“Oh, this is just so awful. Tony, this is the third one in three months.”
“And there was one in Summit, too.”
“What a way to go out.”
Text from Maria <3 <3: OMG!! Baby, you poor thing. I’ll be right over. I’m just finishing up dinner now. Love you <3
I went down into the basement and opened the garage door and Maria jumped into my arms like I had returned from war, kissing my neck and cheek—I instinctively sunk my claws into her ass.
“Oh, I see you’re handling this well.”
“Let’s go in your car,” I said, biting her neck. “Britney is in the basement watching a movie.”
“Victor, you can talk to me about it. Stop repressing your feelings.”
“My feelings aren’t what’s being repressed…”
“What?”
“Come on, just follow me.” I grabbed her by the hand and led her to the SUV parked in the driveway.
“Victor, stop it. Your friend’s dad killed himself and you’re upset. Why won’t you talk to me about it?”
“Fine! Okay, fine. I’ll talk about it if you blow me while I do.”
She was like Suzanne Somers reacting to a misogynistic inquiry from her horny roommate: “Ohhh, Jack.”
I sat in the backseat, pants around my ankles, as Maria plateaued out from my waist, snug between the captain’s chairs.
“You know how upset I was when Mr. Geiger died, right?”
“Mhmm.”
“And how I used to cry about my Mum Mum and Nana dying?”
“Uhn uh.”
“No?”
Pop! “Nope.”
“Oh, yeah, I used to watch videos about, like, dinosaurs dying, and they’d be crying and then I’d start crying and my Mum Mum would tell me everything was alright while she had a Dewars with Bill Clinton.”
“Hhmm?”
“No, not that Bill Clinton. Could you imagine?”
“Mm ehm.”
“My mom wouldn’t let him in our house. You should hear her go on about Obama…”
Pop! “Victor, what does this have to do with Paxton’s dad jumping in front of a train?”
I knew my continued pleasuring was contingent on my ability to share my feelings on my friend’s dead father, so I ranted: “What doesn’t it have to do with our current political climate?” I pushed her head back down as I continued with Mussolinian ferocity. “The two-party system is broken. I don’t understand why everyone at school is going crazy over Obama. Well, what the shit is he going to do over there in Iraq? End the war? You know we used to think Kader was from Iraq? You don’t know Kader, do you? I haven’t seen him in years. I just friended him on Facebook, actually.”
“Viigtur.”
“I’m getting there. Okay, well, Paxton was—see, Paxton was the one who would spread that. And I listened to him even though I knew Paxton was always lyin’.”
Pop! “Okay, I’m going to stop because you clearly just invited me over so I’d suck your dick and you know I have a double-header tomorrow in Belleville…”
“Okay! I’ll tell you the real reason I’m not that upset about Paxton.” She put my penis back in her mouth, but with a cock-eyed look that said I know what you’re up to, Ferraro.
“The other day, Paxton, who has really just turned into a liberal douche in the past couple of years, corrected me on my usage of ‘black’ over ‘African-American’ and then proceeded—get this—then he proceeded to call Matt Dershowtiz ‘so autistic’ when he dribbled the ball off his foot during gym.”
“Mmmm.”
“Right? I swear I wanted to knock him the fuck out right there. And they’re all saying it now. Pierce Stone says it with such vigor, it’s like he rediscovers it every time it pops into his brain! Fuck, I wish we brought Fight Club back.”
I imagined knocking Pierce Stone into the garage cement with a warhammer (the rules for Fight Club had changed) and bludgeoning him until he was a pulp, and I started to come.
“Mmm ehhmmm.” She smacked my thigh in frustration. “Hey! Where was my warning?”
Text from Dad: Hey, you guys coming in? Maria eat yet? No braciole in Tempe!
The photo spread through the hallways of Millburn High School like wildfire. My RAZR started to vibrate in my pocket during third period, and within a few minutes all the guys in the class were muffling laughs and gasps and mouthing “check your phone” to classmates across the room.
“Yo, pssttt, Ferraro,” said Mitch Farber over my shoulder. “Yo dude, check your phone.”
Mr. Peters, a tenured teacher who had been at Millburn since before my father arrived thirty years ago, was reading a book by Al Franken as Higher Learning played on a roll-cart television set and hadn’t noticed an iota of the buzzing hubbub. I checked my phone:
Text from El Dominicano (Jabie)
My jaw dropped and I, too, had to muffle a gasp. I wish I could say that I immediately looked away in disgust, but that simply didn’t happen. Before my eyes was a naked Michaela Silves with the handle of a hairbrush tucked snug up inside of her—the bristles bursting from her loins like a porcupine—as she stood in front of a filthy mirror and bathroom vanity.
Text to El Dominicano: Da fuck man? Who sent u dis?
Text from El Dominicano: Glassman
Text to GlassInTheAssMan: Yo wht da fuck. Who sent you tht pic?
Text from GlassInTheAssMan: Pierce.
The bell rang and I berserked out the door and down the hall, knocking underclassmen into lockers like a hockey player, in search of Pierce Stone.
“Hey Vic!” Karl shouted as I blew by him in a blind fury. “Vic! Vic?! What the fuck?”
I saw red. I popped my head into random classrooms—AP Bio, Pre-calc, Global Issues—“Yes, Mr. Ferraro, can I help you?” Nothing. I suddenly remembered that the Jew Crew would show up to fourth period late because they’d cram into Jared Rosenblatt’s SUV hidden on a side street in Little Italy to hit the “volcano” (an airbag-like method for inhaling THC that prevents the nefarious marijuana stench from sticking to your clothing) in order to enjoy lunch completely torched. I booked it for the exit and could hear wet, mucus-filled sobs emanating from behind the principal’s closed office door.
My orcish
