I jump a ditch filled with dried mud and dirty beer bottles to walk along the railroad tracks for a few minutes until I come to a large parking lot beside the tracks. Mr. Behr’s car is parked there, almost hidden behind a couple graffiti-covered cars in the railyard. My gorge rises, as if I can already taste his sweaty little limp dick in my mouth.
I think about turning around, going back home to the empty house, waiting for Mom to stomp in from work and yell at me for ruining her life by being born a girl. I think about climbing on one of the trains the way I did with Blue when we first moved out of the trailer park the summer after eighth grade, and I learned I had a neighbor my age. I thought we might be friends then, so I joined her when she walked down here to smoke a cigarette she stole from her mom. And then we saw the train leaving.
I fell off the side of the train onto gravel and cut myself up so bad I still have scars. Blue made it all the way to Ridgedale.
I start across the lot toward Behr’s car.
I think about a suitcase full of money, stacks and stacks of crisp bills like you see in movies. Then I shake the thoughts away. I’m getting out of this town one way or another, and if sucking off Mr. Behr gets me the grade I need to do it, it’s a small price to pay. I swallow the bile in my throat as I stride toward his car.
Ten thousand dollars. What would I even do with that?
I picture myself lying on a bed making snow angels in money.
Being rescued by some rich guy is a fantasy so far from reality I’ve never even entertained it. There are no shortcuts in life, as Mom likes to remind me. When you come from a trailer park, you don’t get out like that. You get out like this, crouched in the back of a teacher’s Corolla, your feet going numb, your eyes squeezed closed, wishing you could close your nostrils to shut out the putrid smell of his sweaty pubes.
Fifteen minutes later, Mr. Behr’s clammy hand paws helplessly at me as he grunts and hunches, trying to keep it up long enough to get off. I wish he was faster. I can feel him grabbing the headrest, going at it with renewed vigor. When I get home, I definitely need a long shower, mouthwash, and probably to puke.
Then I’ll scavenge for dinner, though I don’t know what we have in the cabinets. Mom never does the shopping unless she has a guy coming over. Then she might pick up a few things. I’m in charge of shopping and cooking, but lately, there hasn’t been any money left by the time Mom finishes partying with whatever his name is. Pretty sure they’ve been snorting crystal judging by how little money is left. Which means I’ve been dipping into the meager savings I have stashed under the carpet in the back of my closet just to eat. Every time I have to take money out, I see the horizon receding, the dream of leaving Faulkner drawing further away.
Mom never asks where the food came from. Maybe I should stop, so she won’t think she’s been giving me money when she’s blacked out. Knowing her, though, she hasn’t even noticed, and she sure as shit doesn’t care if I’m fed. If she knew I had that money, she’d crawl back in my closet and take every cent of it, use it for a weekend binge with her man. Hell, she’d be pissed as fuck if she even knew it was there. According to her, I owe her everything in life because she gave me that life.
My stomach growls, and I press my fist into it, cursing Mr. Behr’s slowness. Maybe he’ll take me through a Mickey D’s drive-through for a burger.
Fat fucking chance. Of course he won’t do that. We might be seen. This is a small town, and people talk.
Maybe there’s an expired box of mac and cheese at the back of a cabinet.
More likely, I’ll have to peel another twenty off my roll.
A noise jerks me out of my thoughts, something so foreign to these encounters that for a second, I can’t identify it. It’s not the grunting, panting, desperate mumbling of a middle-aged man trying to hold onto his youth by blackmailing his student into letting him violate her mouth every few weeks. It’s a deep, choking sort of… Giggling.
three
Harper Apple
I lift my head from Mr. Behr’s dick and find myself staring straight into the back of a cellphone.
Fuck!
Mr. Behr is doggedly hunching away, trying to shove my head back down, but I’m frozen in shock. My forehead collides with his dick, and the three guys outside honk with laughter.
At last, I manage to twist out of Mr. Behr’s grip. He catches a glimpse of the guys outside the car, and his face goes white. He looks like he’s about to have a stroke.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say through gritted teeth. Thank all the demons in hell I’m fully clothed. When we first started, Behr would bring me cheap wine and try to undress me, though he said he didn’t want more, that what we did wasn’t wrong because it wasn’t sex. I always knew in the back of my mind he was full of shit, even when I let him convince me how badly he needed me.
Now, he doesn’t even pretend, and I just want to get it over with as quickly as possible. No conversation and drinks, no touching or kissing, no need for clothing removal. We both know what we’re getting out of it, and we don’t pretend otherwise.
Instead of running off, the guys stand outside the car, laughing like idiots. Thank the devil in hell I don’t recognize them. They must be the Willow Heights version of delinquents, out getting their kicks by stirring up the kind of trouble their rich daddies can bail them out of.
I slide onto the seat, turning my back toward them, my mind racing. Maybe they didn’t get a clear shot of my face. At least they aren’t going to see me around school and make my life a living hell. Still, there are way too many kids from Faulkner who could get their hands on that pic if it gets out. Kids who have cousins at Willow Heights, party with the rich kids, or go to their church. It’s just across town from Faulkner High.
If Mr. Behr was my size, he’d scramble through the front seats and take off. But he’s not, and he can’t get into the driver’s seat without climbing out of the car. I sit there with my head down, my hair hiding my face, silently cursing the assholes who witnessed my humiliating, shameful act—and captured evidence.
“You kids need to get out of here,” Behr says, adopting his teacher voice as he addresses the boys over the roof of the car. He reaches for the door handle, at least, ready to get in the driver’s seat.
Just go!I silently scream at him.Don’t make it worse.
“Or what?” one of the boys says, his voice tinged with laughter and an accent that doesn’t belong in Arkansas.