Divine: A Novel (7 page)

I open my eyes to see his hand in the
exact position as mine on the opposite side of the door, as if he can sense my
touch.

“Are we past the friendship stage, Div?
Because I consider what just happened to be our first kiss, and one you’ll
always remember. Not our lips touching, but our souls.”

Oh fuck. I think I’m gonna cry.

“It was something to me, not nothing.” He
steps away from my door and at a distance I hear the words
good night
echo down the street.

I should’ve gone outside and slapped him
for scaring the shit out of me in my bedroom, but I got caught up in the
moment. His charm, Jesus, and his voice whispering through the door; immersing
my entire body like he was right here, in this very room, touching me. My body
was sexually aroused and responsive for the first time in months.

Mmm. Come back, Mr. Keller. I want to
return the favor.

CHAPTER
SEVEN

I
’d rather lick dog shit than deal with
this email.

Last night with Dan was beyond what I’d
expect out of a second date. He’s magnificent and from what I can tell, he’s a
scent-aholic too. But after he left, I was drowning in heavy eyes just five
minutes into my new erotic western. I have a disease called male orgasm
sleepitis, which makes me crash immediately after sex. It affects the majority
of the male population, so I’m not too worried that it’s going to kill me or
that I need a prescription. And from what I’ve read, women rarely are afflicted
by this condition.

I started reading one of the westerns.
No, not
The Three Buck Naked and Depraved
Horseman
as planned. It must be in the bag Dan kept. I’ve settled for
Cowgirl in the Pig Pen.
After the first
chapter, I’d give it two stars in the romance genre, but five stars in pulp.

And I haven’t opened Dan’s secret bag of
books just yet either. For some odd reason I’m afraid to find out what’s
inside. I think it’s because I’m so happy with the pile I purchased that his
bag seems like homework or a quiz that could end in failure. What if they’re
fishing books? Or worse, books on canoeing or camping? Those things go
hand-in-hand with fishing, right? Snore. I’m not a nature girl and if I have to
choose between... oh fuck it, I don’t want to have to choose. Clothes, food, or
anything else, fine, but don’t tell me what to read.

I’m angry. I shouldn’t be this way, but
the
FU
campus (that’s my new name for
it) puts me in a foul mood. I should’ve stayed home and watched porn and read,
wearing only my robe and a pair of socks, nothing else. Sounds cozy, but that
wouldn’t solve the issue at hand, and it’s not the campus that’s the problem.
It’s this email. This goddamn email from Margaret. What a fucking bitch.

Div,

Hannah
came to my office in tears last night because her boyfriend Luke is still
missing. You wouldn’t happen to know where he might be, would you? I overheard
students in my class talking about you and they said you didn’t like him.

I
also would like to know what show is going in the gallery next, and the names
of the incoming scholarship students. How much are we giving them this year?

Have
you heard from the Dean at all?

Enjoy
your day!

MC

This senile old hag needs to go away. I’m
so tired of her. And what the fuck is that first paragraph about? If I wanted
someone to disappear, it’d be her, not some random Big Boy look-alike named
Luke (now I remember his name). And she asks me the same fucking questions week
after week. No one believes me when I say she’s losing her mind and should no
longer be teaching. My Chair, the Dean, the President... no one. The woman’s
nutballs.

I start a nasty email back, then delete
it, then write another, and delete that one too. Finally, I’m calm enough to
send something.

Margaret,

You
shouldn’t make false accusations about me. I haven’t seen Luke since he was in
one of my classes a few semesters ago. And, what did you say to the students
who were talking about me? Did you stop the conversation, or did you let it
fester?

As
mentioned back in October, as well as in January, and last month too, the
spring show is the student exhibition. I hope your classes have been productive,
making pillows, cookies, and knitting hats, and that you have a lot of work
ready to fill the space. You can start bringing the craft projects into the
gallery next week.

The
scholarship is a thousand dollars for all students. It’s been set at that
amount for years.

Why
would I hear from the Dean?

