Unteachable

by Leah Raeder

  I slipped my underwear down until it fell. Then I stepped out with one foot and kicked it away with the other. I never broke eye contact.

  Evan’s lips parted in awe.

  I’d like to thank the Academy.

  “Now you,” I said.

  He stood smoothly. His silhouette blocked the dregs of sun filtering through the curtain. It limned the edges of him, a bronze arc of light on his shoulder, the tips of his hair turning white-blond. His jeans clung tightly and he had to strip them off. He was hard again, totally hard, his boxers doing nothing to hide it. He slipped them off. My eyes didn’t know where to stop. Apparently my hands didn’t either because they were all over him, following the cascading slabs of his ribs, his abs, the smooth chevron of muscle that led to the hard dick I took and wrapped in my fingers. His hands came down on my shoulders, heavily. His breath was heavy, too. He leaned on me, eyes closed.

  “I want you like this,” I said.

  He looked at me as if he was drugged. I pushed him onto the bed. My knees fit to either side of his waist. We sat face to face again, but without any clothes between us. I was higher than him and he kissed my breasts, his dick stiff against my thigh. The heat of it drove me crazy, my blood percolating, a viciousness winding up in me like a cobra preparing to strike. If he didn’t fuck me, I was going to force him.

  He looked up at me. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” I said, my fingernails carving into his back.

  I could have forced him. I had the leverage. But I wanted him to do it, and so I let him take his sweet, torturous time, teasing my nipples with his teeth, sliding the whole length of himself between my thighs, pushing lightly, agonizingly, right against the focal point of that horrible ache in me. At first it was an insane test of willpower. I hit my limit again and again, somehow always starting over, finding a new reserve of patience. Then I realized that he was going to test my patience until it stopped being patience. Until I stopped waiting to be fucked and just experienced this. I made myself let go, made my muscles unravel. Draped my arms languidly around his neck. Looked at his face without thinking anything but how light it made my heart feel, as if pumped full of helium. And when I started to zone out and he slipped inside of me, I made myself stay relaxed. I let him penetrate me so gradually there was never a moment when it felt like he was finally fucking me. It all sort of blended together, fluidly, dreamily. His arms circled my back, holding me against the soft rocking of his body. This was different. This wasn’t being fucked. This was something happening to my entire self, not just the useful parts. There was so little tension in me I didn’t think I could come, until a warmth spreading from my hips and belly became hotter and hotter, and I looked up at the ceiling, gasping like I was surfacing for air, saying, “Come inside me, please, come inside me.” That was it. No holding back. The heat in me detonated in a gentle nuclear burst, annihilating all sensation with soft light. It came on slowly and faded slowly, leaving me tingling, buzzed. Evan kept going a little longer, and then he slowed, and stopped, and held me. He grimaced when he pulled out. He was still hard.

  “You didn’t,” I said drowsily.

  He kissed me.

  I let it go on for a moment and then leaned back, clear-eyed. “Why?”

  “I wanted it to be just for you.”

  It was like he’d spoken in Greek. I stared at him.

  And something very strange happened in my brain.

  I rolled away and sat on the edge of the bed, curling my arms around myself. My hand clamped instinctively over my mouth. The room was dark now, its shadows tinted the color of rust and old blood by the parking lot lights.

  “Maise?”

  The shadows swam in my eyes. I squeezed them shut.

  Evan laid a hand on my back. “Why are you crying?” he said in a frightened whisper.

  “I’m not,” I said, and sniffed. Perfect.

  His hand stroked me tentatively. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No.” I laughed at myself, bitter. “I’m just a fucking headcase.”

  “Why are you crying?” he said again.

  “Because no one’s ever done that before.”

  He swept my hair out of my face, tucking it behind my ear. “Done what?”

  I don’t think I was really crying about this. I think it was a cumulative effect, all the tension and anxiety of the past few weeks culminating in this perfect day, this perfect happiness. It was relief, not sadness. But he’d been the trigger, and I guess I owed him an answer.

