Chapter 3 Ex Number One
Ex Number One
Marc
You can still hear the cringe prom music from the school hall, even if it is a bit faint.
The corridor is dark, as is the classroom we’re in.
It’s kind of creepy. Like a scene from a horror movie before the two teens who’ve snuck off get murdered.
Marc says it’s better to keep the room dark, though.
And Marc’s smart. Or at least he says he’s smart, and people seem to agree.
Apparently, no one should be coming this way, but I can’t help but feel nervous every time I hear the slamming of a door echo from somewhere in the school.
It’s an old, pile-of-shit building. The roof blew off one winter.
Nothing is soundproof. Which is part and parcel of why I feel about as comfortable as I would in a one-to-one with our pervy careers adviser in the library, but here I am.
“For god’s sake, Natalie! Would you relax a bit?”
I want to bite back and ask Marc how I’m supposed to relax with Latin textbooks digging into my back.
He has me on the teacher’s desk, and he’s standing between my legs.
One hand is grabbing at my chest, feeling more padded bra than anything else, and the other is between my legs.
I’ve never really stopped to reflect on how I’d feel if my younger sister was dating someone like Marc.
But perhaps that’s intentional. Perhaps I know I’d then like him less.
“I’m relaxed,” I lie. And he’s obviously heard the lie.
His nostrils flare for a second and that faraway look glazes over his blue eyes.
I hate it when he gets that look—it always means he’s pulling away from me.
And he does, physically. Suddenly, the skin on my body where his hands were feels ice-cold, almost as cold as the look he’s giving me, dark curls falling into his eyes, dark brows stitched together.
God, he’s so hot. He’s so hot and he’s mine.
Well, I’m his, and he’s not with anyone else, and that’s the same thing, really.
“I’m relaxed,” I insist.
“Is this about Becky? What she said?”
I feel my body stiffen at the mere mention of her, picturing her stupid face and her new burned-toast glow.
She’s still furious that she tanned that dark and that streaky.
She swears up and down that someone switched her tan out for the wrong color in her gym bag, but I don’t know who’d be dumb enough to risk her going off on them.
“Because I thought it was really out of line,” he continues. “I can’t believe people still say stuff like that. I mean—”
“It’s fine.”
“You know I’m not with you just ’cause you’re Black, though, right? I mean, you don’t even look it.”
I’m dumb enough at this age not to catch the insult.
“Really, Marc. I’m fine. Like, I’m not even thinking about that.
Come here.” I tug on his shirt to bring him close to me again.
The material feels good beneath my fingers.
Thick, good quality, like the shirts Dad used to wear to work when he still had a job.
They’re in a box somewhere in the attic now.
I found a load one day, and Mom caught me sniffing at them to see if there was any of him left in the fibers.
She totally freaked out. They’re probably still there, getting dusty and damp.
Marc’s lips are on mine again, and I try to stop thinking about Dad.
It turns out it’s not too hard. Marc tends to transform into Tentacle Boy when we kiss, his hands going everywhere.
It’s a lot. You know, the sort of jabby, windshield-wiper tongue action.
I used to think it was because I got him so excited, but now I sort of think that he just doesn’t know what he’s doing.
Speaking of not knowing what he’s doing, and speaking of jabby, his hand is now in my underwear doing something I imagine is meant to feel good but feels incredibly uncomfortable.
I want to tell him to stop, but I don’t want him to pull away again.
That feeling changes when I hear his zip come down.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He pulls out a shiny packet from his pocket and grins. The cocktail of Pimm’s, whisky, vodka, and gin churns in my stomach. I’m beginning to think Emily’s idea of taking a little off the top of each bottle in her parents’ liquor cabinet wasn’t such a smart one after all.
“Here?” I ask, not quite believing it. “Now?”
The excitement in his eyes is snuffed out.
“Look, Natalie, you know I’m not gonna make you do anything you don’t want to do.
” It doesn’t sound comforting. “I think, maybe, though, I got this wrong, like…I dunno. I just thought you and me made more sense than maybe we really do. And it’s not what Becky said.
I guess, maybe, you’re just a bit too…too uptight for me. ”
It’s a strange sort of feeling, but it’s almost like halfway through the dumping, I stepped out of myself, and now I’m watching this happen to someone else from a dark corner of the classroom.
It’s easier to do that sometimes; disappear while someone is trying to hurt you.
You can’t feel the blows land if you’re not really in your body. Another choice life lesson.
I want to tell Marc he’s wrong. I want to show him I’m not a silly kid. I want to prove to the other girls that not only can I take Marc Baxter, I can keep him, too. But before I can get a word out, he’s already edging away from me.
“I’m sorry, Natalie. To do it like this, I mean. Here. I just—you know…”
I don’t know. Prick.
“I guess I’ll just—” And the coward doesn’t even finish the sentence. He just slinks off.
Perhaps if that’d been it, if dumping me at prom was the worst of it, maybe things would have been okay. But that humiliation wasn’t enough for Marc. No. He had to push me further. Had to make things worse.
In the end, I was sorry for what happened next. But Marc was sorrier.