Kerouac: I’m not.
Absinthe: Good, because you won’t get it from me. If we ever fuck in real life, I’m not going to lie in your arms and cry because the experience moved my world. I’d probably climb off you, wipe your sticky semen out of my pristine vagina, and make myself a sandwich in your kitchen wearing your shirt.
Kerouac: We’re never going to fuck in real life, so …
Absinthe: Yes, K. You’ve made that clear. Thank you for the reminder though.
Kerouac: Same time tomorrow?
Absinthe: Oh, you got your rocks off and now you’re done with me?
Kerouac: I ordered food. It just arrived.
Absinthe: Sure.
A picture fills our chat screen: white Styrofoam containers filled with pad thai noodles and spring rolls.
Absinthe: You didn’t have to prove yourself. I was only fucking with you.
Kerouac: Tomorrow? Seven pm?
Absinthe: If you’re lucky.
A knock at my door prompts me to shut the lid of my laptop, and before I get a chance to answer, Bree barges in.
“Where’s my gold cross necklace?” she asks, her blue eyes wild and her tone accusatory.
I lift my palms. “No clue.”
“It was in my bathroom next to my sink this morning and now it’s gone. I need it. I have a test in fifteen minutes, and it’s my good luck charm.”
“You know good luck charms don’t actually work, right? It’s all in your head.”
Her face is red, her lips shaky, and she begins rifling through my closet, through dresser drawers. Tossing throw pillows and dirty clothes off the floor, she turns my room upside down.
“You took it. I know you did.” Bree points, wearing her mother’s scowl.
“I can assure you, I didn’t touch your stupid necklace. Thing’s ugly anyway.” I roll my eyes. “What would I even do with it?”
“I don’t know … pawn it?”
I smirk. This girl has never even set foot in a pawnshop. She’s never known the burden of having to pawn your brand-new shoes for lunch money, which happened to me on more than one occasion, I might add.
“A piece like that would get me eight, maybe nine dollars tops. Hardly worth the bus fare and the trip spent in the bad part of town,” I say.
Her jaw falls. “That necklace is from Tiffany! It’s worth way more than eight dollars.”
“I didn’t pawn it. I’m just saying, if I did, that’s probably all they’d give me for it,” I say.
She stands at the foot of my bed, staring, jaw clenched. She wants, so badly, to pin this on me. More than likely the cleaning lady moved it today or it fell down the drain.
“Don’t you have a test or something to get to?” I wave my hand, shooing her.
Bree lets out a juvenile groan, her fists clenched, and then she spins to leave my room, her cheerleader ponytail bouncing with each stomp. She’d slam my door if she knew she wouldn’t get in trouble for it.
Stupid twat.
Lifting the laptop lid, I return to the chat.
Kerouac has signed off.
Chapter Four
Ford
The garage is filled with random paint cans and yard tools left by the previous owner. They were supposed to clear everything out before they signed the closing papers, but they must have conveniently forgotten a few things.
Sweeping the dusty floor with a push broom while Aerosmith plays from an old tape player—another forgotten possession—I take a break and head inside to grab a Heineken, only I’m stopped by a familiar voice on the way inside.
“Ford,” the man says. I turn to face him. “Thought that was you.”
Superintendent Abbott walks toward me, though he’s nearly unrecognizable in khaki shorts and a golf polo.
“Victor,” I say, extending my hand. “Not used to seeing you out of your three-piece suit.”
This man put me through five rounds of interviews for this position, grilling me with impossible questions and hiding his shock when he realized it was going to take more than that to rattle me.
“So you’re the new neighbor,” he says, staring at my house, his hands on his hips. “The Smiths were good people. Really going to miss them. They don’t make neighbors like that anymore.” He pauses, his smile fading. “So, you getting all settled in?”
I nod, neglecting to tell him I haven’t even been here a full twenty-four hours yet. “I am. Taking it one day at a time.”
