Grey Matter of an Irish Aries

Love in the Wrong Place

I was desperate for a job, so I actually read the local newspaper. I was leafing through the first section when I saw a page about new teachers at my high school. My eyes froze on the new band teacher, Brandon Psenicka. He was a complete hottie. He was Scott-hot. No, he defined hot.
That teacher made me want to take up a musical instrument. I didn’t, but I thought about it. Two weeks later I went back to school, entering my senior year and having no job to show for it. I went to all my classes, praying that Mr. Psenicka would pop his head in. Finally, seventh period, my lunch period, rolled around and I headed to the cafeteria to check out what my friends were doing. I caught sight of my friend, Henry, and plopped down in an empty seat next to him. He had on his precious green Jets jersey, which he had just bought the Saturday before.
I raised an eyebrow and asked what was on the menu for that day. Henry was scribbling something frantically into his English notebook and he nearly jumped out of his seat.
“Hello to you too,” he mumbled, angrily. He pointed to the page he had been writing on and I could see it had a line drawn across it.
I sighed, knowing I’d caused that line to be drawn in the first place.
“Sorry,” I told him, apologetically.
He rolled his eyes and kept them glued to the ceiling.
“Whatever,” he muttered. He was still holding a grudge against me.
We started talking about what we did the previous night, the last night of summer, and I listened to him ramble on about Shakira, a pop singer he was obsessing over. After awhile, I got sick of it, so I asked him to get me a sugar cookie from the snack bar.
He got up and was almost there when he suddenly stopped. I stared at him, trying to figure out his reason for pausing.
Someone had put up a huge poster of nobody none other than the pop singer herself, Shakira. It was positioned carefully on the wall behind where Mr. Psenicka was standing. Of course, I didn’t recognize him until this point. My mouth dropped and I had to wipe away the drool oozing from it.
The events that followed seemed to have happened in slow motion even though they occurred in a few short seconds. They would be the events that change Henry’s and my lives forever.
Henry extended an arm out for a touch of the mouth-watering portrait of his passionate love. As his arm inched closer and closer to the poster, a freshman in a fight crashed into him, causing the arm to fly off course and land with a smack on the unsuspecting Mr. Psenicka’s neck. The man who defined hot tumbled forward and landed on his knees on the white marble floor.
“Oh, my God!” Henry bent over his stunned victim in utter panic. “Are you all right?” he asked the twenty four year old music major. He touched Mr. Psenicka’s arm to help him to his feet, but the humiliated hottie pushed it away, politely.
“I’m fine,” he said, bright red in the face, “I’m just fine.”
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” My friend couldn’t, or wouldn’t, stop expressing regret.
“Fine, I’m fine,” Mr. Psenicka repeated, trying to ignore the shocked and humored stares he was getting. The drool worthy hottie stood up and brushed off the dust that covered his white button down shirt and gray slacks.
He turned around and faced petrified Henry, shaking with chills though it was boiling inside the cafeteria. Unfortunately for Henry, the two freshmen boys fighting had bolted.
“What was that for?” Mr. Psenicka demanded, sternly. His red face was weakening, but it was still visible.
I had been watching the whole thing and opted that now was a good time to save my friend’s ass before he said something stupid that could get him a year’s detention. I got up from my seat and made my way through the maze of chairs, book bags and kids just standing in the middle of the aisle, unaware that they were in someone’s way.
I arrived just in time to hear Henry’s argument.
“Uh, well, you see, there was this kid and uh, a picture…” His voice drifted off, but he pointed, his arm flailing in fear, at the poster behind Mr. Psenicka.
The teacher, who had a perplexed look on his face, now changed the face to a disgusted one.
“Not Shakira, I hope,” he said, seriously.
“Why” I chimed in.
Two heads turned to me; one was scowling and the other was the total opposite.
“Excuse me?” This was not the voice of the Scott-hot teacher I was drooling over.
I looked away at the leering crowd of kids, who all thought Henry, my Henry, had attacked a teacher.
“Why don’t you like Shakira?” I asked him, curiously.
My eyes focused in on him. He was so muscular, so talented, and so strong enough to ring my neck or worse…
He looked down at me, obviously trying to intimidate me.
“If you must know,” he started, arrogantly, “she is a relative, an unfortunate family member.”
