You’ve already
heard this story, seen it on the nightly news a dozen times.
You’re mom or your wife will act all shocked, wonder how a teacher
could do something like that. But the guys know better. We
all wish we had a shot like that at fifteen or sixteen or whatever, you
know? All you guys know what I’m saying? You remember that
one hot teacher, fantasizing about detention after class.
Naughty boy.
Bang the erasers together.
I was four weeks
into night school when I struck pay dirt.
* * *
“Shane?”
“Miss Turner?”
Raised eyebrow. What does she want? Class is over, and I
want to get home in time for South Park.
“Can you help me
carry some books out to my car?”
I give Malcolm a
look, like I’ll catch up with you later, sling my backpack over
my shoulder and grab an armload of Miss Turner’s books. I signed
on for algebra, not to lug books, but whatever.
In the parking lot,
I put the books in the backseat of her Saturn. She climbs behind
the wheel, her skirt hiking up, and I see the legs, white and smooth and
feel something flip-flop in my gut. I’m not supposed to see Miss
Turner’s legs. I’m not supposed to notice her gray skirt and
pearls and white blouse and her hourglass figure, but for the first
time, I’m looking and seeing her different like she’s a real woman
and not just this thing showing me algebra.
“Get in, Shane,
and I’ll drive you home.”
She says it like
it’s not a big deal, but I feel weird about it. I get in and
then she’s driving and says how it’s been such a long day and pulls
this flask of whiskey from between the seats and takes a slug. Now
I know something’s going on. She offers me the flask.
I drink.
She pulls into this
park just as we’re hitting the suburbs. She parks away from the
streetlight, says she hopes I don’t mind but she just can’t go home
yet. Problems with Roy. The husband. And I feel so hot
and dizzy because I know what’s going to happen, because I’ve seen
the news and I’ve seen the movies, and I hope it doesn’t but mostly
I hope it does, you know?
Her hands are on my
pants, and then my zipper’s down and she’s pulling me out and
pulling and pulling and saying how next week we can do more because
husband Roy will be in Jacksonville and all I know is my eyes are
rolling back in my head and this grunt is climbing out of my throat and
I’m twitching and stars are flashing in my eyes.
And I go to Miss
Turner’s house the week after and the next week too.
* * *
Here’s what Miss
Turner didn’t figure. In all the news reports and movies when
this thing happens, the teacher always picks some loser, outcast guy,
right? This loser guy falls hook, line and sinker and the teacher
just wraps him around her finger. He’s like some kind of slave,
you know? I’m way too slick to let that happen. Ain’t no
way. I come from a good home, good parents, good college
prospects. I’m eighteen and good looking and on the track team,
and I’m not going to become one of those fucking ABC made-for-TV
movies, just no fucking way. I’m going to score as much as
possible with Miss Turner and then when it’s over it’s over.
No looking back. No stupid mistakes.
This is what I’m
thinking about when I decide to tell Malcolm I’m putting to our
algebra teacher.
* * *
“What?”
Malcolm’s eyes shoot wide as headlights. “You’re shitting
me!” He sits on the edge of his seat across from my bed.
He comes over to help with homework, but he could give a shit about
algebra. He wants to hear about the sex.
I wouldn’t look at
Malcolm twice during our regular school hours. The guy is one Star
Trek loving, Dungeons & Dragons playing, textbook dork. But
he’s the only guy I know at night school. I flunked Algebra the
first time around, and I was trying to avoid summer school. Night
school was the only way I could fit it into my schedule what with full
classes and track practice and all. Malcolm was like sick a whole
semester and was trying to make up. Something with his lungs or
whatever.
“I’m not
shitting you,” I tell him. “We do it every week.”
“What’s it
like,” Malcolm asks. “I mean, how did you … when did you
…” He gesticulates, isn’t even sure what he wants to ask.
I tell him.
How it’s so velvet warm and wet when I slide it in, Miss Turner’s
legs clamping around me, little grunts in rhythm growing louder and
louder and ending in an animal howl.
Malcolm licks his
lips, looks pale, hands shaky through his greasy, dishwasher hair.
He’s real disturbed. I can tell. Like he has to hear every
detail, but everything he hears is complete torment. And then I
think I should stop or change the subject or maybe even say I was
kidding about the whole thing because I think Malcolm is about to pop,
like a cartoon with steam coming out of his ears. But then
something ugly rears up in me, and I want him to squirm. I don’t
know why. To feel like a big shot, I guess, or just because I can.
