Falling for You

I’m the school slut. It’s a title I wear, not proudly, but because it’s what’s expected of me. Everyone at St. A’s High School knows my bio-mom’s a whore—a real screw-you-for-money whore— that slept with the physics teacher last week.

Thank you, Facebook, for tagging me in that humiliating article.

Not.

Bio-mom was arrested for all of two seconds before making bail thanks to her pimp and the John she got caught with, he also happens to be my first period teacher this year. So, on top of the normal whispers spread about me on the daily, that mess is going around too.

It’s fine.

I’m used to my name being in everyone’s mouth. It’s been that way since the third grade. Back then, people talked about my dirty nails, how skinny I was, and how my best friend was a boy. In high school, the daily gossip changed to where I moved to, what alleged drugs I was on, and eventually who I had spread my legs for. When the rumor started that I gave a killer blowjob for fifty bucks, no one doubted it. Why would they? I’m the girl with a whore for a mom. The girl from the wrong side of the tracks.

Literally.

There’s the rich side of town where my classmates live, the good side, the tracks, and then that side. It’s like the shadowy place in the Lion King Simba was warned to stay away from. Yeah...bio-mom lives there.

Anyway, not long after that rumor about me started, I figured what the hell. They say when life gives you lemons, make lemonade. I was given stupid, horny boys. So, I made money.

For the record, I’ve never actually touched anybody. At first, I turned everyone who approached me down. But there were a select few I eventually said yes to. The most selfish, conceited, disrespectful guys in our school got special treatment.

Underneath the shadows of the stadium bleachers, they dropped their pants. Exposed their less-than-exciting-junk to me. And then I kicked them straight in the balls. Those jerks fell to their knees, cursing my name while I took all the cash from their wallets. It was the perfect hustle.

Anyway, all of this is why I’m being stared down by Tad Parker. Captain of the baseball team, running back on the football team, and total tool. Bloodshot eyes narrow on my face, expecting a different answer to the question asked this morning.

“It’s still a hard no, Tad.” I stop walking and cross my arms.

While I’d love to take the pretty boy for all he’s got, I’m trying to turn a new leaf and make the most of what’s left of my senior year. I don’t expect to fix my reputation, but I’m trying to change the way I see myself. Which means no more pretend illicit acts for money.

Tad rolls his bloodshot eyes and pulls a brown leather wallet, that probably costs as much as a year’s tuition, from his back pocket. He thumbs through his cash, offering more twenties than I’ve held in my entire life. “Come on, Piper. I’ll make it worth your while. Five hundred. Right now for five minutes in the bathroom.”

Tad’s a good looking guy, if you’re into that classic blond-haired, blue-eyed, prince charming wannabe look with the attitude of Gaston. He has no shortage of self-entitled princesses throwing themselves at him.

I shake my head and push his arm back. My checking account may be teetering on the edge of zero, but I’m not this desperate. “Why not hit up one of the JV cheerleaders. They’d jump at the chance to get tangled up with you. For free.”

“Because they aren’t Piper fucking Lovelace. Now come on.” Tad’s hand curls around my arm. He squeezes, pulling me towards the stadium bathrooms.

One Mississippi.

My airway constricts. Bats swarm in my stomach, threatening to bring up the vending machine cinnamon roll I had after fourth period. I absolutely detest being touched; it sets off a catalyst of reactions that steadily get worse. My one and only thought at this point is to make Tad let go.

I dig my heels into the ground and yank my arm back, but my efforts are useless. I try to pry his fingers off me, punch him, kick him in the leg. Nothing I do makes a difference. Tad’s too strong. Even with my best attempt at a struggle, he drags me clear across the parking lot almost effortlessly.

Two Mississippi.

My hands tremble, sending vibrations up my arms and throughout my body. I need help. I hate asking for help almost as much as I hate being touched, but I don’t have much choice. I look to my left and then my right, but there’s no one in sight. No one to hear my screams. I try anyway, opening my mouth to yell, but nothing comes out. This can’t be happening. I swallow the tiny bit of saliva in my bone dry throat and try again.

Nothing but air.

Beads of sweat drip down my neck as the feeling of impending doom lingers. The memory of a crooked grin I’ll never forget flashes before my eyes, amping the intensity of my breakdown.

I spent a good part of this year in counseling to learn how to manage my panic attacks. Finding ways to keep everyone from noticing my freak outs. Tad makes me feel like I’m trapped, watching from the outside, as I lose all control.

Three Mississippi.

Logically I know it’s been more than three seconds. It has to have been, but I’m stuck in a time warp. Everything happens at a snail slow pace yet lightning fast at the same time.

Tad pushes me against a wall near the entrance of the girl’s bathroom, just outside of the football stadium. He lets go of my arm and presses his hands on either side of me. I realize that this situation probably isn’t going to end well, but my anxiety begins to subside. As close as Tad is, he’s not touching me anymore.

I can think again.