I tilted my head and he sighed, impatiently, figuring that I didn’t understand his explanation.
I leaned back on my feet.
“How?” I motioned him to continue.
He stepped back, rubbing the back of his neck where Henry’s arm had struck.
“That’s none of your business,” he told us, softly yet sharply.
Henry was loosening up now.
“I think you’re lying,” he accused, pointing a finger at Mr. Psenicka.
He got a glare in return and shrank back.
Despite his frustration, the teacher gave in.
“We’re half-siblings,” he admitted, “Are you happy now?”
I stood there, almost frightened
“His mother and my father had a brief, um” he paused to think of the right word, “fling, I guess you could call it.” He didn’t want to go on, but I didn’t move until I got the whole story. “Then, his slut mother left him for that stupid Latino man.” He frowned, but not at us.
“Shakira’s “father”, yeah right,” he groaned, quoting the word ‘father.’
After he said that, I realized what had happened.
“Shakira’s father is…” I didn’t know what else to say, so I just stopped after that.
He nodded and it was confirmed.
To us, anyway.
I understood, but I don’t think Henry did.
“Shakira is biologically my half-sister and we should be the ones getting rich, not her brainless mother and her false father.” Mr. Psenicka glanced at the kids, none of whom were actually paying attention to the strange conversation we were having.
“Oh,” was all Henry could say.
“Do you get it, Henry?” I asked my friend, who nodded in reply.
“Yep. So, you could like get me autographs and stuff,” he told Shakira’s half-brother with a dim witted grin. He paused to take a deep breath and I smacked him on the back of the head. He stumbled forward, but didn’t fall down.
“Why’d you do that?” he wanted to know.
I just looked at him, surrendering.
“Henry, don’t talk anymore,” I told him, meaning it.
He looked away, perplexed. Then, he folded his hands like he was Japanese and started bowing down, begging Mr. Psenicka to forgive him.
“I didn’t know she stole money from you. She seems nice to me,” he said, stupidly.
“Henry,” I started to say something, but closed my mouth.
Mr. Psenicka, luckily, seemed too tired to care about Henry’s eccentric behavior.
“Forget about it,” he told Henry.
I noticed his face looked sad and tired.
“Are you okay?” I asked him.
He opened his mouth to respond, but just then, the bell to end lunch rang and dozens of kids fled the cafeteria, knocking each other over in the process.
I nodded to my dream dude.
“He’s a good kid.”
He nodded, uncaringly.
I turned around and followed the few students remaining out of the cafeteria and moved on to my next class. As I turned the corner, I saw Mr. Psenicka staring intently at the poster of his half-sister.
Several weeks passed without anything happening. It took awhile for Henry to stop apologizing to me for what he’d done, but I helped him through the process. I went to school, sat through long and boring classes and ate lunch, trying not to glance over at where my Scott-hot dream guy was standing, next to the picture of his rich half-sister.
Then, one day that routine changed. I had just sat down next to my friend, Tina, who usually sat with us, when I noticed Mr. Psenicka looking over at our table. I had become accustomed to his glancing at us, but this momentary look lasted a bit longer than usual. As I was chatting with Tina about why we didn’t leave school for lunch [we were two seniors who didn’t drive], Mr. Psenicka managed to walk right past our table, casually. Normally, I wouldn’t have felt anything. However, given, um, our recent history, I felt like he was stalking us. This was weird, since I thought he defined hotness.
Over the next few days, the long glances continued and I soon got used to them as I had adjusted to the other ones.
That is, until a few weeks later, in November.
I had gotten a ride from my friend, Jill, to Wendy’s where I grabbed some grub for my lunch. It really sucked that her car wasn’t too reliable and had broken down for the third time that month. I managed to fix the engine, how I will never know, and we were speeding along to get back to school for our last class of the day, math. We parked and we rushed inside. The bell had already rung, ending seventh period and kids were moving like snails in the halls. I needed to ask our teacher about the big test we were supposed to be having that day, so I ditched my friend, moving about twenty feet in front of her. I was almost there when I noticed Mr. Psenicka moving in the opposite direction. We bumped into each other and he stopped.
I froze, expecting him to yell at me.
I didn’t need to be. There was no yell.
He looked at me with a smile and said, “You’re the girl from seventh period lunch.”
