And So It Goes - Judy Colella (little red riding hood read aloud txt) 📗

her enough that she’d feel the need to put one of her five-inch heels through my eye.

The hall was empty. That meant that if I didn’t run, I’d be late for European Literature. The class whose teacher was the spawn of the radioactive spider that bit Peter Parker. Sound of crickets. Okay. Did I mention that I’m a huge fan of the Marvel Comics universe? Point being, arriving late for this class was kind of like falling face-first into a puddle of melted dog poo. Not a pleasant experience. Ever.

The final bell went off two seconds after I got in the door. Relief. Went to my desk. Sat. Found a note. Seriously? I opened it…

“Miss Darby, is that a note?”

Someone in the cosmos flat-out hates me.

Five

 

Shoot me. Now. Please. I stared at the note, then up at the teacher. “Yes, sir.”

This guy’s name was Trevor Altman. Wow. Said Trevor did the out-thrust jaw thing at me, crossing his arms. “It’s awful early in class to be passing notes, don’t you think?”

That did it. “I did not ‘pass’ this note, Mr. Altman. I just got here, and found it sitting on my desk. All I did was open it to see if it might be from you.” I was going to die. This was it. The Grim Reaper was going to come through the door and approach my desk – probably sauntering.

“Why would I leave a note on your desk?”

“To tell me I was failing the class or something?”

“Are you?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then why would I leave you a note telling you that you’re failing?”

“It could have been something else.” I shrugged, warming to the subject. “I mean, you could have been letting me know that you’d found one of my books, or that the office had called to tell me my mom was in the hospital, or maybe that you enjoyed reading my last essay but that I needed help with my prepositions.”

“Stop talking.” He turned away and went his desk, shaking his head.

If this day ever ended, I figured I should go find a shrine to some god somewhere and offer a sacrifice of gratitude to it. Rolling my eyes at life itself, I tuned in and almost paid attention.

Oh, the note, right? Sorry. It was from Lacy, believe it or not. She was thanking me for being honest about what’s-his-face…er, Jacob. Impressive – that she had spelled all the words right, not that she was expressing gratitude. Really? Okay, so maybe this would take me off the Dweebs To Attack watch-list.

You know, people, named Trevor should not be allowed to talk about female body parts. This thought occurred when I stopped thinking about the whole Lacy and Jacob debacle and switched back into class-ears mode. And why? Because this creature named Trevor was talking about female body parts.

Ovaries. He was pointing to a drawing of ovaries projected on a large screen by his PowerPoint program. Who uses that any more? Well, yeah, Trevor Altman. Still. Anyway, he was saying things that made me feel like a hen. I suppose I would have been more upset if he hadn’t talked so much about male body parts the week before, during which I started to think about manure. Don’t ask me why.

Since I was the proud owner of the equipment he was describing, I failed to see why I needed to continue listening. I mean, I know how it all works, how sex…shut up and mind your own business. Ack!

Behind me, I could hear a sudden burst of loud whispering; who would do that in this class? Mr. Altman was notorious for his acid word-venom. Did the whisperer have an emotional death-wish? I couldn’t think of anyone I knew in this class who was suicidal in that way, but didn’t dare turn around. Not that I needed to. Altman’s supersonic hearing was obviously functioning.

“Mr. Shaunessy! Unless you believe you know more than I do about this subject, I think you’d be wise to keep quiet! Or maybe your lack of knowledge and experience is what’s making you behave like a twelve-year-old who’s just been introduced to ‘National Geographic’!”

What writers might call a “profound silence” followed this snide remark. What a cruel man, this T. Altman was. Probably good to have around if you were slow-witted and needed help telling someone off, but otherwise, a cruel man.

Kevin Shaunessy was okay, I suppose. He was another one I rarely paid any attention to, mostly because he didn’t seem capable of holding a conversation without using the f-bomb every three syllables. And when most of your words are only one syllable each, well, do the math. No doubt that august ruler of the obscenity underworld was on the tip of Kevin’s tongue right then, but to his credit, he didn’t let it out. Not that it wouldn’t have been appropriate in a sex class – Hahaha!...sorry.

Still, I had no doubt that ol’ Kev was pretty upset by the put-down, not to mention his inability to respond in the manner he was best at. I could almost hear him glaring when, a moment later, he managed to mumble an apology.

“Good. Now. We were discussing the menstrual cycle.”

I shook my head, disgusted – shouldn’t have.

“Miss Darby?”

Aw, crap again. “Yes?”

“What’s bothering you?”

