Promiscuous

by Isobel Irons

  Then I wake up, and repeat the whole song and dance again.

  Until one Monday, in March.

  Sometimes, I think there has to be a universal law or something that says if your life is going to turn upside-down, it should happen on a Monday.

  I walk into detention and see not Mr. Dodge sitting behind the desk, but Grant Blue. I freeze in place, narrowing my eyes at him as I try to figure out what’s going on. He stands up and comes over to me. I do that thing cartoon characters do, where I sneak a look behind me to see if Becca Foster—or someone equally deserving of Grant Blue’s attention—is standing there. Instead, I only see the open doorway and the clock above it. Okay, so I’m a little late. But I’m not that late. Did I miss a memo about some after-school honor student meeting happening in the detention room?

  When Grant Blue reaches me, he bends his head down close enough that I can smell the soap and promise on his skin. Clean living and popularity—It’s quite the aftershave, let me tell you. If I’m being honest, the fact that he even has to bend to talk to me is making me want to swoon a little.

  But just a little.

  “Hey,” he says, in that same low, calm voice he always uses. “Mr. Dodge wants to see you. He’s in his office.”

  I stare up at him, and it dawns on me that I’ve never actually heard Grant Blue raise his voice to an outdoor level, or laugh out loud. Either he’s very calm in general, or he’s got a huge stash of Zoloft hidden away somewhere. Also, his eyes are like this really awesome color between brown and green. You’d think such a color would end up looking like split peas, or baby poop. But it doesn’t.

  “His office is down the hall,” he adds. “Third door on the right.”

  That’s when I realize I’ve been standing there staring up at him for an uncomfortably long time, without responding. Awesome. I can feel my face heating, and I know I’m starting to blush. That royally pisses me off, and I glare at him.

  “I know where his office is.” My whispered response seems unnecessarily loud. Why the hell are we even whispering, anyway? There’s only like, three other kids in detention. One of them is Mick Gaffers, who is obviously high off his balls, and the other two detention regulars—Daniela and Jorge—are too busy flirting with each other to care.

  I turn toward the door, prepared to stomp off and share my foul mood with Mr. Dodge. But then I stop and spin back around.

  “Wait.” I don’t bother to whisper this time. “What the fuck are you doing in detention, anyway?”

  Mr. Least Likely to Be Disciplined does this thing that’s like half smile, half wince. He glances at the other students, like he’s embarrassed for me. Seriously, why does he keep doing that? Is there a giant booger on my face? Did I tear a hole in my skirt? Is my ass hanging out? I resist the urge to check, since everyone is officially staring at me now. Even Mick seems to be snapping out of his pot haze.

  “I’m Mr. Dodge’s TA. I volunteered to stay so he could go to a meeting.”

  “Oh.” I frown. That’s weird, I haven’t seen him around here bef—ooohhhhhh. Scratch that, yes I have. In fact, that first day when I ran into him in the hallway, he was probably coming out of Mr. Dodge’s office. And now that I think about it, I have seen his shiny black car parked in the lot sometimes after detention. I just didn’t start noticing cars so much until after the thing with Trent. Hell, I guess I just figured he was staying late to give blood to the homeless or something. That’s what student body people do, right?

  I clear my throat. “My mistake.”

  His eyes do this crinkle thing around the edges, and I get the feeling that he’s laughing at me.

  “So, am I not allowed to be in detention?”

  I take a step back. He’s standing too close, and his eyes are like tractor beams for my attention span. I shrug.

  “No, you can do whatever the hell you want. I just didn’t think you had it in you.”

  I turn to go out the door, confident that my parting shot was sufficiently scathing. I can’t help but bite my lip to stop an idiot grin from spreading across my face. It doesn’t matter. He can’t see me.

  “You guys can handle things for a while, right?”

  His voice, soft and low as it is, somehow manages to follow me down the hallway. Then I realize it’s not just his voice. It’s him, following me.

