Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(73)

At least Matt’s and Sean’s project provided plenty of gross-out moments with giant pictures of herpes sores and parasitic crabs projected on a screen at the front of the room.

Helen and I have a pretty kick-ass presentation, but I’m glad we didn’t have to go first. And even though I’m happy we’re finally getting it over with, I feel like I’ve got a noose cinched tight around my neck and the milk crate I’m standing on is wobbling beneath my feet. Especially since — if I’m right about Prudence’s plans — things could get seriously ugly today.

Hopefully, Mrs. Turris will be able to keep a tight rein on the class. Though somehow I doubt it.

Anyway, once it’s done, I can put this whole stupid semester behind me.

Helen and I get to class early so that we can set up. She connects her computer to the projector for the PowerPoint presentation while I put together our contraceptive diorama.

I’ve got a whole whack of fruits and vegetables — ends cut and glued down — standing triumphantly on a poster board: a zucchini, a carrot, a banana, a parsnip. I roll a different type of condom on each one. Ribbed, glow-in-the-dark, lambskin, Leviathan. I unfurl the female condom and insert it into an “everything” bagel. Take out the pack of birth control pills I “borrowed” from my sister’s nightstand. Place the bottle of spermicidal lube next to a gargantuan cucumber for a hands-on demonstration.

Then I carefully display the extremely graphic eleven-by-fourteen-inch posters I printed out in the computer lab. There’s one of a woman inserting a diaphragm, another of an X-ray showing an implanted IUD, and, for good measure, a giant wrinkly scrote with its vas hanging out, ready to be snipped.

“Good morning,” Mrs. Turris says, bustling into the classroom. “You guys look like you’re all —” She does a double take as she passes my grand display of grotesquerie. “Well. That’s . . . very . . . visual.”

I smile. “Yeah. We want to make sure people remember what we have to say. All the things we learned doing this report, Mrs. Turris — how to protect yourself from disease and unwanted pregnancy. This stuff is super-important. I, for one, am very grateful we were assigned this topic.”

“Yes,” she says, giving a little head shake as she averts her eyes from the vasectomy poster. “I’m glad.” She moves to her desk and takes out a coffee thermos. “Don’t forget to leave some time for questions. That’s ten percent of the grade.”

When the class arrives and is settled, we dim the lights. Helen stays standing, and I take a seat on one of the stools.

“Good morning, ladies and gentleman,” Mrs. Turris says. “Today’s lesson on contraception will be taught by Helen Harriwick and Cooper Redmond. Please give them your undivided attention.”

I was feeling nervous before, but now it’s like someone’s got their hand clenched around my nads. Finding it hard to breathe. To think. To speak. I try to remember what I’m supposed to say first, but all I get is this whooshing sound in my head.

Helen clicks the remote in her hand, and the first PowerPoint slide is projected onto the screen at the front of the room. A picture of a pregnant teenage girl. “Over thirty percent of women will get pregnant before the age of twenty.”

“That’s my baby!” Andy calls out.

Mrs. Turris slaps the legal pad she’s taking notes on. “Another word out of you, Mr. Bennett, and I’m taking points off your project. Something you can scarcely afford.”

I use this diversion to flip through my notes. But somehow they’re all mixed up. And the light’s too dim. My first page is missing. Damn it. I try to shuffle the papers quietly, but I can’t find my opening line.

Helen goes on. “Eighty percent of these pregnancies are unplanned.”

“Was yours?” some dude coughs from the back of the room, which sends a wave of laughter throughout the class.

“Who said that?” Mrs. Turris cranes her neck. Does she really think anyone’s going to confess?

It suddenly feels like my shirt collar is too tight. I should probably say something. Tell everyone to shut the hell up. But I’m too preoccupied with trying to remember my part of the presentation.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

Helen seems unfazed. She doesn’t miss a beat. Just keeps rolling forward. “Nearly all of these pregnancies could have been avoided if some form of contraception had been used.”

“Spay that bitch!” a girl bellows.

Mrs. Turris leaps to her feet. “Excuse me! I will not put up with these shenanigans. I expect you to give Helen and Cooper the same attention you’d like for yourselves.”

Helen clears her throat and continues. “Teen mothers are at a much greater risk for dropping out of high school, and less than two percent of them will end up getting a college degree before they’re thirty. Eight out of ten teen moms will have to turn to welfare to support their families.” She clicks the remote, and the slide switches to a dude with thick syphilis sores glazing his back.

“Ewww. Nasty!” I hear someone shout, followed by more mutters and mumbles.

This slide is my cue. I sit up on the stool. Take a deep breath. And magically, the words appear in my brain. “Every year, twenty-five percent of teenagers who are sexually active will be infected with a sexually transmitted disease. And while all of the contraceptive methods we will be discussing today can help prevent pregnancies, only latex condoms can help protect against STDs.”