In The Middle of Middle America Page 5

  “I dunno,” he whispers to me when Decker turns around to write on the chalkboard. “There’s just no girls at this school I wanna bang no more, ya hear me, dude?”

  I nod my head and fold my fingers up into a ball so he can bump me.

  “Totally,” I say, before leaning back in my chair, stretching my hands high above my head.

  “They’re all too easy anyway,” he whispers. “If you’re the quarterback and the left tackle on the school football team, then all the chicks are just automatically into you, ya know? There’s no challenge in it for me and you.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say, before letting a little burp jump from the back of my throat.

  “Boys!” Decker calls out, raising her eyebrow at us.

  I’ve jerked off thinking about Decker before. I don’t know why. She looked hot one day. It was actually the day she stayed back with me after school just before our end of ninth grade finals to teach me something about the Watergate scandal that the thought of fucking her brains out popped into my head. I’d never seen her that way before. Decker’s not sexy. Or hot. It’s just I got horny when she sat next to me that day. So when I got home, I went straight to my bedroom and jerked off thinking about her. I came pretty quickly, too. But I never told Stevie about it. Cos he’d just think it was pretty weird to jerk off to Decker. Anyway, when I got into school the next day and looked at her, I couldn’t believe I had wasted a jerk on her. She’s super cool and all, and funny, for a teacher. But she’s not hot. I coulda had that jerk about Pamela Anderson. Or Sarah-Jane Zdanski. Instead, I wasted it on a teacher as plain looking as a woman can get. I sometimes wonder how long we’ll jerk off for. Will we still be doing it when we’re eighty? Or is it just something you do all the time as a teenager? I wonder if my Dad still jerks off. What’s he now? Forty-two? Forty-three? I wonder if he finds the time to jerk off while he’s over in Iraq doing... well, whatever the hell it is he is doing over in Iraq. He sleeps in a tent. I know that much. With one other solider. So, I can’t imagine they find it easy to jerk off. Though maybe by that age, men don’t give a shit... so they just whack their dicks out in front of each other and jerk away. Who knows? I guess I’ll find out when I’m older.

  “Tell ya what?” Stevie says, leaning into me and whispering while Decker goes on and on about what we’ll be learning this term. “Why don’t we each pick out a chick as a dare for the other one. We’ve already had sex with the hottest girls at school and there’s not much meat left. You choose one for me to have sex with. And I’ll choose one for you.”

  “Really?” I say, a little too loudly; loud enough for Decker to spin back around from the chalkboard to eyeball us again.

  “Sorry, Miss Decker,” I say, holding my hand up.

  When she turns back around and continues to talk about media or whatever it is she’s talking about, Stevie leans into me again.

  “We’ll give a time limit, okay? You chose a chick for me and I have to have sex with her by the end of October.”

  I grin. That’s a fucking great idea.

  “Cool,” I say, then I hold my fist to him and he bumps me again before I begin to look around the room.

  “It can’t be the goth,” he says, when he notices me eyeball Vanessa…. “And it can’t be Wendy the hippo either,” he says when my gaze flicks to the fattest chick in the room. “But anybody else... go on. Choose one.”

  “Her then,” I say, flicking my head backward.

  He stares over his shoulder.

  “Who? Irish?”

  “Yep,” I whisper.

  “Deal,” he says, holding out his fist for me to bump. “Now, my turn to choose one for you.”

  “Not the Goth,” I say. “And not Wendy either.”

  “Her,” he says, stretching his finger towards the chalkboard.

  LUCY DECKER

  Stevie and Brody giggle into their hands as they leave my classroom. They sure do make me laugh, those two. Fifteen going on six. And both about as smart as a bloodhound with no nose. I wonder what they’re up to now. I turned around from the chalkboard earlier to see Stevie pointing at me. And then they both just convulsed into laughter. I’ve been long since done with trying to second-guess what fifteen-year-old boys talk about when my back is turned, but I am seriously starting to worry about the evolution of man. And by man, I literally mean man. Men. Boys. I’ve been teaching tenth grade for eleven years. I’m pretty certain fifteen-year-old boys are getting more and more regressive as each year passes.

