Something Wicked (8 page)

“Okay,” Echo answers.

“The program is for the hardest-to-serve, highest-risk students in the school board. I tell you that because some students think they’re here just like regular school, and they’re surprised when we challenge them. We need to make sure you’re ready to work hard with us in making some long-term changes. We want to inspire you to change, Melissa. Are you ready?” she asks, with a big smile, like I’m about to be shown the prize behind curtain number three.

“Ready,” Echo answers.

Miss puts her arm on my shoulder and escorts me into the room. She shows me to my seat. It’s about ten o’clock,
so the other students are already there, working. I sit down at a desk at the back, but it’s so small I can barely squeeze my legs underneath. Talk about regression back to childhood. I think it’s intentional, the desks, the cubbyholes. I think they want you to recall your pure kid self, a time before you got ruined.

Miss puts a sheet of paper on my desk and tells me I have one hour to complete the orientation exercise. “Do you have a pen?” she asks me.

“No,” I lie, because I don’t want to look like a keener.

“She can have my pen,” a skinny guy two desks away says, and flings the pen at me so I have to duck to avoid it.

“Tyler!” Miss shouts.

“What?” The pimple-faced shit smirks, and his hands go up in the air. “Just offering.”

“You don’t throw things across the classroom. And you know full well what you’re doing.” She turns to me.“I apologize, Melissa.” I’m amazed she doesn’t even look upset. She calmly gives me her pen and heads toward the guy’s desk, leans down, taps her finger on the desktop, and says, “I’ll see you in the couch room, now.” And then she keeps walking.

“Why? What did I do?” Tyler protests, but she just keeps walking, her back to him, like she’s heard it a million times. “What, trying to help and what … what?” Tyler keeps mumbling as he gets up and walks out. On his way, he looks back at me and gives me the finger.

“Fuck you,” I say loudly back, because no little shit like him is going to dick me around. Everyone looks at me now, including Miss.

“Tyler. Go. Now,” Miss says firmly, and points to the door. She gives me a teacherish I’ll-deal-with-you-later disapproval glance and walks out, leaving Sheila the CYC (child and youth counsellor) sitting in the corner in charge.

Unaffected, I start the test. It asks me questions about my past school, about my attitude with teachers, and about my future goals. I take the time to casually glance around the room at the other four students, three guys and one girl. Despite what happened, no one is staring at me or even glancing my way. Not ’cause they’re scared; with the exception of Tyler, they all look like they can hold their own. It’s more like they couldn’t care less if I exist or not. Which is all very fine with me. I don’t talk to anyone that day. Tyler is sent home. Miss tells me that I didn’t really get off to a good start, but she again apologizes about Tyler’s behaviour. At the same time, she says if I use “foul language” in class, I too will be sent home in the future.

Strangely enough, I actually like the school, ’cause I can concentrate, and it’s clear everyone is dealing with their own crap and no one is here to make friends. And that’s exactly fine with me. In fact it’s perfect, ’cause it gives me the hope that finally I might be able to learn something. And maybe it’s possible that I will be a veterinarian and get the life I want.

Thirteen

I knew it would be a big deal when Craig let out word that he hooked up with me. The guys at my regular school usually like me, so since I’ve been with Michael they’ve wondered why I stopped screwing around with them. They would never have guessed it was because I had a boyfriend. They would just joke and say I turned dyke. But now that the word is out I messed around with Craig, Jess tells me that there are at least five guys asking about me. Which is kind of nice. I guess you could say I have status, because before Michael I’d do whatever—sex, blow job, whatever. I’m good at it. At the same time, guys can’t mess me up because I’m cool with everything. I do it ’cause I like it, and so I’m not one of these girls that goes around crying because she thought it meant more than it did. Or the ones who get jealous and possessive, thinking that just because they hook up in the washroom with a guy, it means they’re going out. Those girls end up looking like idiots. They don’t realize that if it doesn’t mean anything to you, then no one can hurt you. That way, you’re in control.

But Ally, she’s different than me. Her situation is that she’ll mess around with guys only to get stuff. If you hear
she was with someone, or texted them some raunchy photos of herself, it’s because she’s after something. Like a school assignment. Or weed. Or money. Or once, one guy’s sister’s leather jacket.

Jess doesn’t mess around with anyone, because she likes having a boyfriend. But she’s no angel. She’ll set it up for Ally or some other girls. Her brother is one year older, so his friends will come to her when they’re horny. She’s like a pimp. And she likes all the drama that the hookups create. It gives her power. She’s like peacekeeper and provoker all in one.

Sometimes my counsellor, Eric, likes to make me feel bad about being with so many guys. He’s just too old to understand what happens now. I tell him I don’t do it because of “peer pressure,” I do it for me. “An orgasm is better than any drug,” I say.When you think about it, people get high to escape, to forget things, to release stress, and to leave their entire mortal existence. So how is that different than an orgasm? In a way the most natural, always available, free high is inside your body.

Ms. Switzer says poets used to call an orgasm “death” because it’s one of the only times you can leave your body and consciousness for a few seconds without being dead. “There’s wisdom in that,” I tell Eric.

I tell Eric about only some of the guys I had sex with before Michael, maybe half. He says it’s okay that some people like to have sex more than others. And after covering all the safety things, like STDs and rape and stuff, he changes his story and says he’s really concerned and wants to be sure I’m doing it for the right reasons.

“I’m sorry, it’s weird to say this,” I confess flippantly, “but I just like to cum.” I quickly look to see how he’ll respond. I stare
straight at him because I know it makes him uncomfortable and sometimes I just like shocking people.

