.

  “I’m kind of tired,” I said.

  Her eyes widened. She looked like a sad raccoon. Her mascara made spider legs out of her eyelashes.

  “Maybe a short one?” I suggested.

  I couldn’t believe myself. I knew she was manipulating me. I didn’t know why yet, but I knew better than to buy her shit. Remember what she’s done to you, I thought. Remember those nights she left you alone on the couch with a man who kept saying how pretty you were, who touched you, so she could squeeze more money out of him. Remember her going to jail for possession and sticking you in a group home for three months. Remember she’s the reason you’re so screwed up.

  I didn’t remember anything.

  I sat with her in the refrigerated theater, smelling her cigarette breath and way-too-young perfume, watching a terrible movie, laughing.

  #

  That night, I sprawled on my bed with my ancient laptop, ostensibly researching my history report but actually Googling Mr. Wilke. Not much internet presence. Some placeholder profiles on social networking sites. Some blurry JPEGs. Even those tiny, pixelated images made my heart spin like a top. I saved the best one to my desktop, glancing at it while reading about the Cold War.

  Not good. I was becoming obsessed.

  New search: Illinois age of consent laws.

  We were legal.

  That night at the carnival was legal, obviously, and even if it happened now, as teacher and student, when he was in a “position of trust or authority” over me, it would still be legal because the cutoff was seventeen. As an eighteen year old, I could legally fuck my teacher.

  Of course, if anyone found out, they’d fire him in a heartbeat. He’d probably never teach again.

  Something heavy thudded downstairs.

  I put in my earbuds and lay back, eyes closed. The Constellations, “Right Where I Belong.” Mellow and bluesy and bittersweet. Just how I felt.

  A tepid breeze ghosted through the room, smelling of grass and dying summer. The cicadas were so loud I heard them through the music, the rattle of a million rainsticks. What are you doing right now? I wondered. What if I called?

  Something heavy fell again. My bed vibrated.

  I sat up, yanking out my earbuds.

  Thump. Thump. Crash.

  I stormed downstairs, calling for Mom.

  A man stood in our living room. Rangy, gray beard, jeans so oily they looked like leather.

  “Your mom had too much to drink,” he said.

  Mom was on the floor. He was trying to help her to the sofa.

 
“Jesus,” I said, kneeling. Her skin was cool to the touch. “She wasn’t drinking. She’s cold. What did she take?”

  The man gave me an unreadable look.

  “Mom?” I shook her. She was breathing, but shallowly. “Mom, what did you take?”

  I thumbed open an eye. Her pupil contracted in the light. She moaned, rolled away from me.

  Thank fucking god.

  I turned to the man. “Who are you?”

  “Paul.”

  “Paul,” I said curtly, “carry my mom to bed.”

  He carried her, and I held her head up. I pulled the cover over her. Turned on the lamp. Found her cell and pressed it into Paul’s hand.

  “You’re going to stay with her until she comes down,” I said. “Check her pulse every ten minutes. If it slows, or she gets colder, or stops breathing, call a fucking ambulance. I can’t do this again.”

  Paul had trouble paying attention to my mouth. He stared at my legs like they were talking.

  “Hey.” I snapped my fingers.

  He looked up.

  I took a picture of him with my phone. “Now I’ve got you on file. Don’t fucking leave her until she comes down.”

  Paul’s beard twitched.

  I shut the bedroom door and leaned my head against the wall in the darkness. My throat twisted shut. Selfish bitch. She had never, ever let me be a kid.

  A wedge of hot amber light fell across me. Paul stepped out of the bedroom. For a pathetic second I considered hugging this stranger. I needed to be hugged, by anyone.

  Paul put a hand on my back. My shoulders knit. The hand slid down to the top of my ass.

  I slammed my elbow into his gut. He gave a small, stifled gasp.

  “Touch me again,” I said, “and I’ll fucking kill you.”

  I walked fast out of the hall, but once I turned the corner I ran for the front door. Slammed it behind me. Dropped onto the top step, breathing wildly.

  God, my life was a fucking joke.

  I pulled my phone out, intending to call Wesley, to beg him to meet me somewhere, but before I could a new text popped up.

  From Mr. Wilke.

  Just a photo, no words. A ribbon of fireflies zigzagging through the night. The fiery spokes of a Ferris wheel. The merry-go-round like a giant music box. Deathsnake, a sinuous line of lights rising into the sky, dropping off into oblivion. It looked like a small galaxy, a fog of colored light hanging around it like a nebula. He’d taken it from his house. The lights he saw every night.

  My heart calmed. I stared at the screen, forgetting the life behind me. Wish I was there, I replied.

  A moment later, his response: Me too.

  Somewhere in the universe, two hearts reached out and connected.

  Then a figure stepped into the light streaming from the house, a shadow falling over me.

  I leapt up and ran for my bike in the garage. Pedaled furiously down the street to the highway. I headed for the water tower, racing as fast as I could, even when I was alone with the arctic starlight and the wind keening in my ears.

  At the reservoir I jumped off my bike, letting it fall. Used my momentum to run up the hill. Breathless, sweaty. My blood sang in my veins at hypersonic speed. I climbed to the crow’s nest, feeling savage. I could kill someone with my bare hands right now.

  Wesley sat on the driftwood boards, a point of orange fire frozen beside his face.

  “Maise?”

  I collapsed beside him, rolling to my back and staring up at the fat-bellied tank. Drank air that tasted like clove smoke.

  “What happened to you?”

  I waited until I had my breath back. “My mom overdosed.”

  “Is she going to live?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.” I sat up. “Maybe. I really don’t give a fuck.”