“Well, that’s good to hear, Ford.” He pats me on the back. “We’ll have to have you over for dinner one of these nights. My wife, Tabitha, makes a mean duck a l’orange. And I’m sure my daughter would love to meet you. She’s going to be a senior this year at Rosefield. So is my niece. She’s staying with us while she finishes her senior year.”
“Of course. I’d love to meet your family sometime,” I lie.
Shoot me now.
“Anyway, I know the board’s really excited to have you. Your interviews really blew us away, and that recommendation from U.S. Education Secretary Carl Broadbent really sealed the deal.”
Carl is an old family friend who’s never worked a day in his life with me, but he offered. And I couldn’t say no to that.
“I won’t keep you any longer,” he says. “Looks like you’re busy here.” Abbott checks his phone. “Meeting the guys at the club for a round. You golf much, Ford?”
“Sometimes.”
“You should join us next time.”
“Yeah, why not?” I smile, like I’m excited about playing golf with Victor Abbott and his cronies, but like my father always said, if you want to win at life, you have to play the game.
Victor gives a little wave before climbing into the driver’s side of his Infiniti and backing out of the driveway. Glancing toward his backyard, I spot an iron fence surrounding an in-ground pool.
A girl with blonde hair piled on top of her head and oversized sunglasses sits in one of the lounge chairs, paging through a thick book. Must be his daughter or his niece, both of which are seniors at Rosefield, so I don’t give her a second look.
Maybe she’s pretty. And maybe I haven’t been laid in longer than I’d like to admit. But so much as thinking about messing around with a student is a line I refuse to cross. I don’t even entertain those types of fantasies in my “alone time.”
Far too many careers have been ruined all because a teacher or person of authority couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.
But that’s not me.
I have complete control.
Heading inside, I grab a beer from the fridge and take a seat at the kitchen table to cool off for a bit. Grabbing my phone, I pull up the Karma app, which promptly reminds me that I haven’t spoken to Absinthe in almost twelve hours and that it will give me two karma points if I send her a message right now.
Kerouac: I never asked why your name is Absinthe.
Absinthe is online …
Absinthe: Good morning to you too.
Kerouac: You were waiting for my message, weren’t you?
Absinthe: It’s called a push notification. I was alerted the second you sent me that.
Kerouac: Most girls would play hard to get. They’d make me wait several hours or maybe even several days before responding.
Absinthe: No point in playing hard to get when you have no intentions of getting me.
Kerouac: Fair point.
Absinthe: My eyes are green. Like the color of absinthe liquor. And I’ve been told that I have addictive qualities.
Kerouac: Addictive qualities?
Absinthe: One taste and men get hooked.
Kerouac: How many men have you been with, Absinthe?
Absinthe: Enough.
Kerouac: A number, please.
Absinthe: A handful. You?
Kerouac: More than a handful.
Absinthe: So basically, what you’re saying is … you’re experienced.
Kerouac: You could infer that, yes.
Absinthe: Some people get turn
ed off by that. It’s the opposite for me. A man with experience is a good thing.
Kerouac: How old were you when you lost your virginity?
Absinthe: Does it matter?
Kerouac: Fine. I’ll go first. I was fifteen. She was the sixteen-year-old girl next door.
Absinthe: Who seduced whom?
Kerouac: She seduced me. And she had big tits. I couldn’t have said no if I wanted to.
Absinthe: Weak.
Kerouac: Your turn, Absinthe. Tell me about your first time.
Absinthe has signed off.
Chapter Five
Halston
I’m not sure what I expected from a restaurant called Big Boulders, where the woman on the sign is standing in front of two giant rocks that, I guess, are supposed to represent her breasts? But after filling out a dozen job applications over the past week, this is the only place that called me back.
“How many in your party?” The hostess, wearing a low-cut top that barely covers her nipples and leaves her belly exposed, gives me a dazzling smile.