May as well go for broke, right? “Nothing, except that…dude, we’re seniors. Those of us with ovaries got our periods like three years ago – or earlier, depending on how many preservatives were in the food we ate. So you telling us about something we’ve been experiencing every month for the past several years is almost like, I don’t know, explaining to an executive chef how to boil water. I mean, he’d probably toss it at you for treating him like a complete idiot.” Not that I was about to toss my ovaries at Trevor, so the analogy was a bit off. But still…

“Miss Darby – ”

Uh-oh. Here it comes. He’s – ha! That “ha” was me having a sudden stroke of genius (as opposed to just having a stroke, which at that point was entirely possible). “And that,” I said, interrupting this rotten spot on life’s apple, “is an example of what you’re trying to tell us – that during the height of our cycle, our hormones wreak havoc with our psyches, resulting in behavior we would otherwise never consider, right?” I gave him a wide-eyed, hopeful look. Or what I hoped was a wide-eyed hopeful look. Probably more like a crazy-eyed, manic look. I babbled on. “Under normal circumstances, I would never talk back to you like that, but under the influence of a severe estrogen attack, I’m capable of all sorts of bizarre behavior!”

Trevor stared. The students seated in front of me turned around and stared. The students I could see in my peripheral vision stared. I think I wouldn’t be too out of line to say the rest of the students were staring as well. I, on the other hand, developed a grin that I suspected looked like the expression on one of those Day of the Dead skeletons. At that moment, I may well have come as close to death myself as I ever had. Or detention.

Clearing his throat, Trevor narrowed his gaze – was he trying to decide if I was for real? But then he took a deep breath (why do all my teachers do that when they’re about to respond to something I said?) and nodded. “Good. I’m amazed you were paying such close attention. All right. Ms. Darby mentioned estrogen. Can anyone tell me the other…” drone, drone, buzz, bleh.

Overwhelmed with relief, I nearly let myself fall asleep. Altman had other ideas, though. He kept calling on me, which made me believe he was either thrilled with my sudden-onset class participation, or just wanted to make sure I was still paying attention. By the time the bell rang, I was ready to throw myself under the cheerleading squad.

“I wasn’t joking,” said He Who I Never Wanted To Talk To Again.

Freaking Jacob. “About what?”

I was halfway to the cafeteria, hoping to eat my lunch in peace, preferably at my usual table in the corner, with a little chatter from Gina to lighten the mood and distract me from how awful the food was. I’d had a rough morning, made rougher by the existence of the hemorrhoid walking beside me, and my dealings with his cotton-brained girlfriend. The last thing I wanted at that moment was a conversation with him

“That I wanted to talk to you, that’s what. Do you hate me or something?”

Ooh, what an opening…but no, my empathy gene woke up and gave me a dirty look, so all I said was, “Why would I hate you?”

“Because I’m going out with Lacy?”

I stopped walking. I had to. Ever try to kick someone in the crotch when he’s strolling along right next to you? If you’re double-jointed, don’t answer that. Anyway, his question was too much like that remark I’d overheard in some other life (look, it had been a stupid long day already and time was being surreal) about it being that girl’s lucky day because he was going to take her to the movies. Which I mentioned before, yes? Although to be honest, with all my ranting and self-interruptions, anyone who still remembers that deserves a medal.

“Well? Is it?” Persistent brat-booger that he was, Jacob wasn’t giving me a chance to think. He wanted an answer, by golly…or so it seemed. Whatever.

So I gave him one. “Hardly. I don’t see why you think every girl on the planet is panting after you. I mean, I’m not, and if you don’t quit acting like us spending any time together alone is a foregone conclusion, I’m going to damage a sensitive part of your anatomy. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m starving and lunch, such as it is, happens to be on my immediate event horizon.” That seemed to do it, because he wasn’t moving, and when I walked away, I didn’t hear him following.

Heh-heh. Leave ’em gaping, I always say. Well, okay, maybe not always, but a lot.

Gina was parked at our table already when I got to the cafeteria, her tray laden with items I couldn’t identify at a distance. She waved as I rushed past, hoping to get through the line before the next appearance of Halley’s Comet. Grabbing a tray and placing it on the gleaming stainless steel ledge in front of the small army of cafeteria workers with their weird hairnets who dished out the food from behind steamy glass partitions (bullet-proof, no doubt…the glass, I mean, not the cafeteria workers, although that would have been interesting), I eyed the choices.

A pan of something brown swimming in a darker brown sauce that made me think of the primordial slime; macaroni and cheese that I’m convinced was imported from Chernobyl; deadly green beans floating in yellow grease that couldn’t possibly be butter in real life; mashed potatoes (from a mix, for sure); hamburgers in a metal pan (oh, God…); and something that smelled like it might be Italian, or…wait, no. Oriental? Well, yuck to both. And…ah. Fries. I could eat those without experiencing too much gastric trauma.

“Just fries,” I told the cafeteria lady after sliding my tray