I laughed.
“And you’re the guy my friend almost killed!”
He nodded, softly chuckling.
Then came the odd words.
“Can you stay for a bit after school?” he asked me.
I didn’t know what to say. Angry kids pushed me out of their way and I collided with him for the second time. He pulled me over to the side and gazed at me.
“Can you?” he asked again.
“Why?” This was a very weird day.
“I want to show you something, something for Henry.” He sounded eager.
“What about Henry?” I couldn’t possibly imagine what the ‘something for Henry’ could be.
“A picture. He likes Shakira, doesn’t he?” he asked, unfeelingly yet friendly.
I clamped my teeth over my lips to hold in my laughter.
“No,” I told him, “he loves Shakira more than life itself.”
He rolled his eyes.
“Good. This picture has been in that damn closet for a year and its time to get rid of it.”
I didn’t even wonder why he hadn’t thrown it out or ripped it up if he hated Shakira so much.
I smiled, not really knowing why.
“Yeah, I guess I’ll come,” I said, with a sarcastic sigh.
He smiled, satisfied that he had accomplished his mission.
I showed up that afternoon, not really knowing what to expect. I waited outside his classroom, unsure of whether or not if I should go in. Finally, I decided the logical thing to do would be knock. I knocked three times and waited for a response. I peeked into the room. There were semi-circle rows of chairs in the center and a shelf with some violins, flutes and clarinets scattered on it. I was wondering where my hottie could be and I opened the door slowly and popped my head in.
“Good, I thought you weren’t going to show.” I was so startled by his voice that my feet actually left the ground when I jumped.
This made him laugh out loud. He stood up from his desk where he had been sitting, spinning around in his chair.
“Well, I had nothing else to do,” I replied, shrugging my shoulders up as I usually did when I spoke. “So, where is this picture?”
Reluctantly, he started moving toward a big brown cabinet.
“It’s over here,” he said, taking my hand.
I was so flabbergasted by his action that I just went along with it.
Besides, it felt nice to have someone hot hold my hand.
He led me over to a big cabinet, like the type of cabinet over the sink in a kitchen. He let go off my hand to open the cabinet. He rummaged through the odd items definitely not found in a kitchen cabinet: there were a few sheets of songs written by Mozart, a twirling baton, a whistle and old package of moldy green cheddar cheese. He held his nose and seized the stale dairy product. He hurried over to the garbage and thrust the cheese into it.
Then, he returned to the cabinet and pointed to something towards the back. I stepped forward and searched the shelf. Pushing a copy of the fourth Harry Potter book aside, I pulled out a small picture. It was a photo of Shakira, probably taken from a fan in the audience of a concert. The pop singer was on stage, waving her hips like a belly dancer. Telling by the accuracy of the picture, I came to the conclusion that the fan was pretty close, maybe the third or fourth row. It was a good picture of someone I couldn’t stand.
I stood there, studying Shakira in her stillness. However, the picture was not what I was concentrating on. How and why did Mr. Psenicka get this picture if he hated her so much? There was only one way to find out.
“Where did this come from?” I eyed him, inquisitively.
“My dad took it because it is his daughter up there.” Mr. Psenicka shook his head, disgusted. I became conscious of the fact that he was practically breathing on the back of my neck. He was towering over me, so close to me I could tilt my head back and clash with his esophagus. He stood with his back straight, his shoulders sticking out to their full broadness. His eyes looked eager and content.
“This is great.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“Do you really like it?” The Scot-hot teacher stepped slightly forward, so that I could almost see the little hanging ball thing that looks like a punching bag in the back of his mouth.
“I don’t think my opinion matters. It’s for Henry,” I told him, looking away. I was getting a little nervous.
He looked into my eyes in a different way than before. His eyes looked hungry, wanting, and desiring. Before I knew what happened, he tugged on my arm, pulling my face to his and pressed on my lips with his.
Looking back now, I guess I should have fought back and told him to stop. But, I didn’t. I didn’t hate it, despite the other feeling I had that this was not right. I stood there and kissed Tina’ s band teacher. It felt nice, actually. I heard fireworks going off in my head and I could see them when I closed my eyes.
It was too good to last forever. It seemed like a short, quick summer that ended way before I wanted it to stop. As he pulled away, I could feel my face burning with loneliness, missing his smooth and gentle hands. My lips were shedding tears for their misplaced twin.