Malcolm’s never been within a mile of a girl, and I just know he’ll
go home and think about everything I’ve told him and whack off all
night.
Malcolm sits back.
“Damn. I’d give anything for a crack at that.”
“It’s pretty
sweet.”
He wipes his sleeve
across his forehead. “Oh, man, you are shitting me. You
must be.”
“Nope.” I
grin at him, knowing what I’m going to say will drive him bonkers.
“I’ll show you if you want.”
* * *
I make sure we’re
in front of the bedroom window, the blinds open. Out in the
suburban night, Malcolm crouches in the bushes. Inside, Miss
Turner goes to her knees, unbuckles my belt, works my pants and boxers
down to my thighs, and I spring out stiff and ready.
Miss Turner takes me
in her mouth. Deep. Long seconds drift by, and I’m in my
own warm, wet world, electric sparks shooting up and down my body and
almost I forget Malcolm is out there. Watching. I figure
he’s had enough and close the blinds.
Miss Turner and I
fall into bed, tugging at clothes. I’m on top then she is,
writhing and tossing her hair around, and in no time we’ve sweated and
heaved an hour away, and I’m thinking damn, I’m king of the
fucking world.
We lay there, and my
eyelids hang heavy when she says it.
“If only there was
some way we could get rid of my husband,” Miss Turner says.
And I want to laugh
because it’s so fucking predictable. She’d been dropping hints
for two weeks, working up to it. Roy treats me so bad.
Roy doesn’t understand me. I feel like I’m suffocating.
If only something would happen to rescue me. Blah blah blah.
I’ve never met Roy
and don’t plan to, but I don’t want to spoil the mood so I say,
“Maybe we could figure something out.”
She scoots in close,
trails fingers down my chest. “Really? Oh, God, Shane that
would be wonderful, but … well, you don’t know Roy. He can be
violent. I can’t just leave him. He’d go berserk.”
“Don’t tell
him.” I stroke a breast, feel things begin to stir again down
below.
“But I can’t
stand it,” she says. “I want us to be together. Shane,
we need to do something more drastic.”
I feel her tense
against me. She’s waiting to see how I take it.
I don’t say
anything for a while, and I know she’s wondering if she’s rushed
things. I snake a hand down between her thighs. She
doesn’t stop me but doesn’t respond either, and I’m starting to
get pissed off because I’m stiff again, and I want some more action
before I go home. I realize I’m going to have to say something
about Roy.
“What if I did
something about Roy? So we could be together.”
I feel Miss Turner
exhale and melt back against me again. This is more like it, what
she was aiming for.
“What did you have
in mind?” Like she’s just now giving thought to it for the first
time ever. Like she doesn’t know the answer.
“I could kill
him.”
She gasps sharply
and it’s like the worst acting in the history of everything. As
if she’s seen all the same movies and news reports I have and feels
obliged to stumble through the same old dialogue. Just to make it
official.
“Do you really
love me that much?” she asks breathlessly. “Would you do that
for me? For us?”
“Sure.”
And I’m already in her again, thrusting and gritting my teeth.
* * *
There’s no way
I’m doing a damn thing to Roy, and I wonder how long I can stall, how
many more fucks I can get before Miss Turner realizes I’m jerking her
around. Then it hits me I’ll actually have to start doing my
algebra homework again. Shit, what if I piss her off, and she
flunks me. I can’t fucking flunk fucking algebra a second
fucking time. My folks will go ape-shit. I have a track
scholarship, and I sure as hell don’t want to fuck up my last summer
before college taking algebra a third fucking time.
Well, I wouldn’t
let that happen. I’d tell Miss Turner that I’d cry rape and
run to the cops and she’d never teach again and all that shit.
I’d better at least get a C.
I call Malcolm and
meet him at the library before class, so I can copy his homework.
Just in case.
I finish copying,
notice Malcolm is quiet, doesn’t make eye contact. I try some
conversation on him.
“Did you catch the
show outside the window?” I ask. “See her suck it?”
Malcolm goes beet
red in a second flat. “Let’s just get to class. I
don’t want to be late.”
* * *
Walking with Malcolm
to class, I realize something as clearly as if it’s been written down
and sent in a telegram. Malcolm both envies and hates me to the
point he’s sick about it. I get to do things he can only dream
about in his wet, late-night fantasies. I’m sure the guy’s a
cherry, never touched a girl.
