Unteachable(4)
Author: Leah Raeder

Planets moved in their orbits. Dawn broke in the United Kingdom. A car door slammed like a typewriter key.

I looked up at his face. He was already looking at mine.

When was the last time the man who’d just f**ked me wanted to see my face after he came?

Neither of us blinked or seemed to breathe. He was still inside me, soft now. I didn’t know what to do. They usually pulled out immediately, or I disengaged and started looking for my clothes. I couldn’t move, trapped under him.

He brushed my cheek with the back of his hand.

Oh god. Please don’t say something cheesy. Please don’t talk.

He leaned in and kissed me.

I could deal with this. I closed my eyes, kissed him back. An aimless, unhurried kiss, not wanting anything from him now. As he kissed me he pulled out, gentle. I made a little sighing sound. He tucked his dick into his fly, leaving the condom on. His eyes moved over my body but now, opposite of earlier, they lingered on my face.

Panic.

He was looking at me like he knew me. Not in the Biblical sense—obviously we were past that—but in a you-are-more-than-a-quick-fuck sense.

I sat up, forcing myself to reach casually for my clothes. Underwear up. Bra on. I couldn’t get into my shorts without almost kicking him in the face, which made him laugh, and grab my leg, and rub his cheek against my calf. I tried not to let the prickle of his stubble send fireworks through my nervous system, but you try arguing with dopamine receptors.

The car smelled like bleach and sweat, that magical sex musk that isn’t so magical after it’s all over.

How the hell was I going to get out?

The pony stared at us lugubriously from the dashboard. Jesus. Little f**ker had watched the whole thing.

“Maise.”

My spine crackled when he said it. I pretended to find something interesting in the side mirror. “Yeah?”

“Just trying it out.”

Would it be too rude to open the door right now?

Fingertips grazed my forearm, the fine peach fuzz there. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Maise.”

I turned to him. I guess that’s all he wanted—to say my name and get a response. He tilted his head, that otherworldliness shimmering in him. God, he was a beautiful man. And he was so nice to me. And I had to get out of his car before I choked.

“Hey,” I said with forced cheer, “I’ve got an idea.”

His eyebrows rose hopefully.

“I’m going to see if there’s anyone left to bribe at the Gravitron.” I made myself smirk. “You should get cleaned up. Meet me there?”

I’m a pretty good liar. Key skills: eye contact, confidence, not caring about the outcome.

But here was the problem. Somehow, in the two or three hours since I’d met him, Evan had gotten to know me well enough to see through the bullshit. Maybe he heard some undetectable crack in my voice, saw a furtive glint of desperation in my eyes. Because instead of joking or blushing or anything normal, he looked at me like I’d just said I never wanted to see him again.

Nevermind that that was exactly what I was saying.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

Key skill: followthrough.

“Great,” I said, and leaned in to peck his cheek.

He grabbed my jaw, holding my face still. My heart thumped like a vampire kicking his way out of his coffin.

Evan just looked at me. He ran his thumb over my mouth, my cheek, as if he was memorizing them, knowing it was the last time he’d see them.

I didn’t have the heart to give him a fake kiss. I lowered my head and got out of the car.

My bike was chained to the cyclone fence behind the Tilt-a-Whirl. It was quiet inside save for a few drunk carnies messing around with the strongman hammer. I swung onto my seat, wincing at the sweet burn between my legs. God f**king dammit. I had to stand to pedal out of the tall grass and dirt, and of course every push reminded me of what I’d just done and how good it had felt and how bad I felt now.

Yeah, I hook up with older guys. And then I leave them, before they can leave me.

Thanks for the abandonment issues, Dad. Fuck you very much.

When I reached the blacktop my eyes were blurry. It was just the wind. Really, it was.

—2—

Mission: Remake Myself.

The movie cliché is to cut off my hair. Well, f**k that. Not too many Irish girls can boast about dark silky tresses.

I’m also not going to buy a whole new wardrobe (broke), get a pet (can’t support a dependent), a boyfriend (see previous), or a makeover (Mom’s whorepaint inspires me to stay au naturel).

What I am going to do:

Delete all the numbers in my phone. No more skeezy geezers, no more high school skanks who think talking to me means we’re friends, or that we are even in the same genus.

Apply for college. This has nothing to do with Evan asking me about it.

Face my fears, at least one per month. I’ve already done my duty for August. In September, I’ll tell Mom she has a drug problem. If I make it to October, clowns.

Get a job. Don’t expect Mom to give a flying f**k that I want to go to college, or to have any idea what I’ll need.

Stop using men. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.

Maybe see that psychologist again. Or one who doesn’t have such a bunny fetish.

Live, instead of numbing myself to life, like Mom.

Stop thinking about Evan.

They made me register for classes late because O’Malley technically starts with an O, not an M. Which meant everything I wanted to take was gone by the time I sat down with the registrar.