We stood still, gazing into each other’s eyes. He was smiling at me and I wanted him, now more than ever.
Finally, Mr. Psenicka blinked and he was back in his own classroom.
“Don’t tell anyone about this,” he told me, sweetly touching my cheek again. I reached out and held his hand. We stood motionless for a bit longer before I glanced at the clock. It was nearly four-thirty.
“I have to go,” I said, sadly.
“Do you want a ride?” he asked, walking over to his desk. He gathered some papers and stuck them in a briefcase.
I shook my head, wishing I hadn’t brought my car to school that day. I started walking toward the door and I heard his voice again.
“Hey, wait.” I turned on my heels, anticipating what he would say next.
“Yeah,” I replied, casually.
“Friday,” he said, “can you come here on Friday? I want to take you somewhere nice.” He smiled, pleadingly like a mischievous little boy, and I melted.
“I don’t know,” I teased, “I might have other plans.” I narrowed my eyes. I felt like a little sister nagging her older brother.
“Please!” He came to me and wrapped his strong arms around me. He looked down at me and I laughed as I stared back deep into his eyes. They just made me blush every time I saw them and I could feel my face glowing red as Rudolph’s nose.
“Okay,” I told him finally. I wished he could have held me forever, but I knew I had to get home to cook dinner. So, I pulled away and walked out the door. I went to my car and drove home, high on love.
I arrived home and went upstairs to my room. I threw my bag and books on my bed and stuck the picture in my Spanish textbook. I would give to Henry the next day in school. I went downstairs to the kitchen and rummage around for something to cook for dinner. As I searched through the cabinets, my mind drifted from chicken cutlets to Mr. Psenicka, which was weird because the two had absolutely nothing to do with each other. I prepared the chicken and cooked some turnips and mashed potatoes from the box. As everything was cooking, I signed onto AOL, wanting to check my e-mail. As the “mysterious greeter” welcomed me, I debated whether or not to tell my friends, namely Tina, about what had gone on in Mr. Psenicka’s room after school. Seeing as how it wasn’t five o’clock yet, I knew Henry and Darwin wouldn’t be on. Then again, seeing as how it was Tuesday, I knew Tina would have Marching Band, but not until later. Thus, she would be online.
Before I could even click on my mailbox, an IM popped up. It was, of course, from Tina.
Hey! Sup!
Nothing, you? That was a lie, but I had to keep this low-key.
Not a lot. Where’ve you been?
I hated lying to my friends, but I knew Tina would flip out if she knew the truth.
Stayed at school. There. That wasn’t a lie. I just left out a few parts. I thought she would give up and change the subject. She knew where I had been. That part I hadn’t lied about.
Why? I read her question and sighed. Leaning back in the chair I was sitting in pretzel-style, I typed quickly.
Had to speak with a teacher. That wasn’t a lie.
Oh, you weren’t caught smoking again, were you?
I laughed. This was a question I didn’t mind answering, even for the nosy Tina.
No, that was last week, but thanks for reminding me.
No problem, you’re never going to forget it.
I’m sure.
I got up to make sure dinner wasn’t burning, and then I went to the bathroom. When I got back, Tina had sent me three messages.
Did you go by Mr. Psenicka’s room?
He said his girlfriend was coming to see him.
: [. That sucks. That’d be freaky if it was someone we knew!!
I stared at the computer, shaking my head.
Tina, I thought in my head, you have no idea.
Friday came quicker than I thought it would. I spend the day, struggling to keep my mouth shut. I couldn’t believe I kept Tina, Henry and Darwin in the dark that long; that is, until lunch rolled around.
“What are you guys doing this weekend?” Henry asked, looking up from his orange juice and bagel with butter.
We had been talking since lunch started and I had been fine until Henry opened his mouth about weekend plans. I stopped eating my cheese and crackers and stared at him.
“Ah, nothing, really. Just chilling,” I told him, smoothly.
He nodded.
“Me neither. You got anything planned Tina?” He looked at Tina, who was scribbling another weird-ass story into her notebook. She held up a finger, so she could finish her pizza.
“Nada. You guys want to get together at my house tonight and have a Pulp Fiction party?” She said this a bit too enthusiastically.
