I can't believe I aced Mr. Kirby's final. Actually, yes, I can. Studied my butt off for it and that's the one I was worried about. Wonder how Roxanne-Doe-Eyes fared; she probably got the same grade even though all she does in class is admire her latest manicure. It's so obvious she has Mr. Kirby wrapped around her airbrushed pinky finger from the way his face lights up as if her boobs are about to pop her blouse every time she raises her hand. No matter. After this week, I won't have to set eyes on either one of them. Sunday is graduation and then I'll be free of Van Cortlandt High and its unfair-advantage class flirts forever.
My phone beeps with a text from Vonnie. She wants me to come over and take a look at her term paper. I text her back and we agree to meet Diandra at her place afterward.
There's also a message from Bryn that bears a photo of a half-naked couple in heat. The June sun of my mood recoils behind a thundercloud's black breath.
Like a masochist, I look.
Marc and Vicki are all over each other, competing in a mutual who-can-grab-the-most-booty contest. Must be from the Winslows' pool party last weekend.
Vicki's bikini pattern is Hideous Jungle, her behind is about eight sizes too big for the seat and her profile angle reminds me that, somewhere in cyberspace, there has to be a side-by-side montage of Vicki and a turkey vulture bearing the caption 'Separated At Birth.' Rumor is, she blew the choir director to get her slot in the soprano section, a rumor everyone pretty much believes because she's tone-deaf. And no, that's not jealousy talking. None of the girls around her can get through a performance without wearing earplugs.
None of my friends can believe that after six months together, Marc would dump me for that face-to-stop-a-clock cow.
But Marc is grinning at her, not the camera. He's besotted. There is no cure for that.
After deleting Bryn's bad news--and nearly deleting its bearer--I can't put away the phone just yet. From my screensaver smiles the revitalizing jet stream that flings Hurricane Vicki out to sea. Anton Sivrett's iconic Midori-melon gaze is my instant high. Even though we've never met (and, at twenty-seven, he's got nine years and twenty-four days on me), his mouthwatering lips part expectantly for mine. His first hit song is my ringtone and the ticket stub from his White Plains concert adorns my dresser mirror.
I blow Anton a kiss and tenderly tuck him into my backpack.
Geez, too bad I'm not going to be able to use my phone when I leave for vacation next week. Aunt Denise's summer cottage is up near Quonnicut Light in Moose Bridge Harbor, about four hundred miles or so from us but on another planet technologically. I mean, there's no internet provider in the region and the cell service is such crap you have to drive half a day to Brunswick for a decent signal. The only way I'll be able to keep in touch with Vonnie or anyone else back home is via Aunt Denise's ancient landline and rotary-dial phone. Oh, joy.
Before I leave, I'm going to have to find another way for Anton to keep me company while I'm in the back of beyond.
***
"Bryn can be such a bitch," Diandra declares, setting a bowl of farm-stand pears on the sun porch table. "Forget them. Chaz Stewart seems pretty interested in asking you out. I could have Duane drop a hint if you like."
I'm beginning to regret this stop on the tour. Vonnie rolls her eyes. Chaz is terribly smart--got accepted for pre-law at Northwestern--but boring, and if I want immature, the 'Gong Show' is more entertaining.
"Give it up, Dee, " I sigh, exasperated. "Last week, Chaz drove a group of us from choir practice and what does he do when I'm the second to last to be dropped? Starts going back and forth with Steve Frawley, making up nicknames for Mr. McNamara after they caught him picking his nose during 'Face The Wind.' Utterly hysterical. I'd rather be single, thank you."
Not that I'll claim a MENSA membership or anything, but my sights are set higher than for someone stuck at that level of social buffoonery, a fact apparently lost on Diandra since she's been hooking up with Duane. In her own mind, she's become an expert on everyone else's sex life or lack of. How often do I have to tell her that I'm the one who is going to decide when I'll share that part of myself, and with whom?
Vonnie comes to my rescue. "Teri's saving herself for her Adonis...spelled A-N-T-O-N," she recites with histrionic flair. We all laugh, the tension broken. They know full well I have no desire to meet him in person, ever. Why risk ruining the mystique?
The mention of his name sends backstage-groupie ripples of excitement where I haven't touched myself in ages. Neither the time nor the place. Cool it, Teri.
Conversation shifts to where it belongs--summer plans. Vonnie has two more courses to finish before starting at Brookhaven College, and Diandra is joining Duane and his family in Dennisport for a month. As for me, I'm looking forward to a summer at the beach, my last one before starting my new job in the fall.
