Page 30 of A Scandal in Homeroom
I was disciplined. Focused. Impervious to distraction.
Her tits. Dear God, her tits.
I winced at the immediate image that formed in my head.
No!
Hadn’t I imagined them enough? Hadn’t I stroked myself to orgasm two times last night, and once again this morning over the mere memory of them? Wasn’t that enough to relieve the physical pressure and purge the image once and for all so I could focus?
Clearly not.
We hadn’t kissed when I dropped her off at home.
Another thought to occupy my mind. I didn’t attempt it. Neither did she.
I wanted to prove that taking her out for burgers didn’t require her to reciprocate in some physical way.
She, I imagined, just didn’t want to kiss me.
Understandable. I wasn’t exactly a romantic hero.
However, it didn’t seem entirely rational. Could it be possible a girl would want to show me her breasts, but not want to kiss me?
Should I have asked her?
I could hear the drag of something along the floor behind me. I knew that sound. She was passing a note. Glancing down, I could see her platform wedged shoe directly under my seat. She lifted her foot and there was a folded triangle of paper. I knocked my pencil off my desk and bent down to pick it and the note up.
Why didn’t you kiss me last night?
For fucks sake! I knew I should have just asked her whether she wanted to kiss me or not. These ridiculous games of trying to read cues from one another were impossible to manage. Do I just do it? Lean in and take her mouth. Do I lean in and wait for her to move closer?
Or do I say the words?
Should I kiss you?
Can I kiss you?
Do you want me to kiss you?
Instead, I’d opened her car door, walked her up to her front step, bowed a little (yes, I bowed) and said goodnight.
What to write? How to answer?
I’d known from the very first moment I set eyes on her she would do this to me. Tie me in knots. Confuse me. Manipulate me. What made it worse, she had an absolute reputation for doing exactly this with many other guys in school.
It was like seeing a warning sign for quicksand, then WALKING INTO THE QUICKSAND!
Only now I was in it, and I couldn’t get out.
I had to figure out how to play this game better. That meant playing it on my terms.
Do you know a senior named Coyle Simmons?
I folded the note and tossed it over my head when the teacher wasn’t looking.
A few minutes later I felt her hand on my shoulder and the note dropped into my lap.
It’s a small school. Of course I know Coyle. Why do you want to know about him? And you haven’t answered my question.