  “Done it for me,” I said. “Just for me.”

  His arms were around me then, drawing me to his chest. He said something soothing, but it was merely sound. All I really heard was the deep submarine thump of his heart.

  #

  When I finally stepped outside it felt like walking into a different world. A million new roads stretched before me that I’d never seen before. We put our sunglasses back on in the car, grinning at each other. He took his off when he almost hit a streetlight. I laughed, and said maybe he should let me drive, and surprisingly, he did. It felt both wrong and amazing to be driving my teacher’s car. I stopped at a McDonald’s and ordered fries and vanilla shakes, parking in an empty lot under the stars. Evan said he’d make a special syllabus to prep me for film school.

  “Private tutoring?” I said, dipping a fry in my shake. “How scandalous.”

  He smiled, but after a moment his eyes went distant.

  “How is it going to be on Thursday?” I said.

  “I don’t know. I was hoping I’d figure out some way to freeze time.”

  I gestured with my fry. “I’ll be discreet. No one will know. I won’t risk your job.”

  He looked at me. “It’s not just about me. In fact, it’s less about me than it is about you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I won’t risk your future, or your happiness, or your sanity.”

  “Good thing I only have one of those.”

  “I’m serious.” He frowned. “Which one do you have?”

  “Happiness,” I said, and leaned over and kissed him. Vanilla and salt.

  He looked at me a long time when I pulled away. It wasn’t until later that I realized he’d hoped I’d say future. That’s how you know someone loves you. When they want you to be happy even in the part of your life they’ll never see. But right then I was too stuck in the moment, in the visceral pleasure of it all.

  “Let’s figure out our battle plan, comrade,” I said.

  I didn’t get home till midnight, and getting out of that car was harder than it had ever been. He made me hug the stuffed pony until it smelled like me again. I sat there until I’d finished every last fry. I was ravenous, insatiable. I’d done nothing but fuck him all day and wanted to do nothing else for the rest of this week. Month. Life. When he drove away I took a picture of the receding tail lights, and after his car was gone I stood there holding the photo up to the street, pretending. What is this feeling? I wondered. What is this hunger that grows worse the more I feed it?

  They’d come up with a name for it a long time ago. But you already know what it’s called, don’t you?

  —4—

  Wesley had texted me about eight zillion times.

  “Where were you yesterday?” he said at lunch. “I texted you about eight zillion times.”

  I looked at him philosophically, brandishing a mozzarella stick. “Where is anyone, really? In a quantum sense, I was everywhere and nowhere.”

  “Are you high?”

  I smiled.

  “You’re obligated to share with me, you know.”

  “I’m high on life. Take all you want. It’s free.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You got laid.”

  I bit the tip of my cheese stick suggestively.

  “Was it an old guy?”

  “What is age, really?” I said, and Wesley groaned.

  Before we went to our fifth period classes, I grabbed his arm.

  “I want to sta
rt working seriously on our movie.”

  “Okay.”

  “So I’m coming to your house after school.”

  “Okay.”

  “So hide your socks and titty posters.”

  “That’s a sexist stereotype,” he said.

  I raised my eyebrows at him.

  “Okay,” he sighed.

  I saw Mr. Wilke completely by accident. I didn’t know he was here today—maybe they’d called him in as a sub—and I was walking between classes on the first floor when we spotted each other in the hall. We both stopped. It was as if the lights dimmed on the river of bodies streaming around us, and we were the only two people left in full color. Fiery, radiant color, singeing the screen. All noise and motion blurred away. It felt like a camera circled us, capturing this movie-perfect moment. I started forward again and so did he. We passed each other slowly. We didn’t stop or speak. But our arms brushed, and for half a second our fingers curled together, then slipped free, like a secret handshake.

  #

  Leaves shook out of the trees and fluttered around me in gold and green flakes of summer. I rode slowly so Wesley could keep up, pushing my bike with my feet. The soft clack of the spokes, the groggy drone of bees and locusts, the honey-thick sunlight drizzling over us—I was in love with the world today. A big dumb smile climbed onto my face every time my mind drifted. The air tasted like sherry, sweet and light, a pleasant sting on my tongue.

