Chapter 1 #2
But I followed my stepfather’s directives, and enrolled at St. George High.
It’s okay. It’s the local public school, and doesn’t cost money to attend, as long as you live in the neighborhood.
Lionel’s mansion is within the catchment area, so in the mornings, I drive myself to high school and then come home in the afternoons to an empty house.
It’s lonely, but things could be worse. At least I’ve gotten myself away from the chaos of Manhattan, even if I miss the city sometimes.
But even if I don’t pursue chaos, it seems that chaos pursues me.
Sure, I felt a little bloated when I got up this morning, but I figured it could be the cheese fries and soda I had last night.
Don’t get me wrong because Mrs. Musk cooked a delicious meal of guinea fowl and sautéed veggies, which I ate by myself in the elegantly appointed dining room.
But a girl gets hungry late at night sometimes, so I decided to order some Domino’s as a midnight snack, and while the pizza went down easy, the fries did me dirty the next day.
Especially when I got to school. My stomach hurt intermittently in the morning, and seemed to worsen as the hours passed.
But I managed to control it with Tums, or so I thought.
Yet later in the afternoon during art class, I felt something drip between my thighs.
Suddenly, I knew that the food wasn’t the problem at all.
Instead, Aunt Flo had paid me a visit and quickly, I stood up and surreptitiously tugged at the heavy canvas painter’s smock draped over my shoulders.
“I’ll be right back!” I called to no one in particular.
Then, with a merry wave, I scurried off to the women’s restroom, only to discover that it was far too late.
Sure, the school has free tampons and maxi-pads for girls to use, but that’s not going to do me any good, seeing that there’s a tell-tale red splotch on the back of my white skirt.
It wasn’t just a tiny red splotch either.
It was a big ole blob, like a cherry tomato splattered on pristine snow.
Oh shit. What am I supposed to do? I briefly consider skulking home, but I need to retrieve my bag and art supplies from the classroom first. Even worse, the painter’s smock doesn’t hide my behind and my embarrassing “accident.” I suppose I could take the smock off, and tie it around my waist, but that seems highly peculiar.
Seeing me dressed like a raggedy hobo will give everything away.
That’s when an idea strikes. Again, I admit that I wasn’t thinking clearly, whether from desperation, confusion, or the generally bloated depression that comes with a woman’s period.
But I decide to stride back into the art room like nothing’s wrong.
Then, I grab my paintbrush as well as some paint, and smile winsomely.
“I’m going out to the shed,” I announce merrily, again to no one in particular. “Be right back!”
Of course, not a head turns because the art crowd takes itself very seriously.
Mrs. Cohen and Leandra continue to pore over a still life in the back, while the rest of the class sketches with almost painful concentration.
Perfect. I scamper out of the classroom before making a left and quickly heading down a path to the back of the school where there’s a dilapidated shed.
It’s next to the track, and they probably store all sorts of sports equipment inside.
No matter. It’s a sad-looking thing, with gray peeling paint, rusted wood boards, and a sagging roof.
I’ve heard more than one member of administration complain about the shed’s sorry state, and I’m here to solve their problem for them.
Smiling a bit, I take off my painter’s smock before throwing it on the ground.
Then, wearing my normal clothes, I begin throwing paint joyously at the shed like I’m Jackson Pollack.
It turns out the way you’d expect, with uneven splotches of color everywhere, including zig-zag black stripes, bright blobs of yellow, and smears of cerulean blue.
Then, I up the ante and lift the entire can of red paint in my hands before hurling it with all of my strength onto the shed.
Perfect . A huge splash of red splatters all over the door, and I use that opportunity to splash myself with some of the red paint too, before wiping my hands on my dress so that there are red streaky smears all over my clothes.
Wah-la! Now, no one can tell that actually, the red splotch on my rear-end is a period stain, and not the result of my artistic endeavors.
Unfortunately, Coach Goni lumbers around the corner before catching sight of me.
Our Director of Athletics is about four hundred pounds and shaped like a massive bowling ball.
I don’t know how someone like him even walks, much less leads the school’s sports program, but maybe he was much more trim when he took the job twenty years ago.
Regardless, I’m in big ca-ca now because when Coach Goni sees what I’m doing, he charges forth like a raging bull.
“ What the fuck?!?! ” he screams. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m just helping to re-paint,” I manage with a cheery smile while holding my brush up.
“I’m an art student, and I decided to take my work in a different direction.
Instead of working with the traditional easel and still life, I’ve decided to beautify our school— oooph !
” I manage before Coach Goni barrels into me, knocking me to the ground.
“ Stop !” the massive man screams, pinning me in place. “I don’t give a shit about your art project. Stop defacing the school’s property, you limp-wristed artistic douchebag!”
“Hey, who are you calling an artistic douchebag!” I howl in reply, struggling to get out from underneath his mass. “I’m not limp-wristed either! I’m just left-handed!”
“Coach, Coach!” another voice intercedes in a panicked tone. I feel, rather than see, an assistant coach run up to us. “Get off of her! Whatever she did, you can’t go around knocking people down!”
“We fundraised for that sports equipment!” Coach Goni bawls in return while being helped to his feet. “All that shit is new, and it’s probably been ruined by the paint dripping everywhere. It’s something on order of one hundred thousand dollars of equipment”
“But maybe it didn’t get into the shed,” the assistant coach soothes. “It’s fine. I’m sure all that stuff is fine.”
He produces a key from his belt, and unlocks the door to the structure. It swings open unsteadily, and to my horror, there are splatters of paint on what look like football pads, soccer balls, a goal post of some sort, as well as random foam blocks.
“Oh shit. It did get on the equipment,” the assistant coach murmurs. “Goddamn, this is a fucking mess. Let me grab a hose. Maybe we can get it off before it dries.”
With that, he scampers off, leaving me and Coach Goni alone, staring at each other with enmity.
“ What the fuck were you thinking?!?!” the massive man hisses again. “Do you know how much equipment you’ve ruined with your fucking graffiti?”
“It’s not graffiti, it’s art!” I hiss right back, my face going red. “Don’t you know the difference? I’m expressing myself via a legitimate artistic medium.”
Unfortunately, the tomato-faced coach isn’t having it.
Without a second look, he reaches for the walkie-talkie in his belt and speaks to someone.
“Administration, this is Goni. I’m coming in with a criminal ,” he snaps, shooting me another disgusted look.
“Yeah, this woman has just defaced school property on the order of hundreds of thousands of dollars. Yeah, I’ll bring her in.
No, I have no idea whether she’s a student at St. George’s. She’s just some random troublemaker.”
Then, he clicks “off” and stares at me like I’m the devil incarnate.
“Let’s go,” he snaps. “You have a lot to answer for.”
My heart sinks because I know they’re going to call my stepfather, and Lionel’s not going to be happy when he hears how I’ve defaced school property.
My insides quiver as my thighs press together.
I haven’t seen the man of the house in a while now, so what will it be like to see him in the flesh again?
I should be scared, and I am, but at the same time, I can’t wait to see the handsome man because I know the billionaire can handle the problem . .. and me.