Advanced English

Ellen stared at the list until the letters began to blur and swirl. She was faintly aware of the others around her giggling excitedly and those who cursed under their breath. But no one, save her, was frozen in place, on the verge of collapsing into sobs. Her last year of high school and she had been relegated to study Shakespeare and Steinbeck alongside future mechanics and dishwashers. But it wasn’t the thought of hearing Atticus Finch’s courtroom speech read aloud in a faltering monotone that made her want to rip her heart out and stamp it out of its misery. It was that he hadn’t chosen her. Despite her impressive grades and impassioned essay on how Lady Chatterley and Elizabeth Bennett were the worst anti-feminists.

Mr. Shipley, or as the entire female student body referred to him--Mr. Shapely--was the senior Advanced English and Journalism teacher. After school, he traded his khakis and blazer for tight shorts and a polo to coach girls’ tennis. He had the intellect of a Greek philosopher and the body of a Greek god. Girls swooned during his mythology unit, each imagining themselves as Mnemosyne as their teacher narrated the role of Zeus.

Mr. Shipley chose 15 students based on grades and feedback from previous teachers, a writing sample, and an interview. He was known to be strict but fair and only gave two A’s per semester. Students who graduated often said they learned more in his class than any English course at a university. Though Ellen knew how students were chosen, she couldn’t help but feel there was other criteria when she saw the names of the girls who were chosen. Cindy and Sarah were varsity cheerleaders and National Honor Society members and probably had 27 other undiscovered talents. Eva and Marcy were artists and looked like fashion models rather than the grunged-out druggies the other artists were. Cora was a cellist and though she rarely spoke, her pale white skin and white blonde hair gave her an angelic and mysterious quality. And then there were Jenna and Gemma, the inseparable twins who managed to get away with still dressing alike because their clothes highlighted their spectacular bosoms.

Ellen had no athletic, musical, or artistic accolades and would most likely be described as pleasant, but mousy. Whenever she complained about not being pretty to her mother, her mother replied, “Better to be a Plain Jane than an Igit Bridgette. Or Icky Vicky or Spotty Dotty. And my lovely girl, you’ve got your words. You’re the best writer I know!”

As Ellen continued to stare at the paper on the wall, she wondered why God had given those girls beauty as well as talent and gave her nothing. Why did some people get double and triple helpings and others none? She knew this truth existed in the real world where homeless slept on pavement blocks away from mansions and great kids got cancer while bullies got free rides into college. But at that moment the fact that Mr. Shipley would choose girls based on their looks seemed like the gravest injustice in history. Ellen realised that the only way to not let this kill her was to get revenge.

Since it was 1990 before mobile phones and social media, she had to be creative. The anonymous letter she sent to the principal, superintendent, and PTA contained a detailed account of a series of lurid acts between a teacher and his star students. The accusation was simple: to be granted entrance into Mr. Shipley’s class, a girl had to be willing to grant something in return. The letter was concise, with just the right balance of diplomacy and outrage. It seemed to be drafted by a lawyer of a parent. Ellen thought it her best piece to date.

What Ellen didn’t know and couldn’t have known was that Mr. Shipley did indeed have an inappropriate relationship. But with only one student—a feisty girl in her last semester who’d already been accepted into a journalism program on the west coast. When Mr. Shipley was confronted quietly in a room full of the school district’s VIPs and lawyers, he assumed, “the inappropriate behaviour” he was being questioned about referred to Tonya and he quickly confessed to everything. The committee, now believing he was seducing the pupils in multiple classes, asked incredulously, “How can you live with yourself knowing you’ve sullied so many young girls’ lives?”

Mr. Shipley, thoroughly confused and exhausted from the unburdening, stammered, “What do you mean? There’s only Tonya.” And adding as the reality of her impending departure surfaced yet again, “There will ever only be Tonya.”

As he became more aware of the actual accusations being brought against him, he became both terrified and indignant. The more he protested, the guiltier he sounded and he was put on unpaid leave until a full investigation could be carried out.

The girls, of course, denied everything. A buzz spread throughout the school as to why Mr. Shipley was suddenly absent. At first, theories ranged from suicide, to murder, and some even believed he was having an affair with the principal himself.

