Hex-Ed
Page 3
After today, I could no longer deny it. I was an epicenter of weird.
Hours after the principal of Skinnersville High School had escorted me from the premises, I slouched on my garage sale couch in my apartment, staring out my window at the April drizzle. I’d lost my internship that day. My mentor, the art teacher I’d interned with had berated the vice principal for putting me in a position alone in front of students before I’d been ready. But even she couldn’t undo the crazy-ass chaos I’d created in Mrs. Richardson’s sex-ed class.
A young couple ran on the sidewalk outside, singing and laughing in the rain. The man tugged the woman into his arms just below my window. He pushed her drenched hair out of her face and kissed her. Longing tugged at my heart, making me feel lonelier than ever. It was hard to imagine I would ever have a normal relationship when each of my dates ended in disaster.
For years I had been denying I might have caused the tornado that had carried Derrick away. But if I had truly believed that, I might have tried to date. I wouldn’t have feared what would happen every time I grew close to someone.
The couple outside continued to kiss. Not wanting to keep torturing myself, I turned away. I couldn’t just sit at my window feeling sorry for myself, watching Oregon’s liquid sunshine flush itself on rush hour traffic. I had to pick up my sorry behind, find another job, and move on.
I retrieved my phone from where I’d set it on the kitchen table I’d bought at Goodwill. It had taken me a year to transform the dining room set into an Alice in Wonderland masterpiece. The center of the table was a checkerboard with stripes radiating from the outer edges of the grid. I had painted hearts and white roses around the border. The wooden chairs were decorated with stripes and imagery to match the theme. It always made me smile to come home and see my fairy tale paintings on the walls and my artsy kitchen table, brightening up my otherwise drab apartment with its gray carpet and gray linoleum.
Almost always. Today it just made me wonder why I couldn’t settle for a plain table like everyone else. I wasn’t trying hard enough to fit in.
I called my supervising teacher at University of Oregon to let her know I needed a new school to intern at, idly pushing the salt and pepper shakers onto the squares of the checkerboard as I was put on hold.
It was fine, I told myself. I still had my health. I had plenty of other good things going for me. Chocolate was one of them. I heated up a jar of hot fudge sauce and dumped it on the Costco-size bucket of ice cream that took up most of the room in my freezer. I hugged it to my chest and drowned my misery in a hot fudge sundae. The bittersweet combination of sugar, cream, and dark chocolate matched my mood. I closed my eyes and savored each bite. Today was a bad day. Tomorrow I would start fresh.
Still, I continued to hope for the impossible. From my purse on the counter, I dug out my wallet and carefully unfolded the letter I’d written myself when I was eleven. I stared at the swirling font that declared my acceptance to Hogwarts. I refolded the letter and returned it to my wallet. I couldn’t let go of the dream that I was different—and not in a psychotic, hallucinating way—and someone out there would recognize this and commend me for it rather than shun me.
Yet, I hadn’t managed to blend in. I had bleached my hair blonde, dressed professionally and sensibly in long skirts and modest sweaters, and did my best to fit in with normal people. I had given my fairy collection to Goodwill, packed up my boxes of unicorn My Little Ponies, and pretended I was like everyone else.
The problem was, I knew I wasn’t.
I went to my bedroom and opened the armoire. It was the same wardrobe I’d had as a kid—the one I used to crawl inside while reading the Chronicles of Narnia, hoping I might be transported to another realm. I pushed the dresses as far to the side as I could and stretched forward until I smoothed my hand over the back wall. You would think just once a portal to another world might open and suck me through.
I hadn’t purposefully tried to use “real magic” since those days with Derrick. Sure, I still used illusions and sleight of hand parlor tricks at kiddy parties to earn extra money on the weekends. But that was different. I wasn’t trying to make fantasy come true. As my psychiatrist had told me, I wasn’t deluding myself.
“Magic isn’t real,” I said, my voice loud in the emptiness of my apartment. That’s what they all kept telling me.