  I’m still feeling all jittery, though, so I don’t turn around. Instead, I quicken my pace and make for Mr. Dodge’s open office door. When I get there, I want to leap through it like an action movie star right before an epic explosion.

  On the way in, I stumble slightly. Mr. Dodge looks up from his desk, startled. I smile innocently.

  “Heyyy…so, um, you wanted to see me?”

  “Yes, I did.” His face does not look happy. I open my mouth to crack a joke or compliment his bow-tie, or just generally blow some preemptive smoke up his ass, when his eyes flick upward. “Both of you, have a seat. Grant, can you get the door, please?”

  My fake smile freezes in place. I shuffle forward and take a seat, warily. Grant Blue shuts the door and takes the only other open seat in front of Mr. Dodge’s desk—right next to mine.

  I chance a look at him sideways, through my eyelashes, but he’s not looking at me. What the hell is going on?

  “Natasha,” Mr. Dodge folds his hands on top of his desk. The look on his face is unreadable. “Do you remember the deal we made a few weeks ago?”

  I steal another look at Grant Blue. Seriously, why the fuck is he here? Is he supposed to be like a bodyguard, in case I get violent? Or maybe Mr. Dodge is afraid I’ll try to seduce him to keep from getting in trouble, and he wants a witness. My fast and loose reputation has gotten pretty epic by now, so I can’t really blame him if that’s the case. Last week, I heard someone saying I went down on Ms. Tailor in the locker room. That was an image I did not need haunting my subconscious.

  “Yes,” I admit, cautiously. “I remember.”

  “So, I’m sure you can imagine my disappointment when I heard from Mr. Bogart today that you haven’t been seen in his class for weeks.”

  Oh, that. Right. Yes, I suppose that could be considered a violation of our deal, in some ways. Though, technically I’m not exactly barring myself from graduation, since I did have a C minus at the end of last term. And then there’s the whole class roll forgery thing.

  “That’s weird.” I try to look confused. “I could’ve sworn I’ve only missed one or two classes. There was that one day I wasn’t feeling well after lunch—probably because I ate in the cafeteria on jambalaya day—and then there was that other time, when I was suffering from…” too late, I realize that I shouldn’t use this type of excuse in front of Grant Freaking Blue, but oh what the hell it’s not like he doesn’t already think I’m a freak, so I continue, “lady troubles. But that’s all I can think of at the moment. Are you sure he’s not just getting old and nearsighted?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Grant Blue duck his head and raise a hand to scratch his nose. Is he hiding a smile? No way. He’s probably just horrified that I brought up that whole ‘lady troubles’ thing.

  Mr. Dodge doesn’t even blink. “No.”

  Busted.

  “Well, it was worth a shot.” I slump down in my chair and put my elbows on my knees, bracing myself for the axe to fall. It was only a matter of time, I suppose, before the last living adult to show faith in me finally bit the dust. I’m actually surprised it didn’t happen sooner. Especially now that Becca Foster and Trent Gibson seem to have joined forces to catapult my name into delinquent infamy.

  “So, what now?” I ask. My voice sounds dead to me.

  “I’ve spoken to Principal Shoemaker…”

  Shit. So I’m expelled, then. Well, at least I won’t have to endure any more fake sneezes that sound awfully a lot like the word ‘slut.’ Unless, of course, my mom decides to take up the tradition at home.

  “…and there’s no way you can transfer into another Pre-Calculus class without re-arrangi
ng your entire schedule, which he will not agree to….”

  Well, maybe I can ask Karen to take me on full time at the Baskin Robbins. With any luck, I’ll have enough money to buy gas to get me to LA within three to five years. Unless gas prices go up again.

  “…So, that only leaves us with one option.”

  One option? Flipping burgers, I think he means. “Unless you’re counting the illegal options, like drug dealing or prostitution.”

  Next to me, Grant Blue lets out a sudden puff of air that almost could’ve been a snort. Fuck, did I mutter that last part out loud? I look over to see him covering his mouth again.