Div

It will only be a couple of minutes
before she responds. She’s fishing for information about the student petition
and to see if I’m upset, but I play dumb, which will surely upset her. Why is
this woman still here? Clearly, the only thing she’s good at is being a
stand-in grandmother to a generation of helpless students. I bet she even wipes
their noses.

Oh goody. She’s back.

My
students won’t have any work ready for the show so they won’t be participating
this year.

Enjoy!

That bitch! She just put the entire
exhibition on my shoulders and opted out. So now I have to fill the entire
space and take care of everything myself. Fuck her. And I’m sure she’ll tell
the entire campus I didn’t include her in the show. I know it. I’m never
speaking to her or opening another email from her again. Evil wench.

I’m going to quit. This place is a joke.
Why do I bother to teach students when they have better odds of becoming
professional football players than designers? I’m wasting my time and so are
they. There’s nothing they can do with this degree when it’s from such an
unknown program out in who-knows-where Pennsylvania.

See, anger. It penetrates my every pore
when I’m here, and for my mental health, it seems best to skip out. Not
necessarily go home, but have a
personal
workday
in my office.

I leave a sign in my classroom that reads
‘class is cancelled due to illness’ and then I lock myself in my office with my
book. Hell yes, I brought it with me, Dan’s bag as well. It’s on the floor next
to my desk just in case I want to sneak a peek.

And I can write today too. I can spend
the next seven hours holed up in my office working, sneaking out only to pee
and to get a drink and snacks from the vending machine. Evade and escape.

Now, back to the
Cowgirl in the Pig Pen
. Chapter two.

“There she is, Bucky, the prettiest cowgirl in all of
S&M Ranch. She’s gonna hold my stiff reins and yank ‘em ‘til the cows come
home.”

“Eew-wee, I don’t know how you get all the pretty ladies to
touch your pecker. I had Lee Ann in my sack last night and all she did was toot
beans out her ass.”

“Take the horses in while I get my willy wet, would ya?”

“Sure thing, Duke. But don’t let her father see. He’s been
known to throw a man off his land for lesser.”

Bucky walks to the pen where Daisy Mae’s knee-deep in pig
mud. A fat swine that Duke’s thinking about killin’ for dinner shits on her
leg. The smell and the dark slop makes Duke’s dick grow hard. Shittin’ on women
is one of his favorite pastimes. He likes it better than fucking the ranch
hands ‘round the campfire at night.

“Daisy-Mae, I like what I’m seeing here. You and these pigs
got me ready for a haystack lay. Whatya say?”

“Duke,” she shakes her head. “My Daddy will whip your behind
if he finds your hands on me.”

“How ‘bout if they’re not on ya, but in ya?”

This is hideous. One of those books so
bad it becomes a cult classic. I love it.

Duke lifts Daisy-Mae over his shoulder and carries her off
to the barn. He flops her down on a pile of hay and rips her shirt open as she
fights to get away then succumbs to the beast he pulls out of his pants.

“It’s crooked, Duke.”

“It got stuck in the barn door one day. When Bucky and me
see a man with his pecker hanging out we tell ‘em his barn door’s open so he
knows to tuck it in. If he don’t, that barn door’s gonna get him too.”

“Does it still work?”

He pulls her dress over her head and has a look see at her
snake bush.

“Eeeek!” she screams when his crooked pecker disappears
behind her thicket. “Wrong hole! Wrong hole!”

This is hilarious. And it’s so much
better than spending an hour lecturing twenty students on why some forms of
Photoshop manipulation may be unethical. Go, Duke!

“Daisy-Mae, you have a fine back end, and when I see a bush-a-bleeding,
I know the rear’s the right hole to go a breeding.”

“You can’t get me pregnant back there. Breeding doesn’t
happen in my back hole.”

“Daisy-Mae!”

“Daddy!”

Oh shit, here we go. I knew that was
coming.

“You lettin’ this peckerwood inside ya? Didn’t Mama tell you
to feed the pigs, and here you are, acting like one. I’m gonna have to teach
this boy a lesson for takin’ you away from your chores.”

“Daddy, please! He’s got a crooked Willy. I like it.”

“Crooked? Let me see that Pecker, Duke.”

