7 - Becky
by inuxxian@gmail.com
Hayley writes a Southern gothic.

You're totally gonna think I'm lying, but it's true: I don't actually
remember what I'm in detention for. I do so much, y'know? I can't keep
track of what people actually catch. I guess here are two things I did
yesterday: I broke into some old lady's house, beat her with her
walker, then drank the milk in her fridge and watched music videos
while she laid on the floor and bled out; and also I told a teacher to
suck my dick. It's probably for one of those.

Obviously I'm joking. I never get caught for that stuff. I'm a
freakishly talented liar, for one thing, and for another people never
really WANT to believe it. Even my parents, who should really know
better, want to think of my whole mental situation as a Phase,
something I'm gonna grow out of and be a kind sweet Jesus-loving altar
girl. Obviously my parents are retards, but other people have that
block too. People are in denial about me like I'm their dead
parents. Which by the way, old lady's kids were named Tanya and Mike,
and I sent them both cards, because I care.

Telling teachers to suck my dick, though, that people can believe,
probably because it happens like every other fucking day. Look, I have
a 4.1 GPA now that I'm taking AP English (where by the way I think the
teacher wants to fuck me just because I don't read in a retarded
monotone like the rest of the class, and wanting to fuck me is
obviously like deeply guilting him out, and I totally get the sense
that when I graduate he's gonna jump in front of traffic, which is
just one of life's little gifts), and I don't have to put up with
bullshit from people whose biggest accomplishment in life is going to
be giving sad little interviews to 60 Minutes about me. Plus it's
funny to tell people to suck my dick. Because see I'm a girl do you
get it.

Detention's handled by this comatose slug named Mr. I-fucking-swear
ROACH, who always spends the entire time reading the sports section
and trying to get comfortable in the chair, which he never does
because it wasn't fucking made for people who belong on a conveyor
belt with a few hundred CCs of tranquilizer in them waiting to get hit
by a hammer. He also clears his throat like every ten seconds even if
he's not talking, and oh yeah is constantly fucking humming something
that is a tune the same way I am a fucking Meals on Wheels volunteer.

So I'm sitting here in my chair so utterly fucking bored out of my
MIND that snapping my left bra strap every couple seconds with my
thumb has started to seem like a diversion. Mr. Roach made me throw
away my gum, for which, one day, I'm gonna hacksaw off his man-boobs,
and it's basically the worst afternoon ever until the door opens and
this girl walks in whom I've never seen in my life.

She's all tall and blonde and I guess willowy? But it's obvious she
works out. There's muscle under her skin. She's wearing a fucking
romper--which you would not think a girl could look this badass
in--and these brown cowboy boots that are all broken in and dented up
and ultra fucking rad and which I want. And she has this just utterly
flawless American-teenage-dream face, this perfect angel-face, like
she should be getting a paycheck from the Disney Channel, except that
her smile is the flat-out most evil thing I have ever seen outside a
mirror. It's like this cold little faraway grin that makes her look
like she just came from doing some really serious damage to something
and is still kinda thinking about it. Plus THEN she like stops and
looks over at Mr. Roach and smirks a little, and then looks at me, the
only other person in the room, and I swear like two seconds after she
looks at me her romper gets fucking poky. Like, the girl's nipples go
hard when she sees me. I don't know if that's ever happened to you but
let me tell you it feels pretty fucking good.

"Miss Stern?" Mr. Roach manages to, like, drag up from his
throat. Miss Stern doesn't say anything. "You're twenty minutes late."

"Sorry," Miss Stern says in the most sarcastic voice I've ever heard
and also, oh my god, in a real fucking deep-South accent, which I've
never given a shit about before but which now is sounding like The
Sexiest Voice, Ever, and I am trying pretty fucking hard to suppress
this girl-crush but it's not going down.

"What are you in here for?" she says to me as soon as she sits
down. She's looking at me with her dark doll eyes and her nipples are
still perky which she is acting like she doesn't even notice, and I
almost actually stutter.

"I don't remember," I say. She looks suspicious but doesn't
argue. She's putting her long hair up and her arms are tense with the
motion and there's a little bit of sweat in her armpits and god I am
full-on lezzing out god DAMMIT. Be cool, Hayley, be cool. "What about
you?"

She just smiles--doesn't say anything. Mr. Roach's whiny voice tells
us to quiet down again. The girl looks at me like she's sizing me up
and I get this unbelievable and basically unprecedented feeling of
being prey. Which is let's just say exciting. Maybe I'm secretly a
sub. That would be funny. Her eyes go all over my body then back to my
eyes then she plants her elbow on my desk with her hand sticking out
and says, "Wanna wrestle?"

