Folie à Deux (14 page)

Who has the power now? She’s on her knees but in control of my body. What if I stopped her? I’ve given her this power. I have to memorize my lines for the Forensics competition. I think I hear the gurgle but maybe not, it could be something else. Do I hear someone knock on the door? She’s moving so fast I can barely distinguish up or down. I heard “Smells Like Teen Spirit” on the bus this morning. It is no less dangerous with the lights out. My mouth is so dry and this closet is dank and dingy and, pop.

My mind is clear.

This is a rare moment when my head is absolutely empty. I cannot think of geometry or health class, Kevin or The Cure. I am lost in what is called “le petit mort” in French. The little death. The one moment in a person’s life when the mind can be wiped clean. The seconds just before an orgasm are akin to having the clear mind of dying. Nothing has value to my wits because I have no wits about me and I have no power. I allowed her to take it. And take it she did, played with it in her mouth and as I begin to regain my conscious mind the first thing that comes into focus is the sound of her swallowing that power. She slows. I pull back my hips, sensitive to her touch, almost doubling over but she does not want to let me out. It feels like she is trying to
suck me dry for fear of not knowing the next time she will have me in her mouth.

She rises and delicately pulls my pants up. As I lean back against the wall, legs trembling, she kisses me on the lips and puts her tongue in my mouth. I don’t want to touch her semen coated tongue even though it is my own secretion. As I pull away she becomes insistent that I kiss her, following my face with hers. Why does she want my mouth so badly? Is she trying to regain the supremacy she just relinquished? This war for the ability to dictate the pace of our life is quickly snowballing out of control.

She knows how to work my young body masterfully. Master to a slave, not master as a craftsman. She wraps her arm around me and in one vertical barrel roll switches our positions so that now her back is against the wall. She takes my hand and puts it up her skirt, underneath her panty hose and allows me to figure out the rest. I fumble to find where she has guided me, she is slippery. So slick that my hand becomes wet and I actually cannot do what she wants. Even this clumsy choreography excites her. She bucks against my hand at the same time she takes my lower lip between her teeth.

Inside of her feels like nothing I have ever felt. In my mind more indicative of slimy than wet. It’s not the first time I have done this but the trick of detaching my mind from my body worked so well I use it in reverse. As I feel the flesh that she uses to hold sway over me I might describe it as lumpy if I were writing a lab report. Bio lab is tomorrow. I think we’re dissecting earth worms. I wonder what the inside of the worm feels like. She stops kissing, wraps the crook of her elbow around my neck and draws me closer, draws me as she would like me to appear. A man, her man pleasuring her. I feel her breath in my ear. It’s hot
and smells of coffee. She wraps both of her arms around me now and holds on as though she would otherwise fall.

Who is in charge now? I’m almost completely immobile except for the cadenced flexing of my wrist. This is enough to put her in a place of swooning from sensual gratification. I’m stuck on this idea of clout. I don’t have it in her mouth and I don’t have it inside of her. Her hips move violently now in no discernible pattern or rhythm.

She bites my ear lobe harder and I mouth the word, “Ouch,” which she doesn’t hear. She tugs, I hear the diamond stud click against her teeth. Without any warning and without gurgling she stops and presses the length of her whole body against mine and groans uncomfortably loud in my ear. I keep my hand perfectly still. Her lips mouth the words, “Oh my God,” with, “God” slightly aspirated and silent by the “D”. I think its sweat on my hand but it’s probably a mixture of us. I don’t realize how high she has somehow elevated herself until her body collapses, once again two inches shorter than me.

“Wow, that was good,” she says, echoing in the pitch black of the tiny space.

As soon as I’m out of her clothing she pulls her skirt back down. I stand, uncomfortably waiting for some clue as to what should happen now. She slowly opens the door, peeking outside. I know it’s all clear when she swings it fully open. I take a moment to adjust myself and desperately want to inspect my clothing and hair to make sure that I don’t have any signs of what just happened.

I worry about someone pointing out my unzipped pants. I have visions of being asked, “What’s that?” while pointing to a spot of viscous semen, having somehow escaped her mouth. I scrutinize my appearance because I don’t know how I would
explain any discrepancy. Once out of the closet, she shifts to the banal, “Will you be stopping by after school?”

I say, “Yes,” but it’s another involuntary reaction.

“Well, I better get something to eat. The period’s almost over,” I say self-consciously. Our midday romp is over and it ends as unremarkably as it began.

I often wonder what it’s like to stand in front of a room full of students and speak as though everything is completely normal. I wonder what it’s like to teach French when you have the semen of a fifteen year old boy still in your mouth. She acts as though everything is fine, as though every student in the room is completely engaged, but all the while I focus on the fact that she just swallowed me. I wonder how many sperm are still swimming on the inside of her cheeks. If a drop of spittle happens to fly out of her mouth is she spilling my seed? I remember that being a sin from my catholic school days. Is she the definition of a sociopath?

I don’t see her chewing gum nor does she eat a Tic-Tac. Does she rinse her mouth in the water fountain? Does she feel as though she speaks French better having me coat her tongue? Every day she blows me in the back closet before greeting her students, “Bonjour classe,” with candor and cheer as though the words dance from the elation of fellatio. I think of these things and the imaginary power my thoughts invent makes me perversely happy. I don’t know if she thinks on this level and if she did, she would never tell me.