I also realize
something about myself. I like that he boils with envy, that I’m
so cool and he’s a big nothing. People like me need people like
Malcolm so we can measure just how great we have it. I feel the
tiniest pinprick of shame for about a second, but the shame is swept
away in a surge of Darwinian pride. I’m at the top of the food
chain, and Malcolm’s at the bottom and that’s just how it works.
It’s Malcolm’s job to want to be me.
It’s my job to
enjoy being me and be glad I’m not Malcolm.
* * *
Miss Turner calls me
up to her desk after class. The rest of the students trickle out.
Malcolm doesn’t even look back. I feel nervous, shifting from
foot to foot, waiting for Miss Turner to say whatever she’s going to
say, and then I’m irritated because I feel nervous. I’m
supposed to be on top of the situation.
The last student
leaves, and the door closes.
“I thought about
what you said.” She slides a shoebox across the desk at me.
I look at it.
She takes the lid
delicately between thumb and forefinger, pulls it back slowly, the light
flashing on something silver in the box. A nickel revolver with a
two-inch barrel. Black electrical tape wrapped around the grip.
It’s old and beat-up, scratched, and that somehow makes it seem more
deadly.
“He’ll be home
tonight.”
“No.” I
mean to say it more forcefully but it creeps out in a whisper.
Miss Turner goes on
like she didn’t hear. “I’ll be with friends, so I’ll have
an alibi. Go in the back door. I left it open. Take some
money and jewelry from the bedroom dresser, so it looks like a
robbery.”
I clear my throat.
“No.”
She blinks.
“What?”
“I’m not doing
it.”
Her brow furrows,
and she looks at me, tilting her head, like I’m suddenly speaking
Chinese and she’s trying to understand.
“It’s okay to be
nervous, Shane. But you can do it. Do it for us.”
“No.” A
little bit louder but not much. “I mean I’m not going to do
it. I don’t want to.” It comes out so weak, like an
apology. “I never intended to go through with it.”
And I see something
go click behind her eyes, and she knows she’s bet on he wrong
horse. The whole plan down the tubes because I won’t follow the
script.
“Don’t do this,
Shane. Don’t do it to us.” But she already knows it’s
a lost cause. She puts the lid back on the shoebox.
“I don’t think
we should see each other anymore,” I say. “It’s going too
far.” I push the shoebox back toward here so she’s clear what
I mean.
Her mouth becomes a
tight, thin line across her face. “You’ve decide this on your
own, have you?”
I feel myself
wilting under her ice-dagger gaze. Before I lose my nerve I say,
“I just want to pass algebra, okay? Let’s not have a
problem.” And I turn and walk out fast before she can say
anything, and there’s sweat under my arms and behind my ears and I can
feel that hard stare drilling into the back of my head all the way out.
* * *
The night air hits
the sweat on my face as I come out of the building, and I shake off a
chill. Jesus. That had been harder than I thought, Miss Turner’s
will like something heavy and metal sitting on my chest, and I can see
now how these losers in the movies get all tangled up. Not me.
I’m too smart,
baby. Smart.
I’m surprised to
catch a glimpse of Malcolm sitting on a bench across the street, and I
jog over to meet him. Good old Malcolm. “Wanna go get some
pizza?”
Malcolm shakes his
head. He seems like a thing made entirely of gloom, like he repels
light. Or maybe he attracts darkness, the night pouring into the
empty hole where he wishes he had a life. But I feel like I need a
buddy right now, and I tell him I’ll pay for the pizza if he would
just cheer the fuck up.
He has that big-eyed
stare like his eyes are made of glass. Without looking at me, he
says, “I asked Shelly Cooper out for a date. You know her?”
“Nope.”
“She’s a junior,
plays trombone in the band. You know what she said? Gross.
The fattest, ugliest girl in school, and she says gross when I ask her
out.”
Jesus.
I’m not sure why
he’s telling me this except some vague idea that his life sucks, and I
have everything and he’s trying to make some kind of statement about
how life’s so unfair or something. Fuck if I know.
“I told Miss
Turner it was over. Looks like I’m not getting laid anymore.”
I say this because I think it will somehow cheer him up, like we’re
both just a couple of bachelors, and maybe he’ll come get a pizza now.