“I’m sorry, Maisie,” the woman droned. She looked half-asleep in the swampy AC. “It’s full.”

“Maise,” I corrected. “Short for Maisie, which is a name for a little girl. And you don’t understand, I reserved Film Studies last year.”

I caught a reflection of her laptop screen in her bifocals. She was playing Angry Birds.

“I’m going to film school,” I explained. “I need this class.”

“You’re going to be an actress?” she said, tepidly interested.

“No, I’m going to make movies.”

“You’re pretty. You could be an actress.”

I started to say, It takes more than that, but depressingly, she was right. “Can’t you just look up the reservations?”

“Class is full.”

A red bird went rocketing across her glasses.

“How about Drama 102?”

“I don’t want to f**king act,” I muttered.

“Excuse me?”

“Look, one of those seats was reserved for me. Maybe someone bribed you. I’m not judging. I’m sure they don’t pay you enough to put up with this shit.” I leaned across her desk. “But this is all I’m passionate about. If I don’t get this class, the only way I’ll get into film school is by sleeping with the Dean of Admissions. He’ll probably make me blow him in his Porsche. Him and all his douchey adjunct friends. That’s the future you’re deciding right now. Think about it.”

Mrs. Bird stared with her round, rheumy eyes.

I raised an eyebrow.

Click, click. The laser printer whirred. “Seems I was mistaken. A seat just opened up.”

Mrs. Bird handed the paper over, peering at me above her glasses.

“You should seriously consider acting.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I will.”

I beamed as I walked out to my bike, imprinting the schedule like a proverb on my heart.

FILM STUDIES. M-TH-F 10:15-11:45. E WILKE. RM 209.

I was so absorbed in it I didn’t notice the maroon Monte Carlo with the sad-eyed pony sitting on the dashboard, its coat shining sleekly in the sun.

If you’re a film buff, right now you’re probably thinking, She wants to go to film school and doesn’t even know Kubrick?

First: that’s why I wanted to get into Film Studies, duh. I admit, my tastes skew modern. I’m more into Lars von Trier, Terrence Malick, and the anime films of Miyazaki than the stuff you’re supposed to say you like—Kubrick, Hitchcock, the good ol’ boys. I’m no hipster, though. I love Peter Jackson and JJ Abrams just as much as the arthouse darlings.

So yeah, epic fail on my part when I didn’t recognize one of Kubrick’s most iconic works, 2001: A Space Odyssey.

You think my Film Studies teacher would let me forget it, either?

I see the lights every night, he’d said.

I couldn’t get those words out of my head. He lived or worked somewhere near. In this flyover, flyaway town that barely topped five figures, one of them was a man with an angel’s face, a man who’d asked me my name before he f**ked me in his car on a fearless August night.

I couldn’t get him out of my head.

I biked up to the water tower on the hill overlooking the prairie. Climbed the rust-eaten struts up to a crow’s nest some stoners had hammered together out of Mississippi driftwood. It wasn’t as hot tonight, and a restless wind raked through the grass, smelling of loam and barley. From here the carnival lights looked like fireflies swirling madly in place, trapped under an invisible jar. Just like me.

So, I thought. Am I feeling good after sleeping with a nice guy and leaving? Is that hitting the spot? Or am I feeling more alone than ever?

Answer: obviously.

Maybe it was time to admit that being wanted intensely for a few minutes wasn’t enough. It got me through a few hours, a few days here and there, but when the emptiness returned it felt bigger, hungrier. I kept thinking it was the guy—once I found a nice guy, it would be different. Fulfilling. But I left the nice guy like I’d left all the others, and I was still empty. And I covered it up with cockiness and bravado and kept telling myself that this was life, this was how things really were. Nobody was happy. Nobody was fulfilled.

Evan thought there was some secret to happiness, but he was wrong. The secret was to harden yourself. Not care. Not let the emptiness get inside you.

But I was failing pretty spectacularly at that.

Rustling in the grass below. A sharp crack.

I jumped up, wishing for a knife. Some tweaked-out psycho rapist?

“Who’s there?” a boy called.

Shit. He was standing right next to my bike.

“Go away,” I said menacingly.

Silence, then a low laugh. “It’s okay. I won’t hurt you.”

“Don’t touch my bike,” I said. “And go away.”

A cigarette cherry glowed in the darkness, an angry orange eye. “Rude.”

The longer I stayed up there, the more scared he’d think me. I climbed down smoothly, jumping the last six feet and landing on nimble sneakers. The boy was a good head and shoulders taller than me, but scarecrow-skinny. I couldn’t see much of him except a huge Adam’s apple when the cherry flared.

I knew most kids my age, and I’d seen this boy around school. A loner type, sorta weird.

“Hi,” he said.

I picked up my bike.

“You’re just going to leave without saying hi?”

“Hi,” I said. “Bye.”

He laughed again.

I swung my leg over and bit into the dirt with my tire.

“I’m Wesley,” he said.

“I’m not looking for new friends.”