My phone rings from the time that I walk in the door until long after I’m supposed to be asleep and my parents begin to notice. The haste with which I bound up the stairs to answer it becomes the source of a joke, “Jimi, the ‘Bat Phone’ is ringing.” I find it funny at first, until I realize she calls me easily ten times an evening and innumerable times during the weekend.

It’s her voice so often on the other end of the phone that I’m surprised when it’s anyone else, slightly taken off guard to take Kevin’s call one Saturday afternoon. I can tell immediately that he is pissed off about something. I’m well acquainted with his moods but had recently forgiven him in light of what he’s managing. The voice that greets me is brooding, biting with sarcasm, his typical response to anger.

I’m certain he isn’t angry with me, so I ask confidently, “What’s wrong?”

He speaks but doesn’t answer directly, “You know it would’ve been me if I had taken French last year, right?”

“What do you mean?” my confusion genuine.

He repeats, “If I met her first it’d be me and not you.”

“Kevin, I have no idea what you are talking about,” I say after a long pause, realizing that his anger is, for some reason with me.

“Carla told me, Jim. She told me everything,” he spits. My pulse pounds in my throat, my need to sit overwhelms me,
and his betrayed silence roars on the other end. I hear my own breathing approach panting. I guard my secret so close that this news fills me with unimaginable fear. The one person I’ve ever even considered telling, albeit fleetingly was Kevin. However, she disarms me once again, making me feel distant from even my closest friend. I think for a second that he might be trying to shake my tree to see what falls out. I consider lying, my forte.

“What did she tell you?” I say barely above a whisper. Now that the secret is out to even just one person the whole world is so much closer to knowing. I’m embarrassed and proud at the same time. During his silence I remember he called her Carla and not Miss D., authenticating she has gotten to him first.

Kevin prides himself on being the best looking, best built kid in school. If not for the conceited attitude that belies it all, many more girls would be willing to date him. This is quite a blow to his fragile ego, Carla knowing Kevin is on the market but choosing me. But I’m ashamed too. Disgrace still my paramount emotion for falling into this situation. I cannot put my finger on why my reaction is guilt but that is unmistakably how I feel. He recounts every detail of our relationship, his words directly regurgitated from her. I wait for, “It was beautiful,” though the phrase never comes. He can’t bring himself to accept that he is not exploring this physical relationship with an older woman. What he doesn’t know from my silence is that he can have it. I would exchange his hushed admiration for my kidnapped childhood this very instant.

While still processing he fires, “You know you could have told me Jim. I’m supposed to be your best fucking friend.”

This is already so confusing that I take no pause, coming right back with misdirected anger, “She told me not to say anything to anyone. So I was only doing what she asked,” putting the
emphasis of the whole sentence on the word, “Anyone.” He says nothing, I imagine because she told him the same.

He returns to the only undisputable point he can argue, “Yeah, well you do know that if I’d taken French, it’d be me.”

“I know Kevin,” is all I can say, and all I wish.

That’s not where we are though. It’s me whether I want it or not. However, somewhere inside carrying my secret seems lighter, its weight distributed more evenly instead of cantilevered. I hang up, knowing he’s angry but hoping he can be a source of solace when Carla becomes overbearing.

The infinitesimal relief dissipates when her plan becomes transparent. It wasn’t to make me feel comfortable and it wasn’t to assuage her own guilt. She secured an ally. Only one week later, while existing as a kid, my mother yells, “Jimi, phone for you.”

I walk into the kitchen and say, “Who is it?” When she tells me, “Kevin,” it makes sense since the ringer in my room is off. I leave the living room where I was playing cards with my sister, pick up the phone and say, “Hey, what’s up?”

Without, “Hello,” he scolds, “Jim, go pick up your fucking phone. Carla is trying to call you. She called me to find out where you were. I can’t have her calling my house looking for you. My father is going to get pissed.”

I feel ill.

My mother is sitting at the table, three feet away. I hear him clearly. Can anyone else? The insecurity makes my skin burn where my collar lies on my neck. I cannot answer without incriminating myself, “Ok, I will.” I remain on the line in silence, hoping he won’t’ hang up long enough for me to think of what to tell my mom.

Once my lie is prepared, “Ok dude, thanks for calling. I’ll talk to you later.” I try to leave the room without her asking but fail.

“I have his English book from the other day. Some project we were working on and he was reminding me to bring it to school on Monday. I guess I didn’t hear my, phone, I mean I guess I didn’t hear the Bat Phone,” I respond with a nervous chuckle. I hope to deflect any misgivings by poking fun at myself.

I walk up to my room and as soon as I move the black, oblong button from OFF to LOW it rings. It’s Carla’s, “I’m sorry to bother you but I just miss you so much and I had to talk to you. I know you said you were with your family but I thought I would call to say hello and that I love you,” speaking so quickly I can hardly understand. I’m tethered to this phone and this room and this woman who should have no sway over me in the hovel of my parent’s house.

“Why did you call Kevin looking for me?” I ask, ignoring her outburst.

“Well, honey, I couldn’t get a hold of you so I called him to see if he heard from you. I didn’t ask him to call you.”

There is no escaping her.

It’s a Friday in March and I’m sitting in my business class. As far as my parents know I’m taking a bus to watch a Forensics competition in preparation for our own. Miss Danza is the chaperone so my parents have no reservations. The real trip I will be taking is to Carla’s apartment, late into the evening. It’s seventh period now and I’m starting to dismay that the day is coming to an end. At the height of my self-pity the intercom system buzzes, “Please send James Cunneely to the office,” mispronouncing my name. I can’t imagine why I would be paged to the office but am happy to take a walk.