His head snaps
around, and he looks at me, mouth hanging open. God, I can read
this kid like a book. He’s thinking good, why should I be so
lucky. No more fun for Shane. But he’s also thinking what
a fucking idiot I am. That I had my hands full of Heaven and I’m
so stupid to give it up. He doesn’t know how dumb it is to think
like that, but there it is.
“Will you just
come eat some goddamn pizza?”
But he’s not
listening. He’s just sitting there, and it’s almost like his
world is coming apart, like he’s coming apart. I can
almost see his arms and legs and head floating away, like there’s not
a damn thing holding him together. That’s what it must look like
physically, when you have nothing and no future and you hate your life,
that you just can’t hold together and you just keep coming apart until
there are a million pieces of you all floating away like so much dust.
Then I notice
Malcolm is looking right past me. I turn around and follow his
gaze and see Miss Turner coming out of the building, arms full of books
and papers.
Okay, fuck Malcolm
and fuck Miss Turner. I don’t want to talk to my algebra teacher
anymore tonight, and to hell with Malcolm if he just wants to sit there
like a dork feeling sorry for himself. Some people just don’t
get it when you’re trying to be nice to them, you know?
I take the bus home.
* * *
The next week we all
get an e-mail from Miss Turner that class has been cancelled because of
a “family emergency.” Cool. I don’t think I’m ready
to see her yet anyway. So damn weird. But in the e-mail she
also gives us some algebra homework, and I wonder if I have to do it or
not.
I decide it’s a
good excuse to call Malcolm, tell him to come over so we can work on the
algebra. He’s really weird and moody on the phone, but finally
he agrees to come over that night.
In my room, Malcolm
plops down in his usual chair, his book-bag in his lap. His eyes
look so strange, I think maybe he’s high or something. I try
some small talk on him but all he does is grunt and sit there like some
damn freak, and already I’m regretting asking him over.
I know he’s still
thinking about Miss Turner, so I ask, “What do you think her family
emergency was?”
“Her husband was
killed.” He unzips his book-bag, and his hand goes inside.
Shit. So Miss
Turner got up the nerve to do it herself. I didn’t see that one
coming, and I wonder if she’ll get away with it. Maybe if she
–
Malcolm’s hand
comes out of the bag holding a nickel pistol, familiar black electrical
tape around the grip. He points it, and I tense, my mouth opening
to say something or other, and Malcolm squeezes the trigger.
My bedroom explodes.
* * *
I know I’m going
to die because of the way everything slows down. Like in The
Matrix when they would jump up, and everything would freeze for a
moment right before they started kicking ass.
They say brain
functions are the fastest things ever, faster than the speed of light
maybe. So when I see that bullet headed for my nose in
excruciating slow motion, I realize I’m living this last millionth of
a second inside my brain, the world slowed to a crawl so I can figure
things out, tie up a loose end or two before I’m dispatched to that
eternal night school beyond reality.
I understand, with
staggering certainty, what has happened. My brain puts it all
together in an eye-blink.
Malcolm was on the
bench when Miss Turner came out of the building. I left. It
would be easy for her to start up a conversation with one of her
students. I thought you’d gone home, Malcolm. Are you
okay? And then she realizes that Malcolm is everything I’m
not. A patsy. A dupe. He’s the loser she can twist
around her finger with no trouble at all. The movie starts up
again with a new cast. Take it from the top.
The bullet turns and
comes and I replay all the good humping times with Miss Turner in my
head one last time like a porno montage.
Little shocks waves
blaze from either side of the approaching bullet, like it’s ripping
right through space-time itself to get at me. Colors. A blur
of light. Singing like angels. Heavenly chorus. I
recognize all this from movies too. You’ve seen it.
Hollywood afterlife stock footage. So damn predictable, yet
you’d be disappointed if it wasn’t there.
I look around for
the tunnel.
Walk toward
the light.
Copyright 2006 by Victor Gischler
Victor Gischer is the author of
three novels. GUN MONKEYS was nominated for the Edgar Allan Poe Award
for best first novel. He followed up with two satirical crime novels THE
PISTOL POETS and SUICIDE SQUEEZE. His next novel SHOTGUN OPERA will be
published in Spring '06. His work has been translated into Japanese,
French and Italian. He earned his Ph.D. in English from the University
of Southern Mississippi. He lives in the wilds of Skiatook, Oklahoma
with his wife Jackie and his son Emery.