  I felt him looking at me. I slid to the edge of the platform, dangling my legs off. Thirty-foot drop to grass and dirt. Probably not fatal.

  “What’s your greatest fear?” I said, gripping an iron strut angling overhead.

  Wesley exhaled. “Being alone for the rest of my life.”

  “That’s a good one.” My fingers flexed. “Mine is being my mom.”

  I kicked myself off the platform.

  Wesley yelled something. My arms held; I swung out over space, light as air. It seemed I could let go and just float to the ground like ash.

  Arms around my waist.

  His attempt at “rescuing” me almost resulted in both of us falling. I kept telling him to let go, let go, but he wouldn’t. We toppled backward, his arms still locked around me. I wrestled free.

  “Jesus,” I said. “You almost made that a murder-suicide.”

  “You’re fucking crazy,” he screamed.

  I stared at him.

  His cigarette lay smoldering on the boards.

  “I’m not like you,” he said. “I don’t want to self-destruct.”

  “What?” I said in a soft voice.

  “If you want to kill yourself, don’t do it in front of me. Don’t make me try to save you.”

  I watched, speechless, as he climbed down the ladder and stalked off through the tall grass.

  Then I stood there alone. The cherry still burned. I stubbed it out with my toe and sat down. I felt empty, a sort of diffuse hunger, a gnawing sensation in my belly and lungs and throat.

  The world shivered brightly.

  Don’t. Don’t fucking cry.

  I took my phone out. Lost myself in those lights, the stupid pixels that formed words that meant everything.

  From up here I had a view of the carnival, too. I snapped a pic. Mine was farther out, a sprinkle of rainbow glitter. I sent it without a message. His reply, almost instantaneous, was what I’d expected, and I smiled.

  Wish I was there, he said.

  Me too, I answered.

  I pressed the phone to my chest, a warm rectangle of light irradiating my bones. I wasn’t sitting there alone. I wasn’t alone anywhere anymore.

  Something made me check the screen again. I’d read it fast, teary-eyed. It was different when I read it the second time.

  What he’d actually written was, Wish you were here.

  #

  Wesley met me Monday morning outside calc with a carrot cupcake.

  “Olive branch,” he said.

  I split it with him.

  “Hey,” he said, licking frosting from his lips, “if shit gets crazy at your house, you can come to mine. My mom won’t try to give you advice. She’ll just stuff your face.”

  On impulse, I hugged him. He was ungodly tall. “Thank you,” I said somewhere in the vicinity of his xyphoid process.

  When I let go he was blushing.

  A pang of guilt. Had I been leading him on, by habit? Nip that in the bud. I flicked his ear. “Hiyam’s having a homecoming after-party. You want to go and drink her booze and stare at her tits?”

  “Fuck yes.”

  I walked into Film Studies later that morning feeling more in balance with the universe than I had in a long time. Which meant, of course, that the universe had to swing a big rusty wrench straight into my face.

  He wasn’t there. A sub sat at his desk.

  “Where’s Mr. Wilke?” I said.

  The sub shrugged. “His instructions say you can use this period to work on your semester project.”

  Wesley and I slipped out after she took attendance.

  “This is fucking weird,” I muttered.

  “Why?”

  Because he drove me home Friday. Because we made out in his car, in the rain. Because he said he thought of doing terrible things to me in his head.

  “I don’t know. He didn’t seem sick last week.”

  “Mysterious illnesses often strike the elderly.”

  I kicked the back of Wesley’s knee.

  “Are you gonna spend the whole day pining for him?”

  Yes. “Meet me in the lab in ten. We can start on our masterpiece.”

  Where are you? I texted Mr. Wilke when I was al
one at my locker.

  I waited for a reply. Five minutes. Ten. Then I sighed, and tossed it in, and buried myself in schoolwork.

  He finally responded that afternoon. Court date. Nothing major.

  I didn’t reply.

  A minute later, he added, I miss you.

  I stood at my locker as kids milled around me and felt like I was on a movie set, surrounded by extras. Their lives were so small, so simple. So scripted. No one had a secret life like this. No one was texting the teacher they’d fucked, the teacher they were planning to fuck again.

  I want to see you, I said.

  I expected a brush-off. I did not expect him to say, Can you meet me outside school?

  Yes. God, yes. Where?

  He gave me an address not far away for a pickup.

  And then where? I said.

  Wherever you want.

  #

  I sat on an old cold case outside a derelict gas station half a mile from school. The sun banged off chrome pumps scabbed with rust, ricocheting into my eyes in bright bullets. Heat baked up from the cracked concrete. A tin sign pocked with BB holes creaked mysteriously, no breeze touching it. I reclined in a cool bath of shadow, my body relaxed, my mind going a million miles an hour.

  He pulled up like a movie star, one arm propped on the headrest, mirrored aviators flashing.

  I got in. The seat leather scorched my legs.

  We didn’t speak. He took his sunglasses off. His eyes were tender and soft beneath. He wore a pinstripe shirt and tie with jeans, sleeves rolled up, hair wind-tossed. Sun gilded the feathering of stubble on his cheek.

  We didn’t kiss.

  Our hands met on the scalding seat between us.

  I breathed fast. I hadn’t been this scared since I got into that rollercoaster car by myself. This was the same thing, really—getting on a ride that might destroy us.

  Worst Case Scenario: he loses his job, I get kicked out of school.

  Best Case Scenario—

  I don’t know. What is the best case scenario? Sneaking around, peering out of curtains? Lying to everyone we know?

  I thought of that Robert Frost poem they love to ruin for you in high school. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood. This was where my life forked. I could only go one way; in the other, Gwyneth Paltrow plays my alternate self like in Sliding Doors, ending up miserable or happy. That was the question. Which one was she? Which was I?