  Wesley gave me a weird look, but didn’t deflate my good mood.

  At his house, I leaned my bike in the rose bushes and leapt up the stairs to the porch. There was a snap in my limbs like the lazy twang of a guitar, like when I’m drunk. Their place was huge and all painted wood, white and tomato red, with a wraparound veranda. As soon as I stepped foot inside I could tell what kind of mom he had: the kind who gave a shit. Braided rugs on polished oak floors. Couches more comfy-looking than chic. Family photos parading across the mantel, end tables, hallway shelves. I imagined opening a closet and getting swept away in an avalanche of cheesy frames: seashells for beach pics, little baby blocks spelling out WESLEY and NATALIE.

  “Who’s Natalie?” I said. Same dark, floppy hair as him, same deep-set eyes. She looked coolly knowing, sly.

  “My sister. She’s in college.”

  I had no idea he had a big sister.

  “Stop looking at those.”

  “Hold on, I’ve almost seen every year of your life.”

  He dragged me into the kitchen. A pitcher of lemonade sat on the counter, sweating.

  “What, no fresh-baked cookies?” I said.

  A woman stood up in the garden and waved at us with a spade.

  “That is not your mother,” I said.

  She brushed herself off and came inside. She was crazy tall, nearly six feet, and willowy, her skin pale as bone, her eyes a startling magnetic blue in a long, handsome face. Her nose was bold and hawkish, but it fit her. She smiled at me like she knew everything about me and was proud. She was beautiful.

  “You must be Maise,” she said in a low, mellifluous voice. “Thank you for not filing a restraining order against my son.”

  “Mom,” Wesley said.

  “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Brown,” I said.

  “Call me Siobhan.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Are you Irish?”

  She sighed, good-natured. “Before this one’s father ruined me, I was Ms. Callahan.”

  “Seriously, Mom,” Wesley said.

  “My only consolation is embarrassing my children in front of their friends. That’s why the oldest went to college on the other side of the country.”

  “Nat’s at UC Berkeley,” Wesley said, “learning how to make cyborgs.”

  “Biotechnology,” Siobhan said.

  “The Terminator,” Wesley said.

  “It probably involves a certain amount of naked men,” Siobhan conceded.

  I laughed, and sat at the counter, watching them, fascinated.

  Wesley poured us all lemonade. “Mom, we’re gonna work on that film project.”

  “What is your film about?”

  “Yes,” I said. “What is our film about, Monsieur Auteur?”

  Wesley raised his hands defensively. “I’ve just been shooting B-roll. We haven’t decided on a subject yet.”

  Siobhan leaned against the counter beside me. She smelled like warm soil and crushed flowers. “What sort of film is it?”

  It was totally weird having a parent actually interested in my schoolwork. Even someone else’s parent.

  “Docufiction,” Wesley and I said together.

  “It’s like cinéma vérité,” I said, “but with some narrative injected into it.”

  “Stories based on real events,” he said.

  “Inspired by,” I corrected. “We’re blurring the line between fact and fiction. It’ll probably focus on the trials and tribulations of being a high school senior.”

  “Or a teacher,” he said.

  Not something we had talked about. I glanced at him sharply.

  “I see,” Siobhan said. “But what is the story?”

  “It’s a slice of life,” Wesley said.

  “It’s a lot of short, interconnected stories,” I explained. “Vignettes. We’re taking a scattershot approach. There’s no grand design, just like there isn’t in real life.”

  “But surely there’s a theme,” Siobhan said.

  Wesley and I both opened our mouths, then looked at each other.

  “Well, obviously,” he said.

  “We just haven’t decided on it yet,” I added.

  “Maybe it will emerge while you work,” his mom suggested.