“I’m here to see Todd Chadwick,” I say. “I have an interview.”
“Oh, yes, right this way.” She leads me to a back room before knocking on a door with a “manager” plaque taped to the outside. It smells like fried food and spilled drinks in here, and all of the girls are dressed in such a way that invites blatant ogling from the male patrons. “Todd, your one o’clock is here.”
The door flings open a second later, and a generic-looking white guy stands before me. Before he extends his hand, his eyes drag the length of me, lingering on my breasts, and then he invites me in, telling me to take a seat on a blue chair with a questionable white stain on the fabric.
“So you’re … Halston,” he says, grabbing my application from a stack on his desk. “What kind of name is Halston? If you don’t mind my asking?”
“I guess my parents named me after a perfume,” I say, monotone and repeating the answer I give everyone else who’s ever asked me the same stupid question. Supposedly it was the perfume my mother was wearing the night she met my father, when they were a couple of innocent high school kids with their whole lives ahead of them. But I don’t share that story. It romanticizes them, and they’re selfish assholes. “Anyway, your ad said you offered on-the-job training. Is that right?”
He nods, his hand partially covering his mouth as he rests his elbow on his desk. Todd can’t keep his eyes off my breasts for more than a few seconds, and I’m just now realizing his shirt says, “Get Your Rocks Off at Big Boulders!”
“Do you understand what kind of restaurant this is?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah. Like Knockers.”
“We’re better than Knockers.” His voice rises. Must be a hot button topic for Todd. “Anyway, we’re classier. Our women don’t look like ex-strippers and our food is all hand-made, nothing frozen.”
Because I’m sure that’s what’s bringing their customers here night after night.
“You’d be a server,” he says. “But we have a strict dress code. We provide the uniforms. I’m sure you saw some of the girls. Just think of it as a bikini. It’s no different. In fact, it hides a little more than a bikini would.”
Way to justify it, Todd.
“If there’s any doubt in your mind, any part of you that thinks you’d be uncomfortable in this kind of setting, I want you to get up right now and walk out of my office,” he says.
“I can handle this,” I assure him. “They can look, but they can’t touch, right?”
His eyes widen. “Absolutely. If anyone so much as puts their hands on you, you let me or one of the guys at the bar know. They’ll be shown the door immediately. We do not tolerate that.”
“Then we should be fine.”
“I will say, though. You’re going to be hit on,” he says. “Men of all ages, social classes, and backgrounds frequent this pub, and they come here because they want good food, pretty girls to look at, and someone to fantasize about when they’re lying next to their old ball and chains that night. That said, show them a good time. It’s okay to flirt back. It’s okay to let them think that maybe they have a chance. But our girls aren’t allowed to go home with the men or give out their numbers. We keep it professional.” He leans back in his chair, studying me. “How does that sound? You think you might be interested in something like that?”
“Absolutely. When can I start?”
It’s not like I have a choice. I need a job so I can get a car so I can get the hell out of here the second I graduate from Rosefield. There’s not much I won’t do at this point.
“Tomorrow?” he asks. “Can you start tomorrow? We’ll have you shadow someone for a week, but then you’ll be on your own. Shifts are eleven to five and five to eleven. You have a preference?”
“Eleven to five is fine,” I say. Vic and Tab would freak if I came home after eleven every night.
“Perfect. Let me grab your paperwork here. We’ll need a copy of your Social Security card and … well … everything’s outlined here. Take it home, fill it out, bring it back tomorrow, and we’ll get you suited up. Maybe get here about ten-thirty?”
I rise. He rises.
It’s done.
I have a job.
“Thank you, Todd,” I say.
I feel the weight of his stare on my ass as he walks me out.
Lying in bed, I double click on Karma and send Kerouac a message. I haven’t talked to him since I ended the conversation several days ago. Sure, I could’ve made up a story about the way I lost my virginity … saying it was some high school boyfriend and we were madly in love and it was sweet and romantic and perfect.