The girls on the list and those in his current journalism class created an unauthorized “special edition” of the school newspaper. Included were poems and essays detailing the merits of Mr. Shipley’s teaching and the injustice of the accusations. The best articles were from the seven females who were profoundly insulted that the school officials would so quickly believe that the only way they would be eligible for an advanced class was by getting on their knees in front of a man.

Ellen quietly watched the event blossom into chaos, marvelling at how she could set something so big into motion. Yet, as she sat on her bed one night reading a copy of the newspaper, she realised something that would colour every decision and moment for the rest of her life.

“I really wasn’t good enough to be in that class.”

The Purge

Lisa sat on a dust covered wicker chair and examined the boxes around her, printer paper box shaped tree rings. The topmost was easily sorted through—bowls, knife and utensil sets, and the odd garlic press or grater—mostly the domestic aftermath of the dissolution of a one-year marriage. They’d waited patiently in these boxes while Lisa searched for and lost herself in exotic locales. Now that she’d returned, their fate was to wait for a new home on the shelves of Goodwill.

She’d wanted so much to want the life she willed into existence that year. The mortgage, stable jobs with 401K plans, her own car and car space in a garage. But the life came with an actual person included, and out of kindness to him, she ended the charade as painlessly as she could.

The next layer of boxes acquired in her college years contained essays written in the lifting fog of drug-fuelled parties, ticket stubs and brochures of random tourist places that were always seen as a lark rather than what they really were—a way to put off the future, if only for a few hours. Bottle caps and scrawled upon napkins that were talisman of moments she had felt she was fitting into her skin just right. The papers, the detritus of short-lived romances, and bug-ridden obsolete textbooks were dumped into a growing black garbage bag.

She had four days to remove her belongings from her mother’s attic before a new family moved in and crowded the spaces with their own memories and rubbish. Since she had moved half way around the world, she had repeatedly told her mother to throw out, donate, or sell all of it, mostly out of a desire to not face the boxes or the visit. Now that her mother had finally down-sized to a tiny apartment, she herself was forced to get rid of 30 years of accumulated treasure and begged Lisa for help.

Lisa put one box to the side, simply marked “Dad”, knowing that if she opened that one, she’d never finish. She then tackled the most battered boxes, some covered in stickers which still sparkled and if smelled closely, emanated a faint scent of grape and strawberry. These items had been handled hundreds of times when she was in her teens but rarely looked at in the last several years. There was the plastic tub of folded triangles, containing declarations of never-ending friendship and recycled gossip. There were brown stubs of corsages, rocks, shells, single earrings, and a mother of pearl handled knife found on a day she and four other girls skipped Chemistry and walked the four miles to the river. There were diaries with broken locks which contained poems that were much too sad for the purple and pink heart-filled pages. These bits and bobs went without protest to the bottom of the plastic bag where they instantly seemed to lose their magic.

She surveyed the small dusty room, noting that the bags of rubbish far outweighed the Goodwill piles. She tried not to take it as a sign that there was little worth to her life up to this point. Sighing, she drew the lone small box near her feet. She had never opened the box since filling it the day after the funeral. She’d been told to take whatever she wanted but it was obvious most of the treasures had been chosen long before her plane had arrived. It felt somewhat barbaric, like they were all a bunch of scavengers pecking at the remains of his personality.

At the top were coasters from pubs he’d frequented when he lived in London. Seeing them always made her think of cosy wooden booths, old Victorian carpets, the clanking of heavy glass mugs and his infectious laugh. When he was gone, she’d watch “Only Fools and Horses” on PBS and imagine that he was there, just off camera, maybe telling a funny story.

Nestled in a silver stein were small, greying plastic bags filled with coins, each bag from a different country he’d visited or worked in. Whenever he returned from a trip and added new coins to the stein, he sang David Bowie’s “Changes”, leaving off the -s. He showed her each coin, making up stories about what he’d bought---a sandwich for a tiger in China, a two-pound bratwurst in Munich, a newspaper for the Queen in London, taxi fare on the Amazon in Brazil. She’d beg for details and laugh and squeal until the sadness of him having been gone faded away.

Stories of faraway places became less frequent as she grew older and he travelled less. Conversations focused on algebra and college entrance exams. She wanted to spend a year travelling while he insisted she get a degree first, preferably in some field that had actual job prospects.