I sighed, knowing I had other plans. Pulp Fiction was an awesome movie with John Travolta that I loved.
“I have to decline,” I told her, sadly. “I’ve got other plans.”
Tina rolled her eyes, sarcastically.
“But, you have no life,” she mocked me.
I pretended to glare at her.
“It just so happens that I’m meeting someone tonight,” I retorted, in a friendly voice.
Tina studied me for a moment.
“Oh, so I guess you’re Mr. Psenicka’s new girlfriend?” she accused, expecting me to blush terribly at the mention of his name.
I did blush, but it seemed to be a different type of blush. It was a blush where one could totally tell that Tina’s claim was true. I realized then that I couldn’t keep it from her any longer.
“Tina,” I said, slowly, “I’ve got someone to tell you.”
She put down her Snapple and eyed me, suspiciously.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, concerned.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I assured her. I knew that something was definitely wrong, but I wasn’t sure what it was. Love between two people couldn’t possibly be wrong, could it?
“Well.” She leaned forward, impatiently.
“Come outside.” I rose from my seat and moved toward the cafeteria exit, having to push aside the numerous chairs in my path.
I looked back and saw Tina shrug to Henry and follow me outside. Once we were in the parking lot and I had made sure there was nobody around, I decided to let it all out slowly.
“Tina, what I’m about to say is personal and you cannot tell another living soul, except your diary.” I wrinkled my nose. “You can say whatever you want to that little black book of yours. I don’t even want to know.” What Tina wrote in her diary was none of my business. Honestly, I don’t think I ever want to know what she wrote.
She nodded, proud of her evil Satan writings.
I took a deep breath and started my confessions.
“I stayed after school the other day…”
“You told me that!” my intolerant friend reminded me.
“And I really did have to talk to a teacher…”
“You said that, too! Which teacher did you have to talk to?” She looked at me, curiously.
“Um, I’ll give you two guesses.”
She figured that out pretty fast.
I watched my friend’s eyes widened in utter disbelief.
“What did you do?” she demanded.
“Nothing!” I swore.
I asked myself it that was lie. I didn’t know.
“What happened?” she asked, getting excited.
“Um, do you really want to know?” I asked, hoping she wouldn’t want to know the details.
Unfortunately, she was too devoted to finding out my secret.
“Well, he said that he had a picture to show me and it turned out to be a picture of Shakira that he thought Henry would like.” I scratched my head in a poor attempt to stall.
“And?” she instigated, tapping her foot.
“Well, I showed up and he showed it to me,” I told her.
She gawked at me and I knew she could see through my pitiful lies.
“Did he do something to you?” She poked my arm, considerately.
“No!” I took a huge step back and stared at her.
“Did he try to rape you?”
“No,” I nearly shouted at her, “it wasn’t a bad thing.”
She shrugged her shoulders, apologetically.
“Sorry.”
“You’re making him sound like a monster!” I scolded.
“What do you want me to think?” she implored. “Just tell me what happened and I won’t assume he,” she threw her arm up empty headed, “I don’t know, tried to kiss you!”
She laughed then.
“Yeah, like that would ever happen!” she told me.
“It could,” I insisted.
That got me another weird look.
She nodded. She thought I was nuts.
I returned her nod, giving in.
She snorted.
“No, really. What happened?” She folded her arms, waiting.
My eyes widened.
“That’s the truth!” I exclaimed.
Tina wouldn’t accept this.
“Tell me what really happened!” she commanded.
“That’s what really happened!” I protested. “Believe it!”
She stood silent, defeated.
“This is something serious,” she murmured, looking at me with solemn eyes.
I nodded.
“Do you understand that this,” she didn’t know what to call it, “is wrong. What he did to you was wrong?”
“But he loves me!” I pointed out, shamelessly.
She gripped my arms, tightly.
“You can’t be with him,” she explained, sternly.
I had been crying, but I kept wiping away the salty droplets. Now, I let the tears flow freely.
“I’m going to tell Ms. Lombard.” She started marching toward the door, leading back into the cafeteria.
“No!” I stepped in front of her, blocking her path.
“What?” She put her hands on her hips, sympathetically.
“I don’t want to make this a big deal,” I said, flatly.
“It is a big deal. Something has to be done,” she declared.