  “Sorry.” I address my apology to the room at large, because apologizing to Grant Blue personally for my prostitution comment just seems way too suggestive, for some reason. “I tend to make inappropriate jokes when I’m nervous.”

  Or, you know, when my mouth is open.

  “Tash, I really went to bat for you, here.” Mr. Dodge says, doing that Dad thing again. “The least you can do is hear me out.”

  “Sorry,” I say again. Because what else can I say? ‘Thank you for trying to prevent my inevitable expulsion, but guess what, you should’ve saved yourself the effort because I’ve been screwed since birth’?

  “As I was saying, I’ve checked with your other teachers, and it looks like the only real problem you have is Pre-Calculus. So, as long as you’re able to pass Mr. Bogart’s class with at least a seventy percent, you can still walk.”

  “Oh.” That’s wonderful news. Except for the part where I’d actually have to go to Mr. Bogart’s class. I try to paste a semi-grateful expression on top of my disappointment. “That’s good to know. Thanks.”

  “And,” he continues, “since you seem to be fatally allergic to that classroom, I managed to get Mr. Bogart to agree to letting you finish up Pre-Calculus by independent study.”

  I smile past the lump in my throat. I don’t think anyone’s ever tried this hard for me before, not even me. But it’s also tragic as fuck, because I know it’s not going to make one damn bit of difference. Mr. Dodge probably doesn’t realize that I’ve been doing Pre-Calculus by independent study already. And I’m failing. No, it’s worse than failing. Failing implies trying. What I’m doing is a lot more like drowning.

  God damn, why couldn’t I have assaulted Trent Gibson in English, or P.E.? Hell, any other class. Or maybe not at all. But no, I take that back. With my temper and his level of grossness, it would’ve happened eventually for sure.

  “Of course, Pre-Calculus isn’t an easy subject to grasp on your own. Which is why Grant here has offered to tutor you.”

  My inner pity-party comes to a screeching halt. Wait, what?

  This time, I actually turn fully sideways, so I can hit Grant Blue with the full force of my incredulous stare. He doesn’t look excited, but he also looks much less full of dread than I would’ve expected. It’s more like he’s waiting for my reaction. As if he cares what I think.

  I narrow my eyes at him, already feeling deeply suspicious of his motives. “Like, you’re going to tutor me, tutor me? Or just check my homework every once in a while?”

  That I could handle. Maybe. But if Grant Blue—the human bastion of gentlemanly perfection that he’s become, at least in my imagination—ends up being a jerk or a pervert, and asking for a hand job or something, in exchange for this tutoring? I really don’t think I’ll be able to stop from just giving up and going off in search of a nunnery.

  “That depends on how much help you need,” he says. “We can start out by meeting in the library during lunch, or if you have a free period. Then, if you need more help, I can tutor you during detention or after school, over the phone.”

  Interesting. I mull it over for a few seconds. The phone idea has merit, especially since it would mean I’d be safe from his bedroom eyes and dreamy-smelling skin.

  “Okay, I think that could work.” I try to find a way to phrase my question, the one I desperately need to ask before I can agree to be indebted to someone like him—or worse, his charity case. A couple of ideas come to mind, like: ‘How will I be required to pay for these services?’ and ‘You’re not secretly Mormon, are you?’ but then I finally decide to go with, “What do you get out of this deal?”

  Mr. Dodge shifts in his seat, and I can tell that he’s annoyed I felt the need to ask. But Grant Blue just shrugs.

  “It’ll look good on college applications.”

  Fair enough. I nod, then turn back to Mr. Dodge, because by now I’ve figured out that this little deal has a whole boatload of provisos and quid pro quos attached. Can’t get something for nothing, after all. I’m pretty sure that’s in the Trailer Park Bible somewhere, as well.

  “Principal Shoemaker had a condition, before he would agree to let me set this up.”

  Of course he does.

  “What was it? That I’d be publicly flogged, for skipping math class?”

  Mr. Dodge shakes his head. “No, you can’t have more than one free period. So you’re going to have to replace Pre-Calculus with a third period elective.”