Pulling out the baggies of coins, the regret seeped in. The way she’d ploughed through her four years of schooling, ignoring his calls and emails out of resentment and spite. And the worst—leaving him on his own in the campus town so she could celebrate her graduation by getting high with people she barely knew. Though she didn’t have much, she’d give everything just to sit and chat with him again. Even if for ten minutes.

At the bottom of the stein was a folded piece of paper she’d never seen before. Opening it, she immediately recognized the imperfect scrawl.

“Your world is a big place. See it. But know that you are MY world and always will be.”

She’d placed the stein and its coins in the donation pile, hoping that some kid might be inspired to see where they’d come from. As she and her mother looked around the rooms and locked the doors for the last time, they both smiled, feeling the lightness of new beginnings. On the plane, Lisa folded and unfolded the note, marvelling at how something so small could be too big to throw away.

The Slice

When Mikey died the other ex-pats were surprised to realise that out of all the lies, the fact that he wasn’t really a New Yorker most disappointed them. Everyone had loved Mikey. He was a huge guy with even huger hands and when they hit you on the back with a “how yous doin’?”, you were “in”--even the curmudgeonly Chester whom nobody wanted to pat on the back let alone embrace in a long held bear hug. Mikey had a permanent growth of stubble and deep blue eyes with lashes so long the Thai girls swooned with love and jealousy. Though he was a big guy whose former muscles had turned a bit soft, he never seemed to sweat in the heat. A scent of aftershave and soap trailed him, even after a long session of drinking.

Mikey had arrived with a Harley and one suitcase three years prior and soon had set up The Slice, a small pizzeria with an actual wood burning stove imported from China and beers from Belgium. He sold slices, which the Thais ruined with lashes of mayonnaise and fake crab reluctantly offered for free. The ex-pats filled up a long table and ate an entire pizza as they went through the night, a new slice with each new beer. And all the while, Mikey and his infectious laugh and banter kept the night going. When people left the table at The Slice either to fall into a long blissful sleep or to frequent the shadier locales, it was with a sense of camaraderie and brotherhood. Mikey and his loveable New York accent and Italian-American hospitality made him the heart of the mostly unhappy and depraved bunch.

Everyone who found themselves in the tiny gulf-side town had a story and it was a rite of passage to eventually give the narrative, often in the hours before dawn long after beer had been replaced by whiskey. Mikey’s story involved vague references to the war in Iraq and a book that had sold well. Though the story was generally accepted, more than a few people thought it strange that Mikey seemed uninterested in any topics beyond sport, motorcycles, and comedy. They figured he had mob ties and had escaped with someone else’s money or was even perhaps in a witness protection program.

Many people asked to read the book. After all, there wasn’t much more to do than drink. Mikey just laughed and said he didn’t own a copy and that it would probably put them all in a coma if they found one, which they wouldn’t “on account of I used a fake name.” On the contents of the book, he was even more close-lipped. “No way I’m going down that memory lane. Life is the here and now.” And then he’d ring a bell which meant that everyone would get a beer on the house.

Mikey’s big heart, which organised charity rides for the region’s orphans and made even the most cynical of the ex-pats smile, failed him on a particularly hot day when the lads were playing basketball against a group of nimbler Thai teens. He wasn’t on social media and only used email to order products for The Slice, so the consulate in Bangkok had a bit of work in tracking down his next of kin, who showed up three days later in the form of a travel-weary fidgety man named John.

John had managed to contact someone in the group and met them in the hotel bar. After the requisite questions about the flight and the accommodation, they began lobbing questions at the wiry man.

“Why did you call Mikey ‘Martin’ in your email?”

“Mikey? Is that the name he used this time? I always preferred Vinnie. More ethnic sounding. Mikey sounds like an adult retard.”

“What are you on about?”

“Which story did he tell you? Ex-baseball player who lost his career after an injury? Former pilot for a drug cartel? Or was it that he donated a kidney to an oil tycoon? That was my favourite.”

At this point, John was twirling his empty glass between his hands and his leg seemed to be shaking uncontrollably. He didn’t look at any of the men as he spoke.

“Martin is my younger brother. We’re from Iowa. He was a welder like the old man. I escaped to New York. Parents were killed by a drunk semi-truck driver. They didn’t even see it coming. We got a huge settlement. More than two guys in their 20s would know what to do with.”

“Are you taking the piss? Mikey’s from fucking Iowa? But the accent? And what about Iraq?”