The problem was, I still didn’t believe that. I’d seen my best friend perform magic. Derrick had been able to use his breath to make wind dance in a dervish around his feet. He’d made small objects disappear and then reappear somewhere else. When he’d used his powers, it felt as though the molecules in the air rearranged themselves according to his bidding.
Missy was another story. Moisture had wicked away from my throat and eyes when she’d performed magic. I’d seen my sister do horrible things with spells and potions. Was that all truly a dream of my fanciful imagination?
Magic had a cost, or so I’d once heard someone say. Was it my mother who had said that? No, she didn’t believe in magic. It must have been someone else.
Even after Missy and Derrick died, there were too many strange occurrences in my adult life that continued to happen not to question whether magic existed. Normal people always gave me sensible and rational explanations: I wasn’t the reason the ATM machine broke down—that was faulty hardware; humans didn’t affect weather patterns—cold fronts did; witchcraft couldn’t possibly be the reason bananas turned into penises—that was just a joke.
I set my unfinished bucket of ice cream on the floor. From the back of the bottom drawer of my wardrobe, I pulled out a curved plastic cylinder. The vibrator was as yellow as a banana, possibly the reason my mind associated bananas with penises prior to the incident at school. It had been a gag gift from my roommate, three years before. I had never used it. I’d always been too afraid of the consequences.
For just a moment I entertained the possibility of what was the worst that could happen if I used it. What if my life was like that Seinfeld episode when George decided listening to people and doing everything “right” wasn’t working, so he was going to do everything wrong on purpose and see if he succeeded? I couldn’t remember how that ended.
Maybe I shouldn’t be avoiding sex and relationships. I should intentionally try something sexual and see if I could make magic happen. Two years ago my therapist had suggested I break in my vibrator so I could prove to myself it was safe to have sex. But I hadn’t.
Yet.
I sat on the ledge of my armoire and leaned back against the cushion of clothes in the interior. The bed would probably have been more comfortable, but nestled inside the wardrobe, thinking about being transported to another world felt right. I experimented with the three settings, found my Goldilocks of good vibes, and tried to think of sexy, magical thoughts. The worst that would happen was magic—which my therapist had told me I didn’t believe in. The best that would happen is I would have my first orgasm, and nothing would happen.
Nothing would explode. No one would die. I would face my fears and find out I was ordinary, like everyone else. Yay. I would be boring. I might even feel like it was safe to date again.
I imagined the naughtiest spelling words. I tried to think about what had triggered the “episode” earlier in the day. Thinking about the banana incident reminded me I had been fired from student teaching, and that didn’t exactly make me randy. I tried to get back to that sexy groove. Focus on happy thoughts, I told myself. Sexy, happy thoughts. Mr. Darcy in a cravat, but commanding the U.S.S. Enterprise. Legolas in a lightsaber battle with Darth Vader.
When nothing extraordinary happened, I shoved the vibrator under my yoga pants and panties. The vibration intensified, but there weren’t any figurative fireworks. Maybe I should have read the instruction manual. It seemed like this was taking a long time. A dress fell on my head, and a hanger caught in my ponytail. I considered taking off all my clothes. Or switching to the bed. This was kind of boring.
The vibration felt as though it tingled up my arms. Sensation pulsed inside me. Muscles inside me I didn’t even know I had clenched, and my chest felt light and fluttery. This was it. I hadn’t been in control the times before. This time, I was the one actively deciding to have an orgasm, therefore, it would be different. No pornados.
For the briefest moment, lights flashed like popcorn behind my eyelids. Warmth suffused my body. I thought I was about to have an orgasm.
The tremors faded away. The vibrator went still. I shook the plastic tube. It hiccupped to life only to falter and die again.
“No!” I growled, shaking it harder and flipping through the different settings. The batteries were dead. Why now? I’d been so close!