Duke pulls out of Daisy-Mae and holds his peckerwood in his
hand.

“Well I’ll be a one-legged chicken in a fox hole. Look at
that thing. A poke-stick like that must win ya a lot of ladies. Can I touch
it?”

I have to stop reading or my laughter will
be heard clear across campus. Plus, I’ve got a feeling the father will join in
on the fun, and incest isn’t my thing. When I get back into it, I’ll have to
skip that section.

I should continue writing myself, but
Dan’s bag catches my eye
.

Just
open it and stop being a wuss. And why didn’t you fuck him last night? You have
smutty dirty little slut thoughts all the time, but then you back down. What
happened to the caramel? Do I have to do everything for you? It’s time to
change, Div. Do something mind-blowing for once in your life. And for Christ’s
sake, get rid of that shit in your living room.

Shut the fuck up Violet and leave me
alone.

No.
Open the bag. It’s probably something boring and dry anyway, like books on
window gardening.

I happen to...

Div,
open the bag.

Fine.

I place the bag on my desk and pull the
string tie until the top falls open.

“It’s Hayden Night’s Trilogy. A boxed
set. What the fuck?” I didn’t see this when we were at the bookstore, only
single books from that trilogy. Dan must have picked it up before I made it to
the section. Does he know what I write or who my competitors are, or is this
just a coincidence? Shit. I knew I shouldn’t have looked. I can’t read these;
it would be like owning a McDonald’s franchise and eating at Burger King, or
working at JC Penney and wearing the outfit you bought at Kmart to the annual
Christmas party.

You
bitch. He has twenty erotic western books to read and all you have is this one
trilogy. Read it.

It’s eight hundred pages... eight hundred
pages of Hayden Night’s sick and twisted words. How could Dan buy such trash?

Seriously?
Stop being so stubborn and open the first book. You might learn something.

No. No bloodbath books or rapes. I like
it when the couples fuck but not when I have nightmares from the other content,
and Hayden Night’s books are known to be the darkest of all dark. Dark’s okay,
but not pitch-black dark.

Whited
sepulcher

Stop calling me that.

Stop
calling yourself that. Your books are just as nightmarish as Hayden’s.

“Knock knock. You in there, Div?”

Richard, my Chair. He never comes to my
office. I must have done something terribly wrong. Oh shit. Oh shit. I have to
hide. Where can I hide? I wonder if there’s a ledge outside my window? Or maybe
I can squeeze under my desk? I’m panicking. Why am I panicking?

“Div? I saw your truck in the lot, but
heard from a student that you canceled class. You in there? You okay?”

No. No, don’t come in.

I’m frozen with Hayden’s book in my hand
and the erotic western on my desk. And if I move, he might hear me. I hold my
breath and slowly, gently, set the books in the bag. How am I going to explain
myself?

Keys jingle, and the handle turns. I have
no choice but to hurry to the door as if I was on my way to open it.

“Richard, how are you?”

“That’s what I came to ask you. Feeling
okay? A student said you were sick, but your truck’s here, so...”

This would never happen on a large campus
where I’d be able to blend in and eventually disappear. Here, on the other hand,
a moment after I sneeze someone from two buildings down calls to say ‘God bless
you.’

“I’m having stomach issues, but I’m
hoping it’ll pass so I can teach my afternoon class. I don’t want to go home
just yet.”

“I appreciate your dedication, Div, but it’s
okay to call in sick sometimes.”

I nod and try to create a queasy,
stomach-churning expression on my face, but I probably just look constipated.

“Everything else okay? Have you spoken
with Margaret or anyone else like we discussed?”

“That was yesterday,” I sigh. The guy
needs to give me some time. “I’ve been busy, and Margaret’s impossible to have
a conversation with, I tried, it didn’t work out. I think it would be best if
we stay as far away from one another as possible.”

“Umm. Hmm.” He pretends to contemplate my
words, but I can tell he’s barely listening. His eyes wander. Glancing at my
candle, the window coverings, my chalkware collection, and then to my desk
before he speaks. “Well, that doesn’t bode well for the future of this
department.”