At the mention of Iraq, John became very still and looked at the man with two empty eyes.

“He said he was in Iraq? That surprises me.”

“Why did he lie to us?”

“Why do any of us do what we do?”

John had agreed to let Martin/Mikey be cremated in the local temple. After the long service in which more than a few Thai women cried and huddled near the body, the ex-pats sat at plastic tables in the courtyard in their finest clothes drinking their finest whiskey. They cried at the double loss of their friend and their trust. John was nowhere to be seen.

The ex-pats eventually got on with their lives, finding a new table to gather round at the end of each workday and trying to create the bonhomie they’d once had. One day, Nigel came in, carrying a book and looking paler than usual.

“The book was real. And it wasn’t about Mikey. It was about John”

There he was on the back cover, huge arms folded and serious expression that fit the synopsis about a man from New York whose older brother went to Iraq, came back mentally ill, and destroyed the family.

“I knew he was bonkers! But why did we believe that stuff about Mikey?”

“Why do any of us do what we do?”

Cooking the World

It was unusual in the 1980s for a father to have sole custody of a child, especially a girl of 8. But there they were, two abandoned strays navigating the strange new space between them.

Marty started with TV gameshows. Figuring “Wheel of Fortune” was age appropriate and somewhat educational, he tried to bribe her with treats if she could guess the words. Ellen sat stiffly on the sofa, tight-lipped, even when the answers were painfully obvious.

He brought home two Barbies, not knowing if she’d prefer one with blonde hair like her mom’s or dark hair like her own.

“Dad!  Barbies minus the ‘r’ spells Babies! I’m not a baby!!”

“Aha! I knew you could spell!” Marty said, grinning at his scowling daughter.

They played checkers but she expressed no joy when winning and after three games, asked quietly if she could go to her room. He bought coloured paper and art supplies; he tried nail polish and My Little Ponies. He presented her with stickers and Smurfs and a Lightbright, but with each mumbled “thanks,” she seemed more haunted.

He took her to the re-release of Bambi and had to carry her out as her sobs, “I want my mommy!” were clearly disturbing the other people in the audience. Their looks confirmed his failure as a parent. At night after she went to bed, politely declining a story, he sat in his armchair, head in his hands, fighting the urge to both cry and punch the wall.

One Saturday afternoon, she came to him, holding a dusty rolled-up map.

“What’s this?” Feeling encouraged by the slight sound of enthusiasm in her voice, he exclaimed,

“This, my little Chickpea, is the map I had when I was a great explorer!”

Marty had been travelling in Europe when he’d called home and discovered he needed to make an honest woman out of Ellen’s mother, who years later turned out to be incapable of honesty. He used the money he’d saved for Asia and Africa to pay for a simple wedding and shortly before Ellen was born, got a job on the production line of the big valve factory.

He showed Ellen his route from Istanbul to Italy.

“I was here,” he pointed to the Naples dot, “when I found out about you. I was so excited to meet you that I got on the first plane and flew here.” For the first time in months, Ellen focused her eyes on his and smiled. He noticed that her dimples were becoming deeper like all the girls in his family.  He forgave himself the lie.

“What was it like to go to all those places?”

He dug out a box and showed her the stack of photos he’d taken during those two months. The Blue Mosque, the ancient Greek ruins, the narrow streets of Napoli, and all that blue sea. And the food! He felt like an idiot at the time, but seeing the pictures brought back all the flavours of herbs, fresh ripe tomatoes, peppery olive oil.

She looked at each picture a dozen times, asking questions that showed an intelligence and curiosity he didn’t know she had.

“I wish I could go to all these places.”

He then got an idea that would change everything for this tiny adrift family.

“Here throw this at the map.”

Holding her small hand in his, he aimed a dart at the map he’d hung on the wall of the kitchen. It stuck in Brazil.

“Ok, now we’re going to the library and we’re going to learn about this country and cook something special to make us feel like we’re there. What do you say?” Ellen smiled and ran to grab her shoes.

That night they sat together over steaming bowls of feijoada and Marty hid the stinging behind his eyes as his daughter animatedly recounted every fact she’d learned about the country.

