Chapter 1
Like most faculty members, Justin was no fan of the new policy. After all, why should he be required to use valuable free periods—especially with the end of the year crunch looming—to participate in other classes? "So we can keep in touch with what each other is up to"—that's how Dr. Bell had put it. Fair enough, but given Justin's lifelong hatred of the natural sciences, it felt strange to be flanked by a gaggle of voice-cracking sophomores, uncomfortable in their ties and jackets, moments away from dissecting a fetal pig.
"Your scalpel?"
Justin glanced to his lab partner: history teacher David Grinstein. Justin's closest friend at Clarke, they had arranged their schedules to suffer through Dr. Bell's latest brainchild together.
"Yeah," Justin said, carefully taking the instrument. "Thanks."
He looked to the other side of the room. Mrs. Hahn, the aging bio professor who had seemed aged when Justin had been a Clarke student himself, was showing two students the proper way to make the first incision.
"So," David whispered, "I've been thinking."
Justin hesitated a moment before answering. Only a year removed from college, he still feared the well-chronicled wrath of Mrs. Hahn. Yes, Justin was now compelled to call her "Sylvia," but in his day, she had been known around the Clarke halls as "The Ball Remover."
"Thinking what?" Justin said.
"Sadie."
"What about her?"
"She likes you, dude. It's obvious."
Justin sighed. Sadie Black—the Bridgemore teacher he had met while codirecting Our Town that fall. From the start, Justin could never quite decide if her looks could be categorized as sexy on account of her slim waist and largish breasts, or merely interesting due to the frizzy hair and slightly large nose. Then there were those temporary braces, the result of oral surgery from a biking accident. Unfortunately, whenever Justin tried to imagine how much prettier Sadie would look without them (they had been due to come off over the winter), he found it impossible to forget the rehearsal where she had directed an entire scene with a small wad of chunky peanut butter smeared across two upper right teeth.
"Come on," David said again. "Just call her."
"Excuse me, gentlemen?"
Justin and David looked up. Mrs. Hahn smiled broadly from across the room.
"How can we expect our students to take this work seriously when our two visiting teachers are chattering like a bunch of Bridgemore girls?"
Known more for her nicotine-stained teeth than her wit, this comment elicited a series of appreciative and sustained chuckles from the twenty or so students. Her point made, Mrs. Hahn turned to the next set of lab partners. Justin and David exchanged a resigned glance. For the time being, they had no choice but to focus on their pig.
"You do the honors," Justin said, handing David the scalpel.
David smiled. "Gee, thanks."
As Justin watched his friend take a practice cut above the animal's belly, he remembered how much he had hated performing the same task for the same teacher seven years earlier. Which made him wonder (not for the first time) what he had been thinking when he had decided to return to his alma mater. Yes, he appreciated that Mr. Andrews had been in a bind, but was that reason enough to accept a job? Did he have a secret desire to rewrite his Clarke history, making up for an unhappy high school career with a brilliant one as a teacher? Or was he just that desperate for something to do with himself? Though his tenure was just short of a year old, Justin didn't even remember anymore.
"That's right," Mrs. Hahn was saying to a student across the room. "Make the incision at the base of the rectum."
With that, Justin made a decision. Just because he was being forced to reacquaint himself with the horrors of biology, didn't mean that he had to pay close attention. As David took a second practice cut, Justin made no effort to stop his mind from wandering. Yes, he knew that thinking about Beverly Kinney was no more than an exercise in advanced futility. Not only was she firmly out of his league, she wasn't even available. There was Gene, a surprisingly pallid lawyer who Justin had seen, from a distance, at a varsity basketball game. But Justin also knew that this was one of those times in life where logic was meaningless. From the moment he had seen her at the year's first faculty meeting, browsing through a copy of The Red Badge of Courage, he had been a goner.
And so the walls of the biology lab melted away to a wooded country road. Out of the mist came a bright red convertible, taking hairpin curves at seventy miles per hour. At the wheel, Justin glanced briefly in the rearview mirror. Gone were the blue blazer, khakis, loafers, and loosely knotted tie—the restrictive uniform of the Clarke faculty. In their place were faded jeans, a white T-shirt, and leather jacket. A pair of Ray-Bans was perched on Justin's nose. His sandy blond hair, usually awkwardly parted to the side, was slicked back; his chin sculpted by a well-groomed goatee. The fifteen or so doughy pounds he had been unable to lose since high school were gone. His body was hard and lean.