I swear this is happening. She's still staring into my eyes with that
face like if they made an evil American Girl doll. She smells like
almost embarrassingly girly perfume but her breath smells kinda like
cheeseburger, like she was late to detention because she wanted to go
to McDonalds. And her fingers are wiggling, slowly, like they're
inviting me. Mr. Roach's still whining but I take Miss Stern's hand
and start to come up on the high.

I've never lost an arm-wrestling match, by the way. I'm not saying I'm
stronger than everyone I know because it's not like the school had a
mandatory arm-wrestling tournament, but when I play, I win, and I
usually play against boys, because a lot of boys if you trash-talk
them a little before you beat them will get a decent low-level cry
going and that can be fun. Totes recommend it.

Wrestling with girls though has always for me been like this really
intense confusing experience, because OK straight-up like I said in
another story I'm a secret jock and there really aren't a lot of,
like, non-sexual interactions that get me that high. But arm
wrestling--I dunno, I guess part of it is that the part of my body I'm
most into is the arms? Because like tits and ass are great and all but
I didn't have to work for them; they were just birthday presents from
Satan. But my arms: I lift, I do pull-ups, and sometimes I beat
homeowners to death with baseball bats which can really be a
workout. So I'm kinda proud of my biceps. They're not huge or
anything, they're just... strong.

Jesus not all that strong apparently because I wasn't paying attention
and this girl almost pinned me in the first second. And I pulled it
together but now we're totally to my side still and god this girl has
POWER. This like flawless muscle's popped out of her pageant-girl arm
all of a sudden, like she fucking go-go-Gidgeted something. And she's
still fucking smirking at me, which is starting to piss me off, which
because apparently today yes I AM a fucking sub is actually starting
to make me juicy. I'm pressing against her and trying to fake like I'm
not straining but I don't know what face I'm trying to save exactly
because I am already full-on the bitch in this match, kinda even if I
win.

Which we'll never know if I do because at some point in the preceding
few back-page-of-Cosmo paragraphs Mr. Roach's waddled over to us and
is looking down at us and is telling us to FACE FORWARD IN OUR SEATS
IMMEDIATELY. By which I guess he means "stop arm wrestling". Because I
mean I am already facing forward. The girl lets go of my hand and
looks at him.

"Rebecca, you will stay twenty minutes late to make up for what you
missed."

"It's BECKY. I'm not fucking forty." Oh god the drawl. I want this
girl to beat me up and fuck me in a Georgia basement.

"Also I know you're new here but you will refrain from profanity in
this classroom."

"Not really a classroom," she says, then, totally milking the accent a
little: "And 'fuck's not really profanity; it's more
like... punctuation. Fuck. Like that."

"Yeah, Mr. Roach, get an education," I say, full-on trying to show
off. "Maybe someday you could be a real teacher." Becky laughs, which
rules. So I nudge things a little. "You know we fucking outnumber you,
Mr. Roach. Don't piss us off."

The slug looks like simultaneously enraged and totally taken aback and
also crying a little inside from that real-teacher line. Something
about the low pay really makes public schools insecurity
playgrounds. Becky is giving me an impressed look which man I could go
to sleep in like a cat in sunshine. "You're both girls," Mr. Roach
says.

Really was not expecting him to go in that direction so soon. Becky is
making this big offended-woman face. "Excuse me?"

"Whoa Mr. Roach that was kinda anti-feminist."

"Are you saying we couldn't kick the shit out of you if we wanted to?
Because we're girls?"

"I feel really like personally violated by that statement."

"Aw, honey, are you gonna be OK?"

"I think so." I'm faking a sob here. Apparently this girl and I
are like doing improv together. All this and she's arty, too. Sigh. "I
think I'll be all right."

"Well, you just tell the counselor about anything you're having issues
with."

"I think--I dunno if I can talk to the counselor," and I screw up my
face in a full-on miserable-girl sob and moan out the word "counselor"
and Becky tips her head back laughing. Isn't flirting fun. Mr. Roach
is like backing away now becuase I guess he missed the classes about
dealing with sociopaths. I guess he also missed the class about what
to do if someone throws an eraser at your head, which is what Becky
does now--it like boings off--and Mr. Roach for some reason goes
full-on desperate ballistic and like rushes for the door. Becky's
still laughing. So I jump up, grab one of the flimsy little wire-and
wood tables, bring it off the ground, and swing it into Mr. Roach's
gourd-face, and he goes down like, um, like a really fat guy someone
just hit in the face with a chair. He's spitting teeth and Becky is
standing up in her cowboy boots and romper and still laughing. "Is
this doable?" she asks me.