Ellen had no fear of strange ingredients. She gnawed on raw lemongrass as they made curry for “Thailand night”; she peeled the heads and shells off of king prawns to make the rougaille when she’d hit Mauritius. She’d struck Milan and was amazed at the transformation of the risotto as she patiently stirred for 25 minutes as Marty carefully ladled in the stock. One of her favourite nights was when Marty spoke like the Swedish chef from The Muppets as they made their meatballs. “Cook the world night” became sacred.

By the time Ellen was in high school, she knew she wanted to travel the world and become a chef. But she worried about Marty’s health as his body seemed to be failing him despite his young age. His shoulders stooped and his joints were permanently stiff from the daily repetitive action at the factory. Everything took him more time—breaking an egg, flipping a crepe, mincing garlic. He had a chronic cough and often fell asleep before 9:00.

She couldn’t shake the thought that something was going to happen to him while she was in some jungle in Asia. Secretly vowing to care for him forever, she registered for the culinary program at the community college. The world would be waiting there for short trips after she got a job in a local restaurant.

For Ellen’s high school graduation, they made a Turkish feast of grilled koftes, hummus, eggplant puree, rice pilaf, and stuffed vegetables, hoping it was enough like an American barbecue to not put off the relatives, whose idea of ethnic cuisine was sweet and sour pork from Panda Express or Taco Tuesday.

When it came time to open the gifts, envelopes of money, Chicken Soup for the Soul, and a few cookbooks, she opened her father’s gift last. Inside was a crisp, white apron and in the pockets, something Ellen both yearned for and dreaded.

“No, I can’t.”

Clutching the plane ticket to her chest, she sobbed in her father’s arms as he whispered into her ear, “It’s time to really cook the world, my little Chickpea.”

 

 

The Dress

Jan had been in Bangkok approximately 14 hours when she fell prey to the city’s most common scam. That first morning, she had opened the balcony door to a stunning pink and orange sunrise bouncing off a sea of golden stupas. She was eager to visit these temples that looked like palaces of jewels compared to the sombre stone and glass she was used to. She dressed in a long brown peasant skirt and long sleeved white blouse and went to the rooftop to enjoy the complementary coffee, fruit, and a mild tea flavoured cake, marvelling that at 8:10 a.m. she could already feel beads of sweat forming above her lip.

As she sipped coffee, she looked again at her map. The night before over a meal of an omelette and spicy papaya salad, she had marked the routes she had planned to take to visit the temples of Wat Chanasankram, Wat Mahathat, Wat Pho, and Wat Phra Kaew. 15 minutes after she left the comfort of the hotel, she was stopped by a young well-dressed man, who told her with an impeccable English accent that there was a funeral for the King’s cousin and that most of the major sites were closed. He was so apologetic and lamented that there weren’t signs or information posted for foreigners.

Having neglected to do much research prior to the trip, Jan had no idea she had just become the man’s first victim of the day. So happily oblivious and feeling lucky to have met someone willing to take her on a private tour of lesser-known and less sacred sites (and for a mere 50 baht!), she eagerly climbed into a tuk-tuk with Ton.

They did indeed go to a temple, a small, quiet place where a man sat on a chair in the corner, flipping through a magazine, a few metal Buddhas placed on a table in front of him. Ton told her these were extremely sacred because they were blessed by the city’s oldest monk, so she bought two.

As the tuk-tuk zipped in and out between pedestrians and exhaust fumes, Jan tried to open every part of herself to drink it all in. she couldn’t see one thing—not a tree, sign, house, or shop—that remotely reminded her of the Midwest. The heat, the noise, and the smells were nothing like the pervasive aroma of fresh cut grass or the sound of the mowers, and the occasional rattle of a train. The sensation of being completely uprooted and placed upon another planet filled her with such unexpected joy, she realized there were tears in her eyes and her face was hurting from smiling.

And so it was with this big smile, that she entered a shop that was filled floor to ceiling with the most beautiful fabrics she’d ever seen. They made her think of temple gables, the sea, and ancient kingdoms. They shimmered and sparkled; some were bold and others were understated. They whispered exotic and shouted of royalty.

A small man with thick-rimmed glasses spoke to her, “You are an actress or maybe CEO.” She couldn’t tell from the intonation if it was a question or statement and responded a bit slowly, “Ah, no. I’m a teacher. I’m going to teach here. I mean, in this country.”

“Ah! A teacher! In Thailand it is a most revered job. A woman teacher, especially foreigner, must be dressed very respectfully.”