  Okay, that shouldn’t be a problem. Maybe I can bite the bullet and join Margot’s sewing class. I hate that kind of bullshit, but at least I’d be able to spend more time with my best friend. Though, I think her class might be full. I think there might be a pottery class or something, though.

  “Can I choose any elective I want?”

  “Nope, you can’t.” Mr. Dodge smiles, and suddenly I feel like this whole thing has been one big cosmic joke, and I’m about to hear the punch line.

  “So, what am I going to do?”

  “Leadership,” Grant Blue says, with his trademark brevity.

  I look at him, expecting to see that half-smile, half-apology face that means he’s making fun of me. But he’s just got that open, honest nice guy expression that’s somehow impossible to misinterpret. Like he’s exactly what he seems to be: annoyingly fucking perfect.

  “Leadership? As in, student body?”

  Mr. Dodge nods. Grant Blue just waits. I slowly begin to panic, as the full ramifications of what they’re telling me starts to sink in. Oh, no. Oh, hell no.

  Leadership: the only high school elective you actually have to be elected to get into. It’s like the who’s who of popular kids with too much money and too much parental pressure to succeed. Every kid who ever made Margot and I feel inferior—just for existing—is in that class. Becca is in that class.

  Frantically, I search for a way to get out of this, without letting them know that I’m afraid.

  “Don’t you have to run for something to get into student body office? I mean, won’t people get mad, or jealous, or whatever?” Or start a fucking lynch mob, complete with torches and pitchforks, the minute they see me standing up at the front of the gym during the next school assembly?

  “It’ll be fine,” Mr. Dodge says. “I’ll tell them you’re my TA. You can help organize my office or study during the meetings. But you will have to help out with pep rallies and decorating, things like that.”

  Pep rallies. Decorating. For what, actual school functions? Those mystical extra-curricular events I’ve never bothered to go to, not even once?

  I swallow, trying to buy myself time, but my brain is empty of excuses for the first time ever. All that’s left is this random, haunting image of me standing on a stage in a Hollywood-style prom set, covered in pig’s blood, while everything around me goes up in flames. That is how this will end, I silently promise. You mark my words, this will not end well.

  “Don’t worry,” Grant Blue says, even more quietly than usual. “I’ll be there if you need any help.”

  I’m not sure what he means by that, or what kind of help he’s offering, but some small part of me feels better about the whole thing in that moment.

  I try to imagine telling Margot how all of this came to pass. She’ll never believe it, not in a million years. Hell, I don’t even believe it. As for Becca Foster? Well, here’s hoping my gestu
re of social warfare catches her by surprise, and causes an aneurism, before she has a chance to destroy me.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The next morning, my drive to school is unusually frosty. I spent most of the night tossing around in bed, trying to figure out how to break the news to Margot. She’s already started to complain that we never see each other anymore, and now that I’m going to be piling bullshit decorating and pep rally planning duties on top of detention and work, it’s going to be even harder to hang out like we used to.

  I started off by bringing her a blueberry muffin—one of those pre-packaged ones from the Mini Mart she used to love—and then I poured out the whole story in one long, curse-filled apology. I didn’t cry, though I felt like I wanted to. When I was done, she just sat there in shocked silence, holding her uneaten muffin. When she hadn’t said anything for a full ten minutes, I started the car and drove to school.

  By the time we pull into the parking lot, there are almost no spaces left over. Shit, now on top of everything else, we’re going to be late for aerobics. I really can’t afford another tardy, since I know Mr. Dodge will be watching my attendance record like a hawk.

  I sigh, realizing that the next few days are going to be even less fun than I expected, if I won’t even have Margot to bitch to about everything that’s going on. I didn’t even get a chance to tell her about Grant Blue tutoring me. That part kind of slipped through the cracks between her gasp of shock over what happened with Trent in the parking lot—though, I left out the part where he said he was going to ‘own my ass,’ because I didn’t want her to worry more than she already is—and the big ‘I’m in Leadership now’ reveal.