I sighed, realizing that my friend wasn’t backing down.
“All right. Let’s go,” I mumbled, crushed. I followed her, feeling like I was a traitor who had betrayed her one true love.
We went and told the senior guidance counselor, who immediately made sure Mr. Psenicka was laid off, for good. Contrary to what I thought, nobody in school knew about what had happened. Only Tina and Ms. Lombard knew my secret.
What they didn’t know was that he had invited her to his house that night.
I was debating whether or not I should go during my last period class, not like I paid attention anyway. When the bell rang, I managed to slink out and speed walk to my locker to get the books I would need that weekend. When I got there, I found a note attached to the front. I looked around to see if any of my friends were near. Maybe they left a note asking me what I was doing for the weekend.
I took the letter out of its envelope and read silently.
Please come tonight. We need to talk. I don’t hate you, at all, but we need to talk.
Love always,
Brandon
I was fixated on Mr. Psenicka’s signature. Brandon? What did that mean? Did he think it was too icky for me to call him mister? I thought about that and I finally decided it would be kind of sick to keep calling a guy you were dating mister.
Were we dating?
I had a billion and six thoughts running through my mind and I must have lost sense of where I was. I had been standing in the middle of the hallway and I only realized it when Henry came up behind up and tapped me on the shoulder, causing me to jump literally a foot in the air.
“What’s that?” he teased, humorously.
I waited for my heart to stop racing before thumping my friend on the head.
“Oh this? It’s nothing,” I assured him, faking relaxation.
“Is it from a guy we know?” he asked, confidently.
I wondered if Tina had opened her mouth to him about Mr. Psenicka. I hoped not.
“A certain male friend of yours that we know?” he continued.
I eyed him, happy as hell in my head that I knew he wasn’t referring to Mr. Psenicka.
“No, its not. It’s a list of what I have to get from the store today,” I lied. I kept up my casual tone to make it look real. I was doing a good job.
With that, I slipped the note through the slits in my locker and strolled off.
Mr. Psenicka, er Brandon, told me to be there by seven the day we kissed. So, I left my house around six-forty five and arrived at his place just before seven. I sat down on his front stoop, ornamented with velvet leaved plants and cherry red roses, dangling from a vine that crawled up either side of the porch. I dropped my head into my hands and cradled it back and forth.
I had been sitting there for some time just staring at the door, when it suddenly opened. I shot up and froze. He was leaning on the door, gazing at me with a huge smile.
For what seemed like eternity, neither of us said anything.
I was usually the icebreaker with Tina and Henry, so I figured I would use that talent here.
“I like the sweatshirt,” I attempted, admiring his black sweatshirt bearing the Champion logo on it.
It was a tacky line, but it worked. He rested his hands on my arms and tugged. I followed him into the house, leaving everything I knew about him up until that point outside in the cold.
He led me through the entire house into the kitchen. A delicious aroma of Italian cuisine instantly hit me. I took a whiff and concluded that it was spaghetti and, another whiff, meatballs. We sat down at the breakfast nook, the only table in the kitchen, and he lifted his fork and started to eat. I stared at him, perplexed as to what I was supposed to do. I became absorbed in my own thoughts, wondering if he knew I was there.
“Is it too hot?” I heard him say. He stopped eating and looked up at me.
“No,” I responded, softly.
He smiled, amused by me feeling awkward.
“I made this for you. You’re allowed to eat,” he said, pointing to the steaming dishes.
I nodded, looking down at the spaghetti that had been put onto my plate, topped with a deep red tomato sauce and sweet-smelling garlic bits.
“I did a horrible thing to you,” I said, ashamed enough not to look up.
He put down his fork and reached across the table.
“No,” he said, seriously. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“But, you didn’t want anyone to know!” I protested, fidgeting in my seat.
He sighed.
“I shouldn’t have put you in that position. What I did was inappropriate.”
“But…” My voice trailed off. That was true.
“I think you were confused. It’s not every day a teacher falls for his student’s friend.”
Had I heard what I thought I just heard? His words raced through my mind. “It’s not every day a teacher falls…” A smile slowly appeared on my face and I took his hand. I was thrilled that he wasn’t cross with me.
“What are you going to do now?” I asked the man who lost his job because of my big mouth.
He shrugged.