Soon he came to an impressive halt in front of a Southampton beach bungalow where Beverly waited, slouched against the doorway in a purple beach towel. With a quick wave, Justin leaped out of his vehicle (who needed doors?) and took stock of his lady: blond hair, pale blue eyes, long legs, big bust, mole on left cheek. And now the Kissable Kinney (as she was called by many Clarke students) was scrunching her face into a grimace of pure, unadulterated longing. "Kiss me, goddamnit!" Who was Justin not to oblige? The towel dropped to the welcome mat. He lifted his love into his arms and carried her across the marble foyer, toward the carpeted steps that led upstairs to paradise—her bedroom.
"I can't believe this is happening!" Beverly said, doing an eager swan dive for the mattress. "I've wanted you ever since I saw you casting Our Town."
Justin smiled. "I've wanted you ever since the day I read your syllabus for ‘Introduction to the Essay.'"
He flung his pants across the room. Beverly spread her legs. A moment later she emitted an astonished gasp as Justin put himself inside her. Just like that, the two English teachers fell into a natural rhythm, playing a love scene for the ages—short on coherent dialogue, but long on vigorous physicality. In fact, it wasn't long before the two bodies were making a friction so intense that the sheets began to smolder. Beverly noticed it first.
"Do you smell smoke?" she gasped, her legs wrapped around Justin's back.
"Smoke?" Justin managed.
The fact was that he had, but was enjoying himself too much to be bothered. A burning bungalow? It would take more than that to make him interrupt a passion play of this intensity. But just as Justin was recommitting himself to the task at hand, he felt someone yank him—hard. Unfortunately it wasn't Beverly digging her fingernails into his back, pulling him into a new position. Just like that, Justin was back in the science lab where he had no choice but to refocus his attention on his fetal pig: strangely enough, it was now burning. As David pulled Justin away from the blaze, Mrs. Hahn lurched toward it.
"Put that out! Someone!"
Justin saw Brad Hickok, a boy he had given a C plus the past semester in "Early Shakespeare," running toward him, a fire extinguisher in hand. Either Brad didn't know how to aim or, still unhappy about his grade, didn't try. The first two blasts hit Justin squarely in the chest and face.
"Lower!" Mrs. Hahn cried.
Brad lowered and shot a third time, this time thoroughly dousing the pig. As a thin line of white smoke rose to the ceiling, Justin realized that the smoke alarm had been sounding. Before anyone could say another word the door burst open. It was Raymond, head of the school custodial staff.
"Is there a problem?" he asked.
As Mrs. Hahn turned his way with a sour smile, Justin knew better than to expect mercy. His only hope was to beat her to the punch.
"I've had a hankering for bacon for weeks," he said. "I decided to cook my pig instead of dissect it."
Thankfully, it was enough of a joke to break the tension. As Raymond smiled the laughter grew quickly into hoots and hollers, until Mrs. Hahn restored order with a sharply delivered, "Gentlemen! Your pigs!" As the class grudgingly turned back to their assigned task, David handed Justin a paper towel. Wiping his face, Justin returned to the incident at hand. A burning pig? He had no recollection of reaching for a knob. No memory of hitting it accidentally with his knee . . .
A quick glance below his belt was all it took for the answer to become painfully clear. As Justin's desire had taken him to new imaginative heights, a critical part of his anatomy had come along for the ride. While screwing the Kissable Kinney he must have unconsciously grinded his hips against the side of the table. Apparently, his semi-erect penis, straining against the inside of his khakis, had pushed up the knob to the Bunsen burner, unfortunately one of the newer easy-light models.
"What happened?" David whispered.
Justin glanced at his friend.
"Happened . . . ?" Justin stammered.
David smiled. "The pig. The one you set on fire."
"Uh . . . Must've rubbed my hand against the gauge by accident."
David's smile grew.
"Beverly, huh?"
Justin swallowed hard. Was his lust that obvious? Apparently. His back against the wall, he said the first thing that popped into his mind.
"No," he whispered. "Yo momma."
The second the words were out of his mouth, Justin knew he had betrayed himself—that the use of a comeback that would have seemed immature to a tenth-grader would be seen for what it was: a sure sign of desperation.
"Listen," he continued, feeling the need to further explain himself. "I accidentally used my hand, okay?"
Though both young adults, the hours spent in the hormonally charged atmosphere of an all boys' school often conspired to bring out Justin's and David's latent inner teenager. Despite the fact that Justin was twenty-three and David the grand old age of twenty-seven, they often found themselves bantering like fourteen-year-olds.
"I'm sure you do," David said. "At least once a day."
"Right," Justin said. "Like you don't?"
David shrugged and turned back to his pig. "Not much these days, my friend."
