*Edited: 2019/11/20*
When I first bought the motorcycle, Naomi had refused to ride on the back. Apparently, the mistakes we made in the past followed us into the future. It was a shame that I had lost her trust as the bike was an absolute beauty. I had purchased the second-hand Yamaha with my savings, and there was much to brag about. It was painted a dark, haunting purple, and curved strokes of black added a touch of flavor. It turned well and its frame was sleek and light. I had wheeled it into her driveway, excitement coursing through my bones and rang her doorbell. She had said, "Hell no, I don't trust you driving anything with wheels." And slammed the door. I admit I had crashed a Go Kart into a lake when we were young children, but while I didn't have a license for a kart, I had one for my bike.
I rode said motorcycle for five months before I gained her trust. And after those five months without incidence, I had gained her faith.
I leaned against pillar that held the roof over the veranda, phone in my hand, waiting for Naomi after ringing the doorbell a million times. I waited ten more minutes though we were already late for first period. She finally burst outside; her cheeks were flushed from rushing downstairs. Her hair curled neatly at the ends and draped her breast, which I tried not to stare at for too long. It was odd for a woman to stare at another woman's chest for longer than necessary, or rather, longer than natural.
How long do straight women stare at each other's breast for?
I couldn't remember.
"Sorry about being an ass yesterday," I said.
"I'm over it," she said, a bored expression on her face, then upon catching me watching her, she gave me a small smile.
I held out a white helmet. She took it gracefully and covered her auburn locks, locking the strap beneath her chin. Drops of sunlight glittered on her pale skin. It was mesmerizing, but we were running out of time, so I pried my eyes away.
I led her to the motorcycle. She got on behind me. The bike hummed softly, coming to life with a subtle jerk. She pinched my sides.
"You'll fall off," I said.
I knew she was upset with me when she could barely stand being around me. I placed my hands atop of hers— her skin felt soft, silky— and dragged it around my waist. She leaned against my back. I felt the curvature of her breasts. As I steered the bike down the road, I told her, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to embarrass you. I don't know what I was thinking. Forgive me?"
She stayed silent.
After what seemed like forever, she spoke over the wind, "You basically called me a slut."
"I didn't mean it like that. Having a lot of boyfriends doesn't make you a slut. It just means you're looking for the one, and you haven't found him yet."
Her voice was soft, almost carried away by the wind pressing against us. "Do you think there's something wrong with me?"
I said, "No."
There was nothing wrong with her. As for me, well, that was a different story. All I could think about in that moment was taking off my helmet and kissing her in sinful delight.
We turned left at the lights. Suburban houses rushed by on either side; semi- detached brick buildings and a few singles. The traffic streamed alongside parked cars. Ten minutes later and the school appeared in our sights. Five floors of concrete and thick glass windows. The Canadian flag blew in the strong wind; its pole firmly planted in the midst of a circular patch of grass near the front. We turned into the entrance, passed a sign that read, Hugh Coleman Secondary School, and parked in the very back lot reserved for students under the shade of an overreaching oak tree.
After we removed our helmets, Naomi, finally forgave me. She looped an arm through mine and said, "And we are back to this cesspool."
"For the final year. After this, there's only university to worry about," I told her. Neither of us were interested in going to university. The whole idea reeked of enslavement to an abusive educational system that was only interested in getting our hard-earned money. I walked her through the parking lot, hating the idea of handing her off to someone else when the time came.
"Do you think we'll survive the exams?" she asked.
I grimaced. "It's only September, why bring up such atrocities? We should think about happy things; you know? Like, going to that concert this weekend."
Her face perked. "You're right, I'm too young to worry about failing at life if I don't graduate."
I held up a hand. "Who said anything about failing our exams? I'll show you how it's done. Efficiency, my dear Watson. Not too much studying, not too little, and we'll cruise through till the end." I grinned.
Our first class was taught by a vulture. She stood behind the desk, a slight hunch to her back. Her beady eyes swallowed by her large head. Her fingers curled above the tabletop like sharp talons waiting to snatch her prey. And boy did she catch us.
"Ladies," she said, twirling on her heels as we walked in. "Late again."
I stepped back, lips parting with apparent shock. "What is this?" I asked Naomi. "We are late? Oh, the heavens may as well burst open and pour rain on us sinners. Oh, Lord, we're too late. I told you to let that bird die rather than help it and make us miss the first thirty minutes. You should have let it bleed to death. Look what you have done. Do you see the torment you've caused our teacher? The pain?"
A boy with untidy black hair in the back row said, "Shut up."
I kindly showed him my beautiful middle finger while Naomi distracted the teacher.
"Woe is me." Naomi's face contorted in sadness and she kicked the ground, leaning against the whiteboard, unable to support her weight. Her acting rivaled mine in that instant. She said, "But I couldn't just leave the poor guy after that car hit him. He was so scared."
"So scared," I echoed. We both looked at our teacher who sighed and ruefully shook her head.
"Have a seat, I tire quickly of your theatrics," she told us, a stern look to her features. "And make this be the last time."
"Yes, ma'am," I said, bowing and I paused for Naomi to curtsy. Then we took our seats by the window to gaze at the football field. Ms. Verna spoke about the middle ages and how literature became important to the lives of the middle class. Particularly the influence of plays and playwrights. Then she asked us to take out our plays and read lines from Hamlet. While some kids volunteered, I stared out the window, watching boys run laps around the field for gym class. Glad it wasn't me.
"We should have Ms. Walsh read the next part," announced Ms. Verna.
Shocked at the mention of my name, I glanced around at the many faces staring at me. I laughed softly. "I would read, but I would hate to spoil your ears with the sound of my horrendous voice."
Ms. Verna replied, "I doubt it will be as awful as anything else I've heard today."
I bit my lower lip. My desk was empty, and I turned to Naomi for help.
She pointed to a line in Act II Scene ii.
"Oh, we have come quite far, I'm still on the introduction," I said, and some kid chuckled a few places down from me. I glared and that was enough to shut him up. Despite my reluctance, I preferred not to get kicked out for disobedience, so I read,
"And I do think—or else this brain of mine
Hunts not the trail of policy so sure
As it hath used to do—that I have found
The very cause of Hamlet's lunacy."
Ms. Verna nodded. "Why don't you finish this scene?"
"It's a long scene," I told her.
"Then pay attention next time. Without further protest, please continue, young lady."
I had a thousand words I wanted to say to her, but alas, for the sanctity of the classroom, I would not say anything more than necessary. The villain won a sole battle, but there would be many more. I smiled at her; my malice went by unseen. "Whatever you desire, miss." And then I finished the scene.