bright smile from across the cafeteria, and a little girlish free-fingered wave. My face burned. I imagined her bobbing up and down between Bill West's legs, his cock in her mouth. I heard in my mind that satisfied moan she'd let out after swallowing my orgasm. "Mmmmmm."
I wanted to kill her.
Going back to my usual routine, I carried my lunch over to Robert and Edson's table, turning my back on her. She came over anyway, with bright smiles for all, and I sat there seething, saying nothing to anyone, eating my food. I didn't want to talk to her, didn't even want to see her, but when she got up to get a drink, I followed.
I cornered her by the vending machines. "How did your date go with Bill West?" I asked her.
She pushed my shoulder as if I'd said something ridiculous. "What are you talking about? Nothing happened."
"You didn't blow him?"
The words were out of my mouth before I realized I'd said them, and I saw her features darken. "What gives you the right to ask me that?"
"Nothing," I said, turning away.
I felt her hand on my shoulder. "Wait." Her voice was soft and filled with tenderness. She sounded so much like she had Friday night in the car after the movie that it made me feel sad. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to bite your head off."
I just stared at her.
"Nothing happened with Bill. I swear to you."
"Nothing?"
"I swear."
Bitch.
I walked away, left my lunch on the table, hid in the boys' bathroom until the bell rang. That afternoon, I wrote a letter to her parents. It was two letters, really. One purporting to be from Mr. Vega, her Spanish teacher, explaining that he had intercepted a series of notes between Sandra and myself, expressing severe disappointment that such an otherwise outstanding student would behave in such a shameful, disgraceful manner. And one from me to Sandra, an example of the graphic correspondence he'd seized. Here I laid it on thick, describing how I'd fucked her hard and taken her up the ass, how she'd been the best I'd ever had, thanking her for taking the initiative to offer such exotic sex, saying, yes, I would recommend her to my friends and, yes, they would be happy to gang bang her if that's what she really wanted.
I dropped the letters in the mailbox.
"Good-bye, Sandra," I said.
I saw the witch downtown the following weekend when I hit the thrift stores looking for records.
She was still around and just as creepy as ever, giving me the evil eye as I passed by her in front of Rod's Camera Shop. I remembered that night with Robert and Edson when we were in grammar school and she pointed her cane at us and a pigeon dropped from the sky. She muttered something as I walked by Rod's that sounded like "Doan trite," and then the staccato clicking of her heels and cane were behind me.
I thought I was safe, but a moment later, when I looked back, I saw that she was following me. She'd been heading in the opposite direction, but now she'd turned and was on my tail, and though I was older now, I felt just as frightened as I had as a little kid. A cold shiver surfed down my spine.
Feigning a bravery I did not feel, I stopped and confronted her. "What do you want?" I demanded. My voice, thankfully, sounded very strong.
She held her left hand, palm up, and with her right began making scratching motions on the palm. It looked like she was ... pretending to write.
My chill deepened.
Don't write. That's what she'd been saying. I was pretty sure it was the same thing she'd said to the three of us that night long ago.
She'd been standing by a mailbox, I recalled. And the bird that had fallen from the sky was a pigeon. Carrier pigeons had once been used to deliver messages.
No. This was getting too crazy. I was reading far too much into this, and I turned away from her.
"Don't write!" she screeched at the top of her lungs. Even people in cars turned to stare at her. "They'll find you!"
I had no idea what she was screaming about, and I didn't want to know. The woman was
I wanted to kill her.
Going back to my usual routine, I carried my lunch over to Robert and Edson's table, turning my back on her. She came over anyway, with bright smiles for all, and I sat there seething, saying nothing to anyone, eating my food. I didn't want to talk to her, didn't even want to see her, but when she got up to get a drink, I followed.
I cornered her by the vending machines. "How did your date go with Bill West?" I asked her.
She pushed my shoulder as if I'd said something ridiculous. "What are you talking about? Nothing happened."
"You didn't blow him?"
The words were out of my mouth before I realized I'd said them, and I saw her features darken. "What gives you the right to ask me that?"
"Nothing," I said, turning away.
I felt her hand on my shoulder. "Wait." Her voice was soft and filled with tenderness. She sounded so much like she had Friday night in the car after the movie that it made me feel sad. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to bite your head off."
I just stared at her.
"Nothing happened with Bill. I swear to you."
"Nothing?"
"I swear."
Bitch.
I walked away, left my lunch on the table, hid in the boys' bathroom until the bell rang. That afternoon, I wrote a letter to her parents. It was two letters, really. One purporting to be from Mr. Vega, her Spanish teacher, explaining that he had intercepted a series of notes between Sandra and myself, expressing severe disappointment that such an otherwise outstanding student would behave in such a shameful, disgraceful manner. And one from me to Sandra, an example of the graphic correspondence he'd seized. Here I laid it on thick, describing how I'd fucked her hard and taken her up the ass, how she'd been the best I'd ever had, thanking her for taking the initiative to offer such exotic sex, saying, yes, I would recommend her to my friends and, yes, they would be happy to gang bang her if that's what she really wanted.
I dropped the letters in the mailbox.
"Good-bye, Sandra," I said.
I saw the witch downtown the following weekend when I hit the thrift stores looking for records.
She was still around and just as creepy as ever, giving me the evil eye as I passed by her in front of Rod's Camera Shop. I remembered that night with Robert and Edson when we were in grammar school and she pointed her cane at us and a pigeon dropped from the sky. She muttered something as I walked by Rod's that sounded like "Doan trite," and then the staccato clicking of her heels and cane were behind me.
I thought I was safe, but a moment later, when I looked back, I saw that she was following me. She'd been heading in the opposite direction, but now she'd turned and was on my tail, and though I was older now, I felt just as frightened as I had as a little kid. A cold shiver surfed down my spine.
Feigning a bravery I did not feel, I stopped and confronted her. "What do you want?" I demanded. My voice, thankfully, sounded very strong.
She held her left hand, palm up, and with her right began making scratching motions on the palm. It looked like she was ... pretending to write.
My chill deepened.
Don't write. That's what she'd been saying. I was pretty sure it was the same thing she'd said to the three of us that night long ago.
She'd been standing by a mailbox, I recalled. And the bird that had fallen from the sky was a pigeon. Carrier pigeons had once been used to deliver messages.
No. This was getting too crazy. I was reading far too much into this, and I turned away from her.
"Don't write!" she screeched at the top of her lungs. Even people in cars turned to stare at her. "They'll find you!"
I had no idea what she was screaming about, and I didn't want to know. The woman was
Similar Books