The words were a blow dart to Justin's heart. Indeed, David had recently started seeing Beatrice Alina, a willowy second-grade teaching assistant. With the exception of Beverly, she was arguably the hottest woman in the entire school. Though Justin had been outwardly supportive, deep down his thoughts veered toward bitter jealousy. How in the world did a guy like David nab a woman like Beatrice? Of course, Justin was the first to admit that David was a good guy—hardworking, athletic, and funny—someone who deserved a nice girl. Even more, his exemplary personal qualities were complemented by a face so striking that even Justin, who generally didn't monitor the looks of his male friends, had taken notice, feature by perfectly proportioned feature, right down to what he had come to think of as "that damned cleft." On the other hand, whenever Justin found himself becoming too envious, he simply looked down. At five three, David was notably short. But although David had once complained with some bitterness that all women were "size queens," Beatrice appeared to be cut from a different cloth. If David's diminutive stature bothered her, she didn't show it, a fact that had come to irritate Justin more and more the longer the couple had been dating. Yes, David had that face. But at five eleven, could Beatrice even see it? And didn't she mind having a boyfriend who needed three steps for her every two? A guy whose height compelled him to a daily consideration of her collarbone?
Of course, when Justin was thinking clearly enough to put his envy on hold, David's romantic success gave him hope. Why curse the unfairness of a world where guys like David had girlfriends when he didn't? Maybe he'd get further if instead of indulging his jealous tendencies, he used David's success for inspiration? After all, it really came down to some pretty simple probability: if David could date a woman of Beatrice's stunning height (who also happened to know the names of the starting Yankee infield), maybe he had a chance to bring his beach bungalow fantasy to life? Though Justin realized that Dr. Reed, chairman of the math department, would shoot such logic full of holes, the thought still gave him a certain comfort.
True, Justin wasn't the goatee-wearing, sideburned stud of his fantasies, but despite the all too grabbable mound of blubber around his middle, he liked to believe that he was good enough looking to attract a woman of Beatrice's forgiving nature. In any case, he certainly didn't think he deserved a track record with the opposite sex that was quite so dismal.
Now, as Mrs. Hahn began to demonstrate to the class exactly how to remove the pig's large intestines, Justin took the opportunity to go over that track record again. As usual, his mind laser-beamed past the mostly barren high school years to the woman to whom he still assigned a lion's share of the blame: Abigail Wilson. It was her fault he was the last twenty-something virgin in Manhattan, after all. Her fault he was so inexperienced with other women. Though David didn't know the full extent of his friend's troubles—Justin had kept the unknown status of his continuing virginity secret—he could tell that Justin had been struggling. As Mrs. Hahn turned her back to diagram the pig's intestines on the board, David leaned over.
"Try not to sweat it," he whispered. "You'll meet someone soon."
It was at that juncture that Justin bitterly considered suggesting that David have relations with his pig. But what good would that do? Justin knew that his friend was only trying to be nice.
"Forget about Beverly," David went on.
"Easy for you to say."
"Maybe. But like I said, Sadie's your answer."
Justin didn't even have time to open his mouth. David waved a hand. "Come on. You need a date."
It was true. Even though Clarke made a conscious effort to be as different from the typical mid-American public school as possible (no football team, no cheerleaders, just homework), it sponsored an annual senior prom at the school gym. Traditionally, upper-school teachers were expected to chaperone. Initially, Justin had been happy to do it. But as the big day approached, he slowly woke to a harsh reality: he had no one to ask.
"Maybe I won't even go," Justin said.
"Why not?"
"It's stupid, that's why. Adults don't go to proms."
"We're just chaperoning, dude. All the faculty are doing it."
"I'm not even sure if I'm attracted to Sadie anyway."
David looked highly skeptical.
"Yeah, right. She's cute, you idiot."
Again, Justin resented how David acted as though his newfound "I'm short but screwing a hot second-grade teacher anyway" status granted him the automatic right to weigh in on Justin's love life as though he were a stud of epic reputation. Despite the fact that he was seated in the middle of a tenth-grade bio lab, Justin was tempted to expound at length on this topic, explaining to David that he was perfectly capable of making his own decisions in regards to proms or anything else pertaining to the opposite sex. But just as he was gearing up, he caught Mrs. Hahn's eye and guiltily looked down at his pig.
Slightly charred but still dissectible, it was a pig waiting for its first incision. Justin suddenly felt terrible for the poor creature. No doubt about it: the world could be cruel—to young virgins as well as baby pigs. But with no other choice, he lifted his knife, took aim for the animal's stomach, and got to work.
Copyright © 2008 by Dan Elish. All rights reserved.