"Girl, I won't be envying you one bit." Vonnie gives me a sympathetic twist of her curly head. "Out in the middle of nowhere, dodging moose, water cold enough to turn you into a popsicle, no streaming movies or internet porn..."
"And Aunt Denise still has over-the-air tv, can you believe it?" I chime in cheerfully, remembering the cute weatherman on the Bangor station who brightened last summer's forecasts.
Diandra scowls. "I'd say that's a prison sentence, but even prisoners get cable." She buffs and bites a ripe Bartlett, and her eyes close in contentment. "Mmm, these are so good. My sister gets 'em at a stand on the way back from Newport. You've gotta try one."
"Oh, I couldn't. That's too long a drive. You enjoy," I protest before continuing, "I love Quonnicut Beach. It's within walking distance of the cottage and it's not costing me anything to stay there. So I can make a few allowances."
And I'll be away from Marc and Vicki's makeout selfies too, but Vonnie and Dee have already heard enough of that.
Vonnie snatches another pear from the table. "I'll have yours, then." She carves and samples a dripping slice. "Mm-mm-mmm."
"You might meet someone up there," Diandra slurps, in matchmaking mode again. "Have some fun for a change. You work too hard. Experiment a little before you have to settle down."
I have no plans either to settle or settle down. All I want is to explore the scenic outdoors, dig into a paperback during the rainy days and find a place near my bed for Anton's most simmering photo. Whatever this holiday brings, I plan to make the most of it.
While Vonnie isn't looking, I snatch a wedge from her plate, pop it in my mouth, and let its succulent freshness melt between tongue and palate. Dee's right about one thing--these are worth the trip.
***
For us seniors, this is our last day, which means early dismissal. On the walk home I tell Vonnie I'll call her later this afternoon, then we part ways at the usual spot.
I pick up the pace and break into a run. The stress of exams and choral programs has kept me from indulging certain other, um, impulses for nearly two weeks. Now those neglected desires are piling up like the Friday-night feed at a Thruway tollgate.
The driveway is empty and my insides give a jubilant kick. I turn the key in the back door and am greeted with a soundless vacancy on the other side--tacit permission to do what I need to do about this crazy horniness log-jamming my teenaged loins. I make a beeline for my room, drop the backpack and practically leap out of the light blue capris, leaving the hi-cuts in place. On the edge of the bed, I spread a doubled beach towel to keep the duvet in its pristine state.
Next, I hunt for the not-so-little helper to subdue the randiness. I pull the dresser drawer open and inhale spiced orange and balsam while rifling stacks of folded, faded t-shirts. In seconds, the secret weapon is lifted from its laundered-cotton nest. It resembles an oversize vocal microphone, a parody of something Anton wielded onstage in White Plains when his headset failed. He hadn't missed a beat. I was so proud of him.
Anton's Mic. Perfect. Yes, that's what I'll call it.
My older cousin, Sharyn, got it for me as an eighteenth birthday present. This is only the third time I've used it. The first time, I came in less than a minute and it didn't feel nearly as satisfying as using fingers. It's such a turn-on to try different methods, though. Perhaps more practice will yield better results.
Miniature handsprings run tumbling passes between my legs as I grasp the smooth, tapered shaft in my hand and remember it pressed up against my...oooh. These straining hormones need to be let off the leash, and soon.
With the click of a switch, the large white bulb protruding from the thick end whirs into a whipped-cream blur. I perch on the toweled bed edge, feet on the floor, knees an open invitation. It's a safe bet the ignored dresser mirror is catching my face looking downward with intent, hair tumbled forward, shoulders tense with concentration. Carefully I aim the shimmying protuberance over the taut triangle of white cotton and apply it just above where below-the-belt cleavage would begin.
Wow. Right away it feels...wow. Electric. I lean back onto the bed and reap instant sensory benefits. Oooh. What a delicious invention. If the ceiling had eyes, it would see a nearly-naked girl with an oscillating microphone pointed at her panties...and the gleefully bitten lip the new toy inspires.
Following the natural dip, I slide the bulb down a couple of inches. Whoops, too much. I wince and hastily reconnect it as before. No two ways about it; my button will have to be stalked with much more subtlety than the manual approach requires. Bathed in pleasant ripples of battery-powered wavelengths, I plot other ways to refocus the device's powerful needles of stimulation without causing a Game Over moment.