“I’ll find something. Don’t worry,” he replied, glancing toward a closet door on the other side of the room. I looked at it, wondering what he had in there. Probably a mop and other cleaning materials.
We continued eating for a little while longer. I found that I had a huge appetite, which was strange since I had a huge lunch before I went outside to tell Tina.
I realized then that I was thinking about Tina for the first time that day since lunch. The rest of the time my mind was in overdrive, going on and on about Mr. Psenicka, er Brandon.
My face must have given me away because Mr. Psenicka could tell something was wrong.
“Is the food okay? I should have kept on the sauce longer,” he criticized himself with a pout.
“No, it’s fine,” I assured him. “It’s something else that’s bugging me.
“Like what?” he leaned forward, interested.
“It’s Tina. She warned me to stay away from you.” I looked into his concerned eyes.
He may have been concerned, but he wasn’t surprised.
“I saw you leave with her during lunch this afternoon. I didn’t know why then, but I got it after Ms. Lombard called me a dirty pimp and told me to get the hell out.” He snickered at his own misfortune.
It’s one of my many flaws to laugh out loud at the wrong moment and I was nearly on the floor, my throat almost closing up with the mirth shooting up through it.
“She’s an evil witch,” I told him, a little too late.
He nodded, still guffawing.
“Yeah, she is.”
We finished eating and I stood up to clear off some plates, but before I could, he grabbed me and started waltzing. He was actually a good dancer and we moved gracefully around the kitchen. It was weird, but nice. And before I had a chance to peek at the cat clock, whose eyes were happily moving from side to side while his crossed paws swayed over the stomach bearing the numbers that told the time, three hours had passed. The dishes that were filled when I arrived were now empty. I was worn out from dancing so much and I think Mr. Psenicka finally got the message that I didn’t want to anymore.
“Do you want to watch a movie? I’ve got Pulp Fiction!” he exclaimed, enthusiastically.
As hard as I tried, I couldn’t help but think of the Pulp Fiction party I was missing at Tina’s house. I suddenly got a weird feeling that I should have been with my friends that night. I kept this in my head since I was here with Mr. Psenicka, Brandon, and I wasn’t about to leave in the middle of my good night. Besides, I was having a pretty good time.
“Sure, I love John Travolta!” I imitated him, satirically. I followed him into a huge bedroom.
He pretended to glare at me and pushed me onto the queen-sized bed. He went over to a huge pile of videotapes stacked up on a big brown dresser and poked through them until he found Pulp Fiction. He stuck it in the VCR and climbed onto the bed. I leaned back and rested my head on his shoulder. He was pretty comfortable.
The movie started and I soon dozed off. Some time later, I woke up to find a baby blue blanket that Mr. Psenicka had probably given me so I wouldn’t freeze to death. However, Mr. Psenicka himself was not next to me.
I sat up and stretched. It was quiet, a little too quiet. I was wandering around the room, feeling the smooth checkered sheets and matching comforter on the bed, running my hand across the varnished furniture and peeking into the organized dresser drawers. I didn’t hear any sounds and after awhile, I began to feel a bit edgy. I walked around the first floor of the two-story house and was entering the kitchen when I heard a horrible scream come from the closet Mr. Psenicka had glanced at nervously during dinner.
I stopped and listened. Five seconds later, I heard another cry for help. Straight away, I recognized the screamer. What I couldn’t figure out was a reason he might be here. I ran to the door and pulled. It wouldn’t budge. I pounded on the door, but got no answer. Panicking and fearing the worse, I yanked a hair clip out of my hair and worked it into the lock, which eventually gave in. I opened the door and listened: nothing.
I crept down the stairs, with one hand on the rail and the other clamped over my big mouth. When I got to the bottom, I saw a scene worse than a poor puppy being dragged off to the pound. Yes, it was worse than that!
What I saw would change the way I looked at Brandon Psenicka for the rest of my life.
Henry was lying in a pool of blood, more gushing from his temples. His glasses had been knocked off his face and his green Jets jersey was now stained dark red.
Mr. Psenicka was towering over him, gleefully. He had a scarlet clothed clarinet in one hand and a huge grin on his face.
“That’s one less fan for that bitch to get rich off of,” I heard him gloat to open air.