Desperate not to lose the momentum, I pulled up my pants and tripped out of the wardrobe, dragging clothing along with me. My foot sank into something cold and wet—the bucket of ice cream. I ran across the forest of shag carpet toward the kitchen, leaving a sticky trail in my wake. I rummaged through the top drawer for batteries. Yes, I had three different types. Frantically, I unscrewed the plastic base, let the old batteries plop to the floor, and slid three more in my plastic pleasure maker.
It started up again, rattling and sputtering as loudly as a lawn mower. I pressed it against my crotch, over my yoga pants. A tickling sensation pulsed through my bones and up into my belly. A small vibration jolted through my skin and into my core. The room shimmered. This was it. I could feel the magic. Real magic. Good magic—not the kind that caused natural disasters, singing bananas, and anarchy.
The battery went dead again. Something thudded somewhere behind me, but I was too distracted to pay attention as I rummaged for new Double A batteries. I accidentally yanked the entire junk drawer out from the cabinet, spilling the contents of rubber bands, toothpicks, screws, and other odds and ends onto the floor. The click in the foyer was just one more rattle as I kneeled on the floor and sorted through the mess. I heard the key in the lock and froze.
“Clarissa?” my mom said.
Shit! Why had I given her a key to my apartment?
CHAPTER THREE
The Kitchen Witch
My mom rounded the corner of the small foyer and stepped into the kitchen, bringing with her the smell of cumin, chili powder, and garlic. Everything happened in slow motion. I fell back on my butt and moved the bright yellow vibrator behind me, but not fast enough. Mom’s gaze followed my hand.
If she knew what she was seeing, she at least had the diplomacy not to react. She held a foil-wrapped pan in her hands. Droplets of rain clung to her auburn hair and wool jacket.
The smile on her face looked as though it was firmly tacked in place. “I’m sorry. I hope I’m not intruding, dear.” Her gaze raked over the mess I’d made. My pink and purple striped sock dripped a puddle of brown ice cream onto the linoleum. Nuts, bolts, and batteries surrounded me. A dress and a sweater from the wardrobe lay on the floor.
Discreetly, I opened the cupboard behind me and shoved the vibrator inside a pan.
“Hi, Mom,” I said in as cheery a voice as I could muster. My fake enthusiasm sounded strained, even to my own ears. “Um… .”
She set the tray on the oven. “I got off work early and baked wet burritos. I thought you might want some.”
“Thanks.” My face flushed with warmth. Wet burritos. Heh. I had to get my mind out of the gutter. “That’s really nice of you. Unexpected. You should have called.”
“I did, but it went straight to voicemail. I think your battery is dead again.” She reached over and unhooked a hanger from my ponytail. She placed it on the counter next to the sink full of dirty dishes.
I picked myself off the floor and found my cell next to my purse. My sock left a sticky trail on the gray linoleum. The phone needed to be recharged. What was it about me and batteries?
“Are you hungry? Should I serve us some dinner?” Mom opened the cupboards above the counter before I had a chance to answer.
She fluttered around the kitchen, talking as she scooped out a serving of cheesy comfort food and set it on a clean plate. “I made the salsa myself with those tomatoes I canned last summer. And the cilantro and chili peppers are from my garden.”
My mom always made the other Master Gardeners jealous with her ability to grow produce, even this early in the spring. Between the homegrown, organic vegetables and how delicious her cooking was, her food tempted me like crack.
Mom chattered away. “I thought you might need something nice. Special. After a day like today, well, who wouldn’t?”
After a day like today? My throat went dry. As if the shame of being fired from an unpaid job wasn’t bad enough, as if the horror of being caught by my mom on the kitchen floor with a vibrator wasn’t epically awkward, I prayed my mom hadn’t somehow discovered my failure as a teacher.
“Mom.” I stood frozen with trepidation. As much as I appreciated the comfort food, her timing was suspicious. “What do you mean by ‘a day like today?’”