"We can just change the detention records. Then they can't prove
shit. I've done it before." I'm locking the door and drawing the shade
over the shitty frosted window.

She frowns. "How many times?"

"Like once." Ah, Mr. Peters. Betcha didn't know you could do that with
a pencil sharpener. "It's cool, don't worry about it."

"Does he have a family?"

"I don't fucking know. Do you have a family, Mr. Roach?"

You can totally tell he thinks he's got a way out when he yells "YES!"
But all Becky does is shrug, say "Cool," and swing her boot into his
open mouth. She's reaching into her pocket for something--a little
plastic bag with a couple of pills in it. She plucks one out and holds
it out to me while Mr. Roach tries to figure out what his new mouth
looks like.

"What's--"

"Ecstasy," Becky says.

"I'm kind of a weed girl."

She shrugs and pops it into her mouth. "I'm kind of an ecstasy girl."

Guess you have to respect that. Becky is nudging Mr. Roach's cheeks
with her toe. "What's your name, by the way?" she asks me.

"Hayley."

"Hayley." She nods, then looks blankly down at Mr. Roach. "Hey mister,
you know Hayley? Is she kind of a handful?" She squats down and looks
right into his eyes and then says the sexiest thing I've ever
personally heard anyone say. "Cuz now there are two of her."

Then things get kinda blurry. We both drag Mr. Roach up and throw him
over his desk on his back, and Becky slams those adorable boots into
his nuts a couple time while I grab all the pencils on the desk and
start sticking them into the flab on his shoulders. He's yelping and
sweating and he manages to get out "YOU GIRLS ARE GOING TO FUCKING
JAIL! TO FUCKING JAIL!" before Becky kinda startles him by jumping up
onto the desk so she's straddling him with her knees, and running one
hand over his cheek while the other one holds one of those little
single hole-punchers. And I totally think I know what she's gonna do,
and it is totally amazing.

"Mr. Roach, I'm just trying to go to school," Becky says, and then
reaches up with her cheek-caressing hand to pull out his right eyelid
like a piece of latex and--yup--slide it into the hole puncher and
squeeze. Which is when Mr. Roach starts screaming for his mommy, who
cannot possibly still be alive, and Becky hole-punches his other
eyelid and he's shut them but you can still see the panicked eye like
swiveling around through the hole and oh my god hilarious.

Becky looks up at me and now I hop up on the desk too, so that
Mr. Roach is staring through his new eye-holes at my perfect jeans
ass, and I act on a hunch and lean forward and kiss Becky. And she
kisses me back, with tongue, A+, and I plop my butt down on
Mr. Roach's face and wriggle it around a little and enjoy him
screaming into my rectum.

"I'm in detention because I told a teacher to suck my dick," I say
between kisses. Her mouth really does taste like cheeseburger, which
is kind of gross yet kind of awesome.

"I put myself on the list," she says.

"What?"

She kisses me, pulls away, looks at me with her
serial-killer-beauty-queen face again. "I thought it was the best way
to meet the cool kids."

OK. I'm in love now. Becky pulls back a little and reaches over her
shoulder to rummage in Mr. Roach's desk drawer for something. "Let him
up a second."

I do--slide off the desk and let Becky lean over and smile at
Mr. Roach through his pointless eyelids. The thing in her hand is a
little squeeze bottle of Elmer's. Mr. Roach is, like, babbling now; I
think my ass killed his brain.

"It's always SO scary," Becky drawls, "coming to a new school." She
holds the Elmer's bottle above one of the little holes and squeezes a
nice long snake of glue straight into it. Mr. Roach screeches like a
retarded baby bird; Becky pushes her hair out of her face and does the
other eye. He's got these little mounds of glue on his eyelids now,
and you can see them trying to blink but they're already stuck. Becky
pats him on the cheek while he shakes. "For everyone else, I mean."
She touches one of the glue-nubs with one finger and giggles. "God
that feels good," she says in a little E-girl squeal. That must have
been a fuck of a pill; her eyes are all weird already. Although I
guess they're not the weirdest in the room. She looks up at me. "You
wanna put him out of his misery?"

"I dunno. I kinda dig his misery." Becky snorts with laughter. I'm
opening the cupboards on the walls, knocking shit out, looking for
something fun. "Aw, are you sad you can't see us?" Becky is saying in
a baby voice. "Is that the hardest part? Try not to cry, darlin. There
might be, like, a reaction."