I had been standing there, traumatized by what I had just witnessed, for what seemed like hours, when he turned and noticed me. Tears flowed from my eyes and deposited themselves, invisibly, into the rug beneath me.
Neither of us spoke. I turned to run.
“Please, I can explain!” he started moving towards me.
I scrambled up the stairs and ran for my life.
I obviously didn’t run fast enough because he caught up with me and grabbed my arm.
“Listen to me!” he begged.
“Get off me!” I cried, smacking him.
“Just listen to me! I can explain everything to you.” He held me tightly and I struggled to exonerate myself, but I was too weak to even loosen his grip.
“Someone help me!” I shouted.
I spun around and spit in his face.
“You dirty bastard! What the hell is wrong with you?”
He looked at me, miserably, but I didn’t care. He had just murdered my best friend and I hated him.
I fought back as hard as I could. Finally, I swung my leg under him and nailed him in the, um, toto. I hurried off and prayed for someone to pass by and hear my screams or see me running from a crazed Scot-hot dream guy, but I had no such luck. Soon I had reached the front door of Mr. Psenicka’s house. I don’t know how, but I managed to open it and escape. I didn’t turn around or I would have seen that Mr. Psenicka had caught up with me again. He pounced on me and we landed in a heap on the cold hard concrete. I felt a specific chill on my face and I tasted blood. Nonetheless, I tried to stand up and keep sprinting, but he had a hard hold on me and wasn’t letting go anytime soon. I had no choice, but to keep screaming.
The only thing I could really do was wait for someone for rescue me. The other possibility was Mr. Psenicka killing me. Gulp.
A few minutes went by and I was forced to hear him out.
“Please, I had to do it!” He tried to make sense of his deranged crime.
“Why? “ I asked him, crying blood. ?”Nobody forced you!”
“She forced me,” he yelled, as if I was supposed to understand right away who she was.
“Who?” I demanded.
“My greedy half-sister.” He looked down at the ground.
My eyes widened in utter disbelief.
“You killed Henry because he loved Shakira?” I couldn’t believe what I had just heard.
He nodded, guiltily.
“Don’t you get it? He didn’t understand just how evil she truly was. I couldn’t let him live not knowing the truth!”
“So, why didn’t you explain?” I barked.
“He wouldn’t listen to me,” he tried, “and I was so mad.” He shrugged. “I was so angry with him. I’m sorry.” He shook his head, regrettably.
I froze, not knowing what else to say or do. I didn’t love him anymore, I couldn’t, but I couldn’t hate him either. He was just so damn cute when he was upset.
There was an eerie silence and I could hear the crickets calling each other over for tea and cars honking from two towns over. There wasn’t a soul on the road, so it scared the crap out of both of us when a car that resembled the Weasleys’ car in Harry Potter pulled up to us. The driver’s door opened and to my shock, out stepped Oliver Wood! I could see his dimly lit face reflecting in the shadows of the streetlights. He was wearing a dark robe and I could tell he had Adidas sneakers on since I had the same pair at my house. He stared down at the wrestler pinning me to the ground. He tisked tisked and shook his head.
“You’re not supposed to kill the pretty ones,” he rebuked the teacher, who leapt up into the air and stood his ground.
“Where did you come from?” he questioned the former Quidditch team captain.
“I come from the book you treat like crap,” he snapped. “You let this girl go now or you’ll get it.” He held up a fist, threateningly.
This made Mr. Psenicka burst out laughing.
“Yeah, right.” He replied, sarcastically. “Are you going to use your little magic powers on me?” He raised an eyebrow, doubtfully.
Oliver Wood smiled.
“Fireus smokeus anus!” he called out.
Seconds later, I smelled gas and then I saw yellow sparks rise up from Mr. Psenicka’s lower backside. The teacher yelped with pain and ran in circles, whining like a three year old.
“Please! Take it off?” he beseeched, desperately. “I’ll do anything.”
This made the keeper beam.
“Leave my girl alone. Forever.” He stressed the last word and Mr. Psenicka surrendered, his rear end burning with flames. He raced away, shattering the Weasleys’ car windows with his cries for his mommy.
I was lying on the ground, too bewildered to speak or move. Oliver helped me and gazed into my eyes. “Are you all right?” he asked, sincerely.
“I’m fine,” I promised him, nodding. “I’m fine.”