  A memory leapt to the front of my mind, unbidden. Evan and I in the motel, in each other’s arms, moving together slowly, hypnotically. Jesus. So inappropriate in this chaste family kitchen. I blushed furiously, but I said, “When you don’t force it, sometimes amazing things happen.”

  Siobhan peered at me. “Wise girl.” She brushed my cheek with a cool, dry finger. “Lovely, too.”

  Please adopt me, I thought.

  “Mom,” Wesley said. Funny how that word was both censure and affection when he said it.

  “I assume you two will be working upstairs? I’ll trust you to keep it PG-13.”

  Wesley blushed. I laughed. Siobhan smiled.

  “I love your mom,” I said as I followed him upstairs.

  “That’s because you don’t know her yet.”

  I plucked that word out of the air and clutched it to my chest. Yet.

  His room was enormous, but the ceiling slanted, making him crouch half the time. Pretty much what I expected: huge TV, Xbox, movie posters. Instead of the usual boy funk there was a faint herbal scent, his cigarettes and some kind of incense, maybe patchouli. He had a custom-built computer with two monitors and studio-grade speakers. And about a dozen types of video camera, in various states of disassembly.

  “Are your parents rich?” I said, drifting to the windows. “Oh my fucking god.”

  “What?”

  “You have a pool.”

  He shrugged uncomfortably.

  “Wesley. Do you hate me?”

  “No?”

  “Please rephrase in the form of a statement. And if you don’t hate me, why didn’t you tell me you have a pool?”

  Not once did it occur to me that it was because he couldn’t handle seeing me in a bikini.

  “It’s too late to use it anyway.”

  “That’s defeatist talk,” I said, but I grabbed a chair and sat beside him at the PC. “Let’s see the B-roll.”

  He had a metric shit ton. Half from summer: oceans of wheat rippling in the wind, trains silhouetted against bloody sunsets, even the carnival, eerily deserted in the rain. The rest was from the school year: a swarm of legs walking past, the fistfight we’d seen. And me. I was in most of those shots. Staring out windows longingly or giving him my lunatic grin. Sitting in class listening to Mr. Wilke. In every single one of them my yearning was cr
ystal clear. It burned in me like fever, made my skin glow palely, my eyes blaze, a beautiful madness. I stared at myself, breathless. I wasn’t hiding anything. It was all there in plain sight.

  “Is this how you see me?” I said, almost whispering. “As an attention whore?”

  “No. No way.”

  “Then why am I in all of these?”

  “Because you’re the only interesting person here.”

  I glanced at him. “You can’t do much with this except make a film about me.”

  He eyed me sideways, too. “Is that a bad thing?”

  “That’s not me. I’m not some starlet. I want to make something, Wesley. I don’t want to be objectified as some pretty face.”

  My words came out harsh and sibilant, like steam. I hadn’t meant to sound so angry.

  “Sorry,” he muttered.

  “It’s okay. That’s why we’re here. To get some perspective.”

  He wouldn’t look away from his keyboard, so I flicked his ear. He gave me a dirty look.

  “Clean slate,” I said. “High school in the American heartland. What darkness lurks inside this seemingly pastoral town?”

  “Incest,” he said.

  “Cliché,” I said. “But probably.”

  We brainstormed for a while, then decided to watch some stuff for inspiration. Unsurprisingly, Wesley was a huge David Lynch fan. We watched bits of Mulholland Drive, skipping around to our favorite parts. Mine: Betty arriving in LA, full of big dreams about to be mercilessly crushed. Wesley’s: the lesbian sex scene. I laughed and asked if he needed me to leave the room for a few minutes. He threw a Blu-Ray case at me. Siobhan made baked mostaccioli, and we all ate together, showing her some of his better footage on his phone. I’d plugged mine into his computer to charge.

  “Someone’s calling you,” he said when we went back upstairs.

  “Who?”

  “‘E.’”

  I grabbed my phone. “I need to take this. Outside.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Hi, Dad,” I said exaggeratedly when I answered. “Just a sec.”

  I could practically hear Evan’s eyebrows go up with a little comic book noise. Fwip.