A Little Crushed by Viviane Brentanos

gentlemen, we report live from London where, in a few hours time, the great Andy Stone will shag one of the only two remaining virgins in the country—no—make that the world blah, blah, blah. God, I don’t know why he didn’t just sell tickets.”
    “The pig…” Rebecca said rather ineffectually. She didn’t know what else to say. She had never seen Emma quite so worked up.
    “And to think I was going to lose my virginity to th-that moron. Anyway, he’s got B.O.” She blew her nose on a limp hanky. “Besides, I didn’t really fancy him.”
    “Oh, no, of course not.” Rebecca worked hard to keep her expression sympathetic.
    “No honestly I didn’t. Well, not really. I think I just liked the idea of having a boyfriend. Everyone else has one, except you of course, but you don’t count, which brings me to reason number two in favor of slicing off his balls and ramming them up his arse. Do you know why he asked me out in the first place? Brendon told him to—because he wanted to get close to you.”
    “Oh, come on, Em.”
    “Scoff all you want, but it’s true. I should so hate you right now, but I don’t. He’s a crappy kisser anyway. I didn’t feel anything. Let’s go.”
    They walked in silence, with Emma kicking out at the pavement, head bent. Rebecca didn’t know what to say. She felt bad for Emma, but at the same time, she was relieved her wild and wonderful foray into the world of first love had come to an end.
    “So, how was your week?” Emma broke the silence. “I suppose you had your head stuck in a book. You look awfully pale. Not sleeping again?”
    “Yes. No.” Rebecca stared ahead, concentrating on black clouds gathering in the gloomy sky. Should she say more? Probably not. Emma would either think her insane, or read some Freudian meaning into her new and much improved dream scenario.
    “Oh no.” Emma groaned. “Please don’t tell me you’re still planning the downfall of Mr. Jackson. You’ve made your point, Becs. We get it. He gets it. I’m only surprised he hasn’t booted you out of class. You haven’t turned in one of his assignments.”
    “I’m not going to either.” Rebecca grunted. “Anyway, I don’t want to talk about him, or Andy, or bloody Brendon. Too much bad Karma.”
    Emma shrieked with laughter. “And since when did the omnipotent Rebecca Harding believe in Karma?”
    “Since never.” Rebecca grinned. “But I made you laugh. Anyway, I have the perfect solution to all your problems.”
    “You do? Am I going to like this?”
    “You’ll love it. This year, Miss Emma Brown, you are coming with me to drama club.”
    * * * *
    Life was good. Singing along to the latest Take That track, Max waited for the school lollipop lady to herd her lost sheep across the zebra crossing to the school entrance. He tapped out the tune on the steering wheel, squinting up at the drab grey sky.
    London had been fun. His old uni pals were as juvenile as ever, but he’d enjoyed a couple of days of letting his hair down. He’d needed the relief. Two days into the half term week, a huge, fat wave of loneliness swamped him. Resisting the urge to decamp to Chez Black, he’d opted for three days of fast-paced city life. Energy levels now restored, he was ready to face the rest of the term. Or maybe not. There she was, his nemesis, Miss Rebecca Harding, sauntering across the road as if she owned it, not caring that she held up traffic. He groaned. Oh well, it had been nice while it lasted. Crunching the gears, he turned into the car park. A loud thunderclap added to the reality check. Here it came—the deluge the BBC weatherman had promised.
    He parked next to Tom’s battered old Honda Civic and grabbed his briefcase from under a week’s debris of take-away boxes. Pulling on his pure wool black coat, he opened the door and made a run for it.
    “Here he is.” Tom pounced on him. “Just the man I’ve been looking for.”
    Max winced; Tom still yielded a lot of power in those