“Oh, but I brought a wardrobe and I’ve been told it is fine.”

Jan was starting to understand that something was expected of her and this wasn’t an excursion to see how fabrics were made.

“Then you need the special dress that you can wear on any occasion like wedding or holiday party”

Jan had only packed one suitcase for her year in Thailand, and though she had brought an assortment of mix and match skirts and blouses that were conservative and wouldn’t show her sweating, she didn’t have a “nice dress”—one that stays in the back of a closet in a protected bag until it can be brought out to dazzle and entice.

She thought about how cool she’d look at a wedding in the States wearing a sexy and elegant "Asian style" dress. It would be a unique and practical souvenir of her journey. Within minutes she was being measured and shown swaths of fabrics. Ton and thoughts of the sacred sites had suddenly disappeared. She chose a satiny pale silver with tiny intricate flowers in varying shades of colour.

She was presented with a bill and told to come back in two days. She gasped when she saw that the total was more than twice her budget of spending money that month. She’d been with the shop owner for nearly four hours so not wanting to be disrespectful, she paid the money and rode in silence with Ton back to the hotel. When he asked for triple what they’d agreed on earlier, she handed it over, silently, heart stinging.

She did pick up the dress and though it looked beautiful on the hanger, it bunched and pulled on parts of her body that it shouldn’t. She had met other foreigners who were aghast that she had fallen for the scam and she felt a fresh burst of hot shame each time she hung the dress in a new place. The dress followed her for five years and three countries, until she donated it to a charity shop when she returned home.

A few weeks later at her 10-year class reunion, still feeling the lingering effects of reverse culture shock and trying not to bore her ex-classmates with tales of her journeys abroad, she saw a group forming around a woman she didn’t recognize though she couldn’t mistake the shimmering silver that had transformed her into a breath-taking site.

“I saw it by chance. Never worn!! I got it for 10 bucks and altered it myself. I can’t believe someone gave this up. What a sucker!”

 

Art Class

It was a dazzling white winter day when Allison entered the studio to pose nude for a group of student artists. She had taken the long way through the campus to have the first look at the old oak trees and neoclassical buildings covered in a fresh layer of powdered snow. It was the winter break and most students were back home snug in their childhood beds, leaving the orphans and workaholics free to roam the post-apocalyptic like emptiness.

As Allison entered the room, she was immediately struck by a wall of heat and the smells of clay, paint, and dust. A short, wiry man in his 60s greeted her and took both his hands in hers. “Welcome. I’m Jim. We spoke on the phone.”

She had seen the ad for models wanted on a bulletin board in the English building. It wasn’t a lot of money but because she was avoiding going home for the holidays, she needed extra money for meals and drinks out with her friends who also preferred early afternoon games of drunken pool to spending time in tense family environments.

"You’ll be sitting up there,” he said, pointing to a wooden table covered in yellow flowered sheet, “and the other girl will be there,” he pointed to another table with a dark green shimmery cover.

 “It’s going to be a study in contrasts. You and Laura are as different as apples and orangutans. Now go into that room there while we set up. She’s already there.”  

Allison hadn’t realized there would be another girl and felt both relieved and terrified. When she entered the small room, the other girl had her back to the door and upon hearing Allison, looked back with her head over the shoulder, just like a painting. Long, wavy bright red hair flowed down the middle of her back and the one eye Allison could see was like a cat’s and shone a bright green. She had a wide smile and perfectly straight teeth. But what made Allison nearly gasp was the shape of her body—something she’d only seen on the pages of Elfquest. Laura was about six inches shorter than she was, with an almost grotesquely small waist, full heart-shaped backside, and when she at last turned for a proper introduction, a set of breasts that were at least a C cup.

“Hey, I’m Laura. This is great, isn’t it? Easiest money ever. I just hope I don’t fall asleep on that table. It’s so warm in here!”

“Allison. Have you done this before?”

“Sure, loads of times. Jim calls me a couple times a month. It’s practically paid for all my books this year.”

“What are you studying?”

“Double major in Business Admin and Accounting. How about you?”

“English. Not sure yet what my focus is going to be.”

“Ah. Well, you should get ready. You can put on that robe if you want but I actually find it more comfortable to just go out there and sit down and not have to take it off in front of them. Know what I mean? See you in a few!”