She turned toward me, cheese dripping from the spatula in her hand. “Oh, sweetie, I wasn’t trying to pry. I got a call from your Aunt Linda this afternoon, and she said she was talking to her friend who works in the counseling office at Skinnersville High—”
My mom knew. Dad’s sister-in-law worked at the district office.
“I didn’t do it,” I said before she could get any further. “They didn’t believe me, but I wasn’t the one behind the banana incident.” I sucked in a quivering breath. Even if I didn’t believe what I was saying, I wanted her to. I didn’t want her to think I could make bad things happen.
I didn’t want her to know my secret fears that I might have been responsible for Missy and Derrick’s death. My sister’s pink rhinestone high heels peeking out from under the house flashed before my eyes.
“I know, honey.” Mom hugged me around the shoulders, making me feel better for about five seconds before she went on. “You don’t think they’ll ban you from the entire district, do you? Will someone file a complaint with that teacher standards place?”
Last year when I’d been doing my observation for student teaching, the principal had reported me as being grossly incompetent and unfit to be a teacher. Aunt Linda’s friend had told her, who told Mom, who told me. I called Teacher Standards and Practices Commission and refuted the allegations. Fortunately, TSPC had dismissed the principal’s claim since they didn’t think I could have possibly turned a classroom full of eighth graders—obnoxious, disrespectful eighth graders, I might add—into toads.
I blamed the students making out in the back of the class for triggering the episode. I had spotted the couple using their class time to study each other’s tonsils with their tongues. I wondered what was wrong with these kids. Did they have to add heavy petting to their list of things to learn at school?
I didn’t know if it was the topic of one-point perspective drawing got them all hot and bothered or if this was a normal occurrence at a middle school.
“Separate those two so I can keep teaching,” Mrs. Smith had said to me and turned back to the chalkboard.
I wove through the tables to the students. “Excuse me,” I said. “I need you to separate.”
“Fuck off,” the boy said.
“You can go to the principal’s office.” I pointed to the door.
The two teenagers laughed and left like it was a joke. I didn’t even know their names. Most likely they would continue making out in the hallway.
The class was unruly, throwing pencils at each other and Mrs. Smith. They weren’t listening, and she didn’t know what to do with them.
/> Mrs. Smith called me up to the board to finish the perspective drawing she’d started so she could write detention slips. As I faced the chalkboard, I felt the air shift. Currents of electricity raced under my skin. When I turned back, the class had turned into toads.
I ran out, screaming and in panic, afraid I was having a mental breakdown. The commotion drew the attention of the administrators, who came rushing in to find a classroom full of ribbeting amphibians.
That was the first day I’d met the district psychologist. When I’d returned to the classroom after crying in the bathroom, I’d found him chiding the students for “playing a trick on me.” He assured me in his grumpy way that my students couldn’t possibly have turned into toads. I didn’t know where Mrs. Smith had gone to.
“Did you actually see them transform?” he asked me.
The truth was, I hadn’t. My back had been turned, and I was writing on the chalkboard. It could have been a trick. I wanted to believe it was a cruel joke and nothing more. The psychologist went on to chastise me in his snotty way about my classroom management techniques and scolded me for leaving the students unattended. He didn’t chastise Mrs. Smith when she came back with the principal, even though she was the one in charge who should have been supervising the students, not me.
His explanation about the toads would have sounded reasonable to someone who didn’t believe in magic. I had desperately wanted to believe I couldn’t have done such a horrible thing. Still, I had doubted my innocence in the matter.
The toads had been high on the list of weird. However, today took the cake. That was harder to deny. Everyone had seen the dancing bananas. I had seen them transform. Magic was real.
Mom patted my back. “You aren’t going to graduate if you keep getting blacklisted from schools. You’ll lose your scholarship.” If Debbie Downer and Negative Nancy had gotten together and had a lovechild, it probably would have been my mother. Was it really such a stretch to see where my worrying superpowers came from?