Eric sticks out his lower lip and nods his head, like he’s impressed with my answer. Then he opens his hands from their prayer-like position in a sort of gesture of acceptance. “Women have certainly come a long way. There was a time not too long ago that a girl would never admit that. In fact, she’d probably never even experience an orgasm until she was older. It’s great to have confidence in your sexual needs.”

“You people make such a big deal about sex. Especially girls doing it. When guys play around, it’s no big deal. I bet you have guys in here that screw around and you don’t say anything to them.”

“Sure I do. I call them on it right away. I try to encourage them to take the girls’ feelings into consideration.”

“Some guys get mad at me.You know, for not doing anything back? Like last weekend I was with this Craig, who’s sort of geeky. He went down on me because, you know, that’s as much as he could ever get from a girl like me. I mean, sometimes they’re just lucky to get anything. So he went down, and then after that he was like, ‘Okay, now my turn,’ and he started to undo his fly, and I was like,‘No way!’”

Eric was so engrossed in my story that he forgot his therapist-self and laughed in amazement. “So he basically serviced you?”

“So? That’s what guys usually do, isn’t it? Anyway, it pissed me off. Like
really
pissed me off. He made such a big deal of it. He got so mad, he started spreading rumours at school about me being a slut and a whore.”

“Of course, the name calling is totally unjustified. But I’m kind of surprised you got so angry at him. That you wouldn’t think that this sexual act you’re both engaging in would lead him to conclude he was going to get some pleasure in return.
Did you know it’s actually painful for men to be aroused for

long periods of time without release?”

“Blue balls. So?”

He pauses. Swallows. Licks his lips. Recrosses his legs.“I just don’t want you to be in a dangerous situation. Some men can get quite aggressive if their needs aren’t met. You really need to be careful.”

“It wasn’t dangerous. What are you saying? Return the favour even if I don’t want to?”

“No,” he says firmly. Clears his throat again. “No. Of course not.”

“So I don’t get it, then. What are you saying?”

Eric moves again in his chair. It squeaks. Suddenly things become awkward. “I guess I’d like you to take into consideration your partner’s needs. Healthy sex is often about two people, mutual pleasure. It’s not a singular act, or else it would be masturbation.”

“Okay. So what do the guys do when you tell them that? Do you think they listen to what you say and start to get their girls off?”

“I can’t change anyone’s behaviour, Melissa.”

“You know what I think? When you say it to the guys, I think it goes in one ear and out the other. And you probably don’t lose any sleep over it.”

“Let me ask you something. How do you feel when it’s over? When you go home and you’re falling asleep in bed? Do you feel sad? Empty? Happy? Lonely? Exhilarated?”

“Powerful,” I say, without even having to think about it too much.

Eric opens his mouth, ready to pounce on my answer, but before he can say anything else, I look up at the clock. It’s ten past five. “Ding! Session’s up. Gotta go,” I announce, and get up from my chair.

Fourteen

The place where I was most happy with Michael was in bed, even though we didn’t have sex.

When the world was shut out and it was just me and Michael and his sheets and his closed blinds, I was in heaven. We’d lie in the dark watching TV or a DVD, and then he’d make me watch the news. Truthfully, I didn’t care what I watched as long as I was lying on his chest, feeling his heart beating under my ear.

And usually, at some point, we started making out, like we were twelve years old or something. We never even got totally naked. It usually started with me teasing a hand up his leg, farther and farther, closer and closer, until I could see a bulge shaping through his jeans. Till I heard his breath, and my head moved with the pounding of his heart. Till I knew he couldn’t stand it any longer.

After that, sometimes we’d order a pizza. Or sometimes we’d play Scrabble, and I’d joke how it made me feel a million years old, until I started to kick his ass at it. Sometimes we’d be silly. I’d play tic-tac-toe with a pen on his stomach. Or he’d try to balance a pepperoni slice on my nose. But most of the time we just talked about stuff like our childhoods and friends and
parents. And about heavy shit. Like him having to deal with his mother, who has an eating disorder and was hospitalized. Or his depression, which forced him to drop out of university. Or about my father, who left my mom when I was small, and how I wasn’t interested in finding him because I knew it would only be a disappointment.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

I searched my head, thinking about his question. “Yeah. I know that’s not an exciting answer. But it’s like, ‘Fuck you.’ You know? What am I going to do, ruin my life because he’s a loser?”

“Sometimes I’m amazed you’re only sixteen.”

“Just turned …” I reminded him.

“Well, anyway. You’ve lived a lot of life already.”

“How come you’re the only one who thinks that I’m amazing?”

His answer was to pull me closer. Which was the perfect response, because sometimes words aren’t the best way to answer a question.

And I’d wished I could stay there forever. On that bed. In those sheets. In that summer. I wished that I could just lie there in my underwear and play silly games and bare my honest soul to someone. But eventually and always, I had to get dressed. And with each piece of clothing, I felt myself disappear under the layers.

Socks / daughter.

Shirt / whore.

Jeans / student.

Hoodie / friend.

Studded belt / bitch.

Fifeen

Michael made me a different person. He made me want to be a better person. Sometimes I’m embarrassed at how stupid I was with him. I used to make him greeting cards out of construction paper and glue on ribbons. And I cried in front of him all the time. About nothing. It was like I was my mother. I’d just come through the door and fall into the cushy couch and bawl while he’d get me some juice and whatever food he had around. Then he’d sit beside me, pull me close to him, and just rub the back of my head. And when I finally stopped my blubbering and was calm enough to tell him what was wrong, I couldn’t think of anything to say because my words would have sounded so dumb by that point: Ally was being a bitch, I failed a science exam, my mom got drunk last night. Big deal.

Usually I’d start to tell him all this but then, in the middle of it, I’d just start laughing at my own pathetic self, and he’d start laughing and then we’d kiss, and my mouth would be on his, sucking in his happiness like he was some kind of helium making me light again.