But my mind kept playing the real scenario, and my instinct was to shut down and walk away.
“You there?” I send him a message, biting my thumbnail as I wait.
Five minutes pass, then another five, then ten.
I watch some music videos on YouTube to pass the time.
Kerouac: I’m here. What’s going on?
Absinthe: What’s the most desperate thing you’ve ever done for money?
Kerouac: That’s random.
Absinthe: Just answer it.
Kerouac: I’m not a desperate man and I’m good with my money, so … nothing?
Absinthe: Bullshit.
Kerouac: I’d need to think on this a while. Can I get back to you?
Absinthe: I guess.
Kerouac: What’s wrong? Thought it was weird you went silent on me for a week.
Congratulations! You’ve reached ten Karma points! You may now view the photograph of the Karma user you’re chatting with!
I have no idea how they dole out points, if it’s based on how long you chat or how many messages are sent, but a flashing blue icon in the upper corner blinks at me, begging to be clicked.
So I click it.
And an image fills the screen.
It’s a man, late twenties, with brown hair, hazel eyes, and a perfect smile. He’s incredibly handsome and clean cut, and he wears a navy sweater over a gingham tie. He belongs on a Ralph Lauren billboard. Grabbing a screenshot of the image, I pull up Google and do a reverse image search, which leads me to a stock photo website.
Kerouac’s photo is stock. Not him.
Shaking my head, I’m imagining some beer-bellied pervert sitting in his mother’s basement trying to hook up with people on Karma, lying about his good looks and making himself seem more charming and intelligent than he actually is.
Fucking jackass.
Closing out of Karma, I clap the laptop lid shut and shove it to the end of the bed.
Chapter Six
Ford
“Thank you all for coming here,” I say Monday morning, though I shouldn’t have to thank my teachers for making it to a mandatory mid-summer meeting.
A row of women, all in their mid-forties and sporting suntans, shorts, and t-shirts, are talking amongst themselves, ignoring me. I’d expect this sort of behavior from students. Not seasoned teach
ing professionals.
“Let me know when you’re finished, ladies,” I say into the microphone.
They glance up, startled, and all eyes are on them. The woman on the far left mutters an apology.
“Yes. That’s better.” I stand before the podium in the Rosefield Performing Arts Auditorium, which is high tech and state of the art, having just been remodeled last year. The first several rows are filled with teachers, secretaries, guidance counselors, and maintenance staff. “I wanted to introduce myself.” A group of young teachers to my left are whispering, giggling. One of them nods, another practically wipes the drool off her chin. I get that I’m young for a principal, that I’m educated, intelligent, and professional, and that I’ve won the genetic lottery in the looks department, but I can assure each and every one of those teachers that I have no intentions of so much as thinking of hooking up with them. “My name is Ford Hawthorne. I’m originally from Connecticut, though I attended college in New York City and subsequently taught there as well before coming to Rosefield.”
The auditorium is finally quiet.
“A little about me, I’m a straight shooter. I don’t sugarcoat. I have ridiculously high expectations for my students, teachers, and staff, and if there’s anything I’ve learned in my career thus far, it’s that in the education system, reputation is everything,” I say. “The reputation of the school, the reputation of the students and staff, of the leadership … it’s all paramount. And everything we do, day in and day out, contributes to that reputation.” I glance at one of the younger women, who instantly blushes. “The second your name or your school’s name has been destroyed, it could take decades to be repaired.”
Moving on.
“A little about me personally? I’m an avid runner. I enjoy classic literature, travel, and I hate small talk.” I smirk. “Over the coming weeks leading up to August 1st, I plan to call you in for some one-on-one meetings, just so I can put your faces with your names. That said, I wanted to keep this short and sweet. I’m sure you’re anxious to get back out there and enjoy your summer break. If you need to reach me, I’ve left a stack of business cards on the table in the back with my contact information.”
P.S. I Hate You Page 25