Jackpot. There's a totally full can of Raid in one of these cupboards,
behind a ream of printer paper. Yes. I know. And his name is
Roach. God loves me. Becky lights up when I turn around with it and
clambers off him, giving him a little peck on the forehead. Then she
gives me a little more than a peck. "You're a doll," she purrs in that
absolutely mindblowing molasses-voice. God I want I want I want. My
arms are touching her sides and there's a little bit of sweat sticking
the romper to her skin and kissing that psychotic Girl Scout smile is
a rocket to fucking heaven. I'm fucking giddy by the time I look back
at Mr. Roach. I'm giggling. I'm dancing a little, to nothing, while I
walk up to him. He's making these like sobbing moaning sounds and it
feels so fucking, I dunno, liberating to laugh at them. Someone
suffers, I laugh, a sociopathic Southern babe watches--this is what my
life should be like every fucking day.

"Hel-LO Mis-ter BUG," I squeal when I vault up on top of him. (It
kinda sucks that he can't see my face, actually, because I think like
not to brag or anything that I am an inappropriate-facial-expressions
fucking master. Before I got a car I used to just make kids cry on the
school bus.) "What up?"

I'm being completely corny but somehow now that I'm not laughing Becky
is. And it's somehow completely different from her voice, maybe
because of the E; it's like this dumbass raver-girl giggle. It is
beautiful and awesome and never mind I'm glad Mr. Roach can't see,
because that means all he has to work with are sounds, and the sounds
in this room are so utterly scary right now I think he might actually
pee his pants.

Here here OMG haha imagine like you're him: Southern raver laughing,
girl on top of you breathing, aerosol can shaking, please let it be
whipped cream. Girl on top of you--who by the way is this utter
psychopath named Hayley whom all the detention teachers kinda express
sad solidarity when someone draws, because God poor Mr. Peters, nobody
even knew you could DO that with a pencil sharpener--is bouncing up
and down on your fat like a little kid. Whatever sound the
eyeball-glue combination is making, which I'm hoping is, like,
corrosive. Southern raver still laughing and you think she's like
humming a tune? Hayley saying "I'm not gonna lie, Mr. Roach, shit's
about to get dark," and her breathing coming closer and the can coming
closer and then her (or, whatever, someone's) fingers closing on your
nostrils and your mouth popping open in surprise and something small
and plastic being forced in really hard and smearing your lips with
something you don't recognize the taste of but which really does not
taste good, and knocking against your tooth with a big
within-the-skull thunk.

Then then, best part. Hisssssssssssssss.

He twitches for a WHILE, like at least 3/4ths of the can, and being on
him is kind of like being on one of those little-kid rides that cost a
quarter at the mall. It gets a little boring, so I look up at Becky
and almost wished I'd looked up before, because yeah she is humming a
little tune that is getting completely fucking mangled because she
keeps giggling, and she's got her arms over her head and she's like
fucking swaying, with a huge grin on her face, and I swear I can see
the imprint of her belly button sometimes under the romper, and I want
this guy to stop twitching so I can lick the sweat off this girl's
body more than I've ever wanted anyone to do anything ever, so the
last thing you hear as Mr. Roach is Hayley shouting "FUCKING DIE,
ASSHOLE" and I dunno if you die before her Converse mash into your
nuts or while her Converse are in your nuts, but you're definitely
dead by the time I'm done grinding.

I drop the can to the desk and clamber off Mr. Roach and push the
fringe of sweaty hair out of my eyes. Becky is still dancing and now
her eyes are closed, and I am kissing her cool salty little neck
within four seconds. She's making like distant and appreciative "mm"
noises. "Becky," I say into her skin, "do you want to come over to my
place and watch a movie?"

"I'm gonna be rolling for a while." A whaaayle, god I wanna record
everything this girl says. I kiss her the instant I'm sure there isn't
any more and she kisses back for like three seconds but then she
starts talking into my lips: "Hayley. Hayley. Hayles."

I pull away. Becky looks into my eyes with her little grin amped up to
fucking infinity by the E, like someone's shining a spotlight on
it. She's going to whisper something. I lean in.

"Fucking ROACH."

We laugh so hard I actually think we might get caught. Although
honestly it doesn't really matter; once you're in detention there's
not a lot they're gonna do. At this point I could hand in that whole
story in English class and not even get in trouble. Teacher's really
gonna have to avoid freeways after I'm gone though.