Allison began to undress, feeling more anxious as each winter layer was removed. She folded her clothes into a neat pile, underwear and bra hidden between her jeans and sweater. There wasn’t a mirror in the room but she brushed her hair and tried to stand up straight and strike a model pose—one hip slightly more forward that the others. She had the sensation she always had before jumping off a high dive board or the garage roof, that feeling that something beyond her control was preventing her from taking the final step off into oblivion.

Finally, mustering a confidence she didn’t feel, she opened the door and walked out. The first thing she saw was Jim’s naked body and his much too white high-top sneakers. The group of students were also in varying degrees of undress and were focused on their easels and the already posed Laura.

“Alison, we like to get nude as well to feel a sense of connection with the subject. By making ourselves vulnerable, we can tap into our id and transfer it onto the paper.  Hope you don’t mind. Now, I’d like you to wear this hat and sit in the same position as Laura. Imagine that it’s a hot, sunny day and you’re admiring the scenery in a field somewhere.”

Allison glanced at Laura and did her best to copy the pose. Legs stretched in front, arms behind for support. She looked down and saw the familiar folds of her stomach and the straight lines from her ribs to her hips. Her breasts hung off her chest like deflating balloons stuck on a Happy Birthday sign. She put her head back as if cloud-gazing and arched her back.

The minutes ticked by and she began to feel a numbing pain in her buttocks and she couldn’t feel her arms. She had started to sweat and the beads were rolling down from under her armpits. The large straw hat was itching her forehead and she longed to move any part of her body.

After two hours, Jim shouted, “Everyone, pencils down! Now, walk around in a circle and examine one another’s work. Girls, you too.” And so they walked in a slow motion conga line, Allison between a fully-clothed woman and a man completely naked save for his glasses and brown socks. After the third easel, Allison couldn’t bear to look anymore.

Most renditions of her body looked like a jumble of Picasso-esque lines and tiny triangles, whereas Laura’s figure curved and flowed like the Titian wet dream she was.

She hurriedly put on her clothes and took the crumpled $25 from Jim’s sweaty grip, mumbling a “thanks” and “bye”. He hadn’t asked her to return and nor would she have. Later at the bar, people asked why she wouldn’t take off her coat.

“Exposed myself to the elements too much today.”

 

On the List

Ryan was very open about being on the sex offenders register. He had told the story so often and in such tense environments that for the sake of everyone’s nerves he’d reduced the incident to a few sentences which sprang from his mouth like gunshots. “Met her on-line. Thought she was great. Looked over 18. She wasn’t. Parents found out. Sent to jail. On the list for life.” 

What he didn’t say was how horrible that first year had been after he got out. His hometown was so small that nearly every residence, including that of his parents, was too near a school. He rented a small trailer on the outskirts of town. When in town, parents would rush their children to the other side of the street if they saw him coming.

“So how’d you get a job here then?” asked a rather gruff fellow from Leeds who seemed a bit sceptical of Ryan’s story. They were in Thailand, a country notorious for being a magnet for pasty, sweaty paedos from the West. Though Thailand had been cracking down and weeding out potential sexual predators from the teacher pool, university positions were a little more lax.

Another of the lads chimed in, “Screwing a girl who looks like a woman—and who lied about being a woman—is definitely not the same as diddling a little boy.”

Lou, the only female at the table, had got a bad vibe off Ryan from the start. She thought he looked more like a serial killer than a paedophile, but suspected there was a nugget of badness in there somewhere.

“Don’t you think even if she were 18 that she’s still a bit young for you?  You’re what—28, 30?”

The men were silent a moment before bursting out laughing. Most of them had Thai wives or mistresses that were nearly half their age, albeit over 18.

Though Ryan didn’t say anything, he feared that Lou had a point. Ever since he could remember, he’d had a thing for girls who were likely in their last year of high school. And his favourite way to enjoy these girls was by laying down as they towered naked above him. Seeing the curves and flesh from that angle made him feel like he was floating on a river through a canyon. He remembered when he was about 9 years old and hiding under the wooden stairs that led to the basement. His babysitter had snuck her boyfriend in through the backdoor and as they stood on the stairs making out, his hand under her skirt, Ryan watched mesmerized through the gaps in the stairs as his caretaker’s buttocks moved in rhythm to his pounding heart.

In high school, Ryan wasn