Where the Staircase Ends(17)

“Get it away get it away get it away!” she shrieked.

I slapped a hand over my mouth, trying to hide my laughter because I knew it would piss her off, but she looked ridiculous. And I couldn’t help but feel like the dragonfly was somehow on my side.

“Stop laughing!” she said, turning in a frantic circle to see if it was still there.

“It’s harmless. They don’t even bite. And it’s gone anyway.”

“It’s post-apocalyptic is what it is.” She looked around once more before taking a hesitant seat next to me. She tried to act all cool as she smoothed her hair back into place, but her hands were shaking. I hid a smile behind my hand.

After several minutes of silence, Sunny clapped her hands together and looked at me, a wicked smile stretching across her face.

“I almost forgot to tell you. Did you hear about skank-the-tank Tracey Allen and pervy Mr. Thomas?”

I shook my head. “You mean our gym teacher Mr. Thomas?”

Sunny nodded vigorously, jumping up and down at the excitement of getting to be the first to share the new gossip. “Someone saw Tracey mugging down with him at some booshie restaurant this weekend.”

“Oh come on, even Tracey Allen isn’t skanky enough to mess around with a teacher. That’s gross.”

“Don’t be too sure about that. I have it on very good authority that Tracey and Mr. Thomas are doing the nasty and have been for a while. And apparently he shows up at the Walgreen’s where she works, like, all the time. I mean, can you be any more obvious?”

I narrowed my eyes at Sunny. She decided years ago that she didn’t like Tracey Allen, even coining some of her infamous skank-themed nicknames. It seemed a little too convenient that her nemesis was involved in such a juicy scandal. But gossip was fuel at my high school, and we needed people like Tracey Allen to feed our moral ambiguity, giving us a clear delineation of where the line between teenager and slut was drawn. Whether the rumor was true or not, I was as guilty as the next person—I wanted it to be true.

“Are you sure? I mean, he’s old.” I made a face for emphasis. I mean, yuck.

“I can’t reveal my sources, but I can totally vouch for the fact that it’s one hundred percent true. And he’s not that old. He only graduated from college a few years ago, not that that makes it any less gross. I mean, he’s a teacher. Bluh.”

“Wow. Who knew Mr. Thomas was such a perv?” I shook my head in awe, watching as Sunny stood and walked over to the water fountain, filled her cupped hand with water, and splashed it across her shirtfront.

“I know, right? And speaking of, it’s almost time for pervy Mr. Thomas to come back outside.” She scooped up more water and splashed some under each armpit. “You usually sweat more than I do, so make sure your shirt is wetter than mine. I don’t want the perv to get suspicious.”


We started a slow jog around the track right as Mr. Thomas came out and blew his whistle, motioning for us to come back inside.

“It’s hot out here today, huh?” he said, eyeing our faux-sweat-covered T-shirts. Sunny made a gagging face when his eyes lingered on my chest a few seconds longer than they should have, and I bit my lip to keep from laughing.

“Yes, Mr. Thomas,” I said in a saccharin voice. “That run really kicked my butt.”

“Well maybe next time you two chatterboxes will hold the conversation until after class so you don’t get stuck running laps all period,” he offered, giving us both a smug, self-satisfied glare. We fell in step behind him so he couldn’t see our faces, which were red from trying not to laugh.

Sunny slung her arm over my shoulder as we walked inside the gym.

“Love you, bitch,” she said, knocking her hip against mine. I gave her a tight smile, trying not to think about her earlier confession and the pile of rocks it left in my stomach.

“Love you back.” I shrugged off her arm so I could pick at my nail polish and avoid eye contact.

“Obviously.” She laughed. “But not as much as pervy Mr. Thomas loves staring at your boobs.”





CHAPTER SEVEN


THE INTERPOSING FLY




I heard a Fly buzz (No. 465)

By Emily Dickinson



I heard a Fly buzz – when I died –

The Stillness in the Room

Was like the Stillness in the Air –

Between the Heaves of Storm –



The Eyes around – had wrung them dry –

And Breaths were gathering firm

For that last Onset – when the King

Be witnessed – in the Room –



I willed my Keepsakes – Signed away

What portions of me be

Assignable – and then it was

There interposed a Fly –



With Blue – uncertain stumbling Buzz –

Between the light – and me –

And then the Windows failed – and then

I could not see to see –



That’s the poem I had to analyze in honors English. Right there in front of the entire class, with Justin Cobb and everyone watching me. I hated poetry with a passion. I got that it was supposed to be deep and meaningful, but I never could understand it, and the fly poem was no exception. Don’t get me wrong—I tried. I had to. That was the whole assignment. We were assigned a poem, and we had to explain to the class what we thought it meant. Everyone got the chance to ask questions and come up with their own interpretations if they disagreed. It was supposed to be this big thought-provoking project, but really it was a huge, nerve-wracking pain in my ass.