  “Oh, Principal Klay,” I call out as I catch a glimpse of his brown beard in among the stampede of students changing classrooms.

  He pauses, probably taking a moment to roll his eyes, before turning to face me and offering a sterile smile.

  “I know you’ve been wanting to see me Miss Decker, it’s just that this new year has gotten off to such a frantic start and I’m spinning so many plates. I really must rush to give this assembly...”

  “I won’t keep you long, Principal Klay,” I say, noticing his beard has grayed a little over the summer. “It’s just…” I say and then nod my head into my classroom. He looks up and down the hallway at the students rushing by, and then enters my room while producing an obvious sigh through his nose. “I spoke with Mister… Mister… what’s his name again? The man who looks after the school accounts?”

  “George Thompson,” Klay says.

  “Yeah, Thompson. It was about a pay raise.”

  “Oh now, Miss Decker,” Klay says, immediately looking uncomfortable. “I don’t get involved in discussions with staff here at Median High about salaries. And pay raises really are not a conversation for right now―”

  “Principal Klay, I’m only mentioning it to you because I need the money for a very personal reason. A reason I would be uncomfortable opening up to you about. But you can be rest assured it’s very personal and means the world to me. I just―”

  “I’m sorry Miss Decker,” he says, backing away. “If Mr. Thompson says there’s no money in our budget for a pay raise, then there simply is no money. He deals with the school accounts. So he… he... actually… that reminds me.” Klay steps toward me. “Mr. Thompson is currently looking at the accounts to see how much the school can supplement the trip to Europe.”

  “Trip to Europe?” I say, my eyebrows dipping, aware Klay has already skilfully averted the subject of a pay raise.

  “Yes. It’s all top secret for now. And it’s not going to be officially announced for a few more weeks. But Median High was picked from the State lottery to send thirty students to England, France and Italy for twelve days at the end of October.”

  “Cold in Europe in October,” I say, while feigning a shiver. He stares at me.

  “Yes, well...,” he pauses, literally to allow the bomb of my joke to explode in the silence. “I was wondering, this morning, which teachers would be best utilized traveling with the students, and well… I would like to formally invite you to be part of the trip to Europe… what do you think, Miss Decker?”

  I want to say I’ll think about it. That my request for a pay raise can’t simply be won over by the promise of an overseas trip. But I don’t. Because I know the adult places will be snapped up by other teachers as soon as the trip is officially announced. And I haven’t had a vacation in I-dunno-how-long.

  “Sure,” I say nodding.

  He places a hand to my shoulder which feels grossly uncomfortable.

  “It might do you good to get away from your…” he pauses again and leans in further, his beard almost tickling my cheek, “personal problems.”

  Then he leaves my classroom, shutting the door tightly behind himself and drowning out the buzz of the students.

  WENDY CAMPBELL

  I grab her around the waist, leaning her heavy breasts over my right shoulder, and then begin to lift, using all of my strength. She groans twice, and screeches once. That’s all she has the energy for. She’s been heavy her whole life, has Momma. Same as me. But nobody ever had to pull he
r out of a wheelchair before and try to lay her to bed. When I have her squeezed so tight against me that I’m sure I won’t drop her, I spin, and heave her onto the makeshift bed that me ’n’ Sally prepared this mornin’. She groans again when she lands on her back, then slowly opens her eyes to look up at me.

  “Thank you,” she mouths.

  I fake a smile at her, then look up at Sally. My younger sister ain’t smiling, that’s for sure. Course she ain’t. Poor girl will prolly never smile again her whole life.

  “Can you, uhm…” I call to Sally, “grab one of the small towels and dampen it with cool water for me?”

  Sally stares at Mom, then races herself into our bathroom.

  “You’re home and comfortable now, Momma,” I say as I pull the bed sheets over her, tucking ’em under her chin.

  I remove the scarf from her head, slowly, to relieve her sweating, bald head. Then I press my palm to the sweat and lean forward so Momma can’t see my face… just so I can take a moment to close my eyes and wish all of this wasn’t real life.

