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Schooled by a Senior
Author: K. Webster

Monday

 

I’m a bastard.

This whole goddamned town reminds me daily with their upturned noses and silent sneers. Fatherless. A poor kid in a rich man’s world. Out of place.

It used to bother me. For the first fourteen years of my life, it truly fucking did. There was a time I’d let those other kids tease me or pick on me. They’d throw punches at the kid whose mother didn’t work at all but instead lived off the money of her baby daddy—a daddy I had no clue about. I didn’t even know what his name was.

By the time I turned fifteen, I’d had enough.

Brock Henderson teased me one too many times about my mom being a whore, and I lost it. Sent my fist right through his nose and leveled his ass in the school gym. When he’d gotten back up with blood spurting from his now crooked nose, he narrowed his eyes at me and told me, You’ve got balls, kid. And from that moment on, he and I were friends. I no longer took shit from anyone else, and with a kid like Brock as a friend, life became tremendously easy.

I’d like to say that at eighteen, life is perfect. That I’m happy and eager to be going off to Dartmouth along with my buddy Brock. That my future is bright and that one day I’ll meet the right girl and be a father to my own children…and they’ll know my fucking name.

But I’m not happy.

Life isn’t perfect.

I’m furious and always raging on the inside. The need to know who my father is consumes me. Not so I can become his friend or forge a relationship with the loser. No, I want to punish him. I want to find the rich shithead and ruin his life. Show him you can’t ignore the sperm-come-to-life you shot into some random woman.

That sperm will come back to fucking haunt you.

“Aut. Aut. Aut. Author.”

At hearing my full name, my entire body thrums to life with fury. My dumbass mother wanted to name me Arthur but apparently the woman was better at getting knocked up by deadbeats than spelling. Another thorn in my side. Having to explain to everyone my name is pronounced Arthur but spelled like Author. Most people call me Aut—pronounced Ott—unless they don’t know me. Fuck, sometimes I want to legally change my name.

“What?” I snarl and jerk around to glare at Brock.

He laughs and quirks up a dark eyebrow. “What’s got your panties in a wad this morning? You on the rag? Should I have brought some Ben and Jerry’s as a peace offering, bitch?”

I roll my eyes and flip his trig book shut, knowing it will annoy him. “Fuck off and don’t say that shit, or I’ll break your nose again.”

Irritation mars his features as he dutifully opens his book back to the page we’re supposed to be working on. Brock is like me. We’re studious as hell but we’ll also beat anyone’s ass who looks at us the wrong way. Nobody messes with either of us. In fact, everyone wants to be us. The chicks certainly want to be with us or on us…

“Can you break it straight this time? Every time I look in the mirror, I think of you,” he grumbles.

I smirk. “Do you whack off when you’re thinking of me?”

Before he can answer, our first period trigonometry teacher, Mr. Ludkin, comes waddling in. Ludkin is old as fuck—probably in his early seventies and eccentric as hell. He drinks his coffee black and his hair is white. We’ve learned more about his garden gnomes than we have about actual useful information that will help us in college. His tests come straight from the book, so Brock and I call this our fuck-off class because we can literally text each other the entire time and not miss a damn thing.

The day goes by quickly. Second period AP Physics. Third period Mandarin III. Fourth period is another fuck-off class—gym. Lunch off campus is next. Fifth is AP US Government and Politics. And finally, sixth period, my favorite, AP English.

Mrs. Lovell is in her late sixties and snappy. She knows everything—believe me, I’ve tested her—and isn’t afraid to put anyone in their place. After a few weeks of badgering her at the beginning of the school year, we sort of came to an agreement. She’s smart as fuck, and I’m almost there. I soon became her trusted grading assistant and official carrier of shit to her car after school each day.

I stare out the window from my desk as I wonder how she gets all her crap into the school in the first place. Personally, I think she just likes making me work. But that’s not true, either. Over my entire senior year, I’ve watched her health decline. She was once vibrant and actually pretty funny. Now, her skin is sickly grey, her hair is patchy and thin, and her smiles are fewer and further between with each passing day. The old bat refuses to talk about what’s wrong, but I’ve deduced it’s cancer or some other deadly disease. She isn’t simply aging. My grandma aged and did it quite gracefully—over many, many years. Mrs. Lovell is sick. One simply doesn’t get old in a matter of months. Only an illness could take someone like her downhill so fast. Last Friday, she could barely stand without effort and put on a movie instead of lecturing.

“Hi, Aut,” a sweet voice purrs from behind me.

I look over my shoulder to see Dahna blinking innocently at me. She and I have fucked a few times, but despite her rockin’ body with tits as big as melons, she’s kind of boring in the sack. Just lies there with her fingers tangled in my hair trying to make eye contact. I don’t fucking do eye contact. The problem was solved when I started fucking her over tables and shit. Whatever I could find. Hard to make eye contact when your face is smashed into your father’s expensive living room furniture.

“Hey,” I tell her and turn my head to look out into the parking lot. Usually I can see Mrs. Lovell’s old, grey Honda from here. Today, the spot remains empty. An uneasiness settles in the pit of my stomach.

“Daddy’s going out of town for business not this Friday but the next and taking Mom with. My little brother is staying with a friend. I’ll have the house to myself. I thought maybe you and I could…” She drones on but my attention is no longer on her. My attention is instead on the sleek, black Audi TT coupe that whips into Mrs. Lovell’s assigned spot. The old woman doesn’t splurge on new slacks despite how worn they are, refuses to buy Starbucks here at the school because it’s too expensive and therefore brings her own coffee, and has driven the same car since she drove it off the lot back in ‘95. There’s no way that’s her car.

“So, what do you say, Autty? You, me, some wine coolers, and your cock in my mouth?”

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