  “Here ya go,” Sally says, appearing behind me, holding out a small gray towel that she has dampened so much the water is showering to the carpet. But I don’t yell at her. Course I don’t. Being yelled at is the last thing poor Sally needs right now.

  I fold the towel up, then rest it to mom’s sweating forehead before I shuffle my heavy frame so my ass can rest on the edge of the makeshift bed.

  Me and Sally talk about fun times we remember, like Christmases and birthdays—conversations we know Momma would like us to talk about, even though she’s too exhausted to join in. We discuss what we remember of Lisa and Jason’s wedding. And we talk about that Christmas Sally found a Betty Spaghetty doll under our tree and almost screamed the house down.

  “You best,” Momma finally says, before stopping for breath, “get yo selves to school tomorrow. I be fine.”

  Then she closes her eyes. As she falls into a heavy sleep, I remain sitting with my big ass on the edge of her makeshift bed, just so I can stare at her heavy breasts, to make sure they keep risin’ up, and down.

  It’s only my second day in school since tenth grade started two weeks ago. I don’t even have a pen, let alone a note from Momma which Principal Klay is insisting I should have.

  “It’s no good you turning up whenever you feel like it,” Principal Klay snarls at me.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t help it if I’m ill,” I reply. “I’ve had a nasty cold. Probably flu. My Momma thinks it was flu, Principal Klay.”

  He raises an eyebrow.

  “Just make sure you have a note from your mother confirming your absence. I want it handed into my office first thing tomorrow morning, okay?”

  “’Kay,” I say.

  Then he strolls off while still eyeballin’ me as if he knows I am lyin’ to him. He heads to the back of the stage, while I rush into the assembly hall to find maself a seat. I stare around the room, wonderin’ who I can ask a big favor of. I don’t really speak to that many students. Maybe I can ask Kai. I know he ain’t the coolest guy in the world. But at least he won’t ask too many questions. I suck on my teeth, and am about to stroll toward Kai when she catches the corner of my eye. Or at least her bright orange hair does.

  “Hey,” I say, offering the new girl my widest smile.

  “Hey,” she mouths back to me, waving her hand.

  I walk down a row of chairs and then up another before I sit my big ass next to her.

  “I was ah…” I whisper as I scratch at the back of my neck, “wondering if you could… ah, sorry… do you mind stepping to the back of the assembly room?” I ask, only because Miss Decker and Mr. Charlton are sitting in the row ahead of us and I’m afraid they might hear what I have to say.

  The Irish chick looks over her shoulder at the gray wall covered in posters of historical figures she prolly never even heard of, and then shrugs her shoulders.

  “Sure,” she says in her funny accent, making me respond, “To be shur to be shur,” before Miss Decker snaps a stare at me. I bet Miss Decker thinks what I said was racist. Yeah, right, like the only black student in the whole school is the racist.

  We shuffle our way out of our row of chairs then walk toward the gray wall, which she stands with her back to and her arms folded as I waddle to catch up to her.

  “Girlfriend, I need a favor and I’m wonderin’ if you can give it to me,” I whisper. “You’re new... obviously. And the teachers... well, they don’t really know your handwritin’, y’see. Think you could scribble a note pretending to be my momma, just saying I been sick over the past few days. Favor for a favor, maybe?”

  She inches up on to her tiptoes to look over my shoulder while Principal Klay repeatedly slaps his hand off the top of the microphone to make sure it’s working.

  “Why can’t your mom do it for you?” she asks.

  “It’s complicated.”

  Then she sort of stares into the distance. She could be so pretty, this girl. But she does nothing to bring out the beauty God has given her. She looks like a plain Jane to me, but she could so easily be beautiful. The right makeup; the right haircut. If she chopped her split-ended strawberry blonde hair into a sharp bob, she’d look really cute. More than cute. She’d look sexy.

  “I don’t really wanna get in trouble,” she says, landing back on her heels and gazing at me, “but eh... favor for a favor, you say?”

  “You bet, sista,” I reply, leaning closer to her.

  “It’s just I need some inside info on what the boys are like in this school.”

  I laugh.

  “I’ll tell you what they would like,” I say, picking up a fistful of her strawberry-blonde hair from her shoulder, “this cut into a sharp bob. You’d be hot as hell, girl.”

  “Oh,” she says, taking the fistful of hair out of my hand and dropping it back on to her shoulder. Her face begins to turn almost as red as her hair. “It’s not really advice I need on my hair, it’s more… listen,” she says, lowering her voice, “are there any other boys in this school who have the initials MM, who aren’t Meric Miller?”

  “Whatcha talkin’ ’bout, sista?” I say.

  She giggles awkwardly, then stairs down at her shoes. Expensive shoes, too. But still ugly as hell. This chick has a lot to learn about how to look good.

  “Well,” she says. She looks really uncomfortable now; as if she wishes she hadn’t come to the gray wall with me. “Tell me about Meric. I’ve been sitting beside him for two weeks in Miss Decker’s class now and he hasn’t so much as said a single word to me.”

  “Oh, Meric hasn’t said a single word to anybody. He like that. He just keep himself to himself. Meric’s always been that way.”

  She gets on to her tiptoes to look over my shoulder again, just as Principal Klay launches into his assembly.

  “Why you asking about that boy?” I say. “I ain’t ever hear nobody ask about that boy. And whatchu talking about MM initials? What’s with that?”

  She drops to her heels and stares down at her shoes again.

  “I eh... I went to see a fortune teller the other day, and she told me I would meet and fall in love with a boy with two M’s in his name. Next day, for my first period in this school, I sit right next to Meric Miller.”

  I turn to look over my shoulder in search of Meric, and see Miss Decker silently waving and pointing at us, signaling that me and Irish should sit down and pay attention to whatever it is Principal Klay is sayin’. I pretend I don’t see her, and turn back to Irish.

  “I’ve known Meric my whole life,” I whisper to her, “and yet I don’t know that boy at all. Only thing I remember about Meric is he pissed his sweatpants first year in elementary school. The smell of his urine stayed in that classroom for weeks. I remember that.”

  She makes a vomiting motion with her mouth, sticking out her tongue and holding her stomach. She’s kinda cool. I think I might like this Irish chick.

  “You prettier than you think, sista,” I say. “I th
ink you can do better than Meric Miller. None o’ the other guys look good to you?”

  I notice her flick her eyes to the back row, to where Beavis and Butthead are sitting.

  “Oh, you prolly be better getting it on with Meric than any of those two beefcakes,” I say.

  “Really? Why?”

  “Well… first, those two football jocks may be fifteen, but they haven’t grown up since they were in kindergarten. Second, neither of ’em have two M’s in their name. That’s Brody Edwards. Other one is Stevie Jenkiss. Not an M to be found in them names.”

  Her face changes, and she tilts her head to stare at me.

  “So you believe in fortune telling, too?” she asks.

  “Oh, you betcha, sista,” I say. Then she scratches her strawberry-blonde hair, at her left temple, before grinning at me. And I immediately know I’m gonna get on just fine with this girl. “I need a friend,” I say. “You wanna be friends, Irish?”

  CAOIMHE LARKIN

  “Well, you’re not gonna believe this,” I say, grinning at her, “but I need a friend, too. So, yes.”

  She sucks on her lips.

  “Bet you comin’ from Ireland you’ve never had a black friend before.” I nod. “Well, don’t worry, see all them in there,” she flicks her head back at the packed assembly room. “None of them have ever had a black friend either.”

  “Hey, you two,” Miss Decker whisper shouts as she approaches us. “Assembly has already begun. Sit down and pay attention.”

  I hold my hand up in apology as I follow my newest friend, whose name I don’t yet know, to the back row where we sit a few chairs away from the two square-headed boys.

  “Yeah,” she whispers into my ear, “I think Meric’s the only boy with two M’s.” Then we both lean forward to look for Meric among the crowd, until I find him sitting in the far corner of the hall, his hair hanging over his face.

  Then, suddenly, a cheer goes up. Like the way a pub ignites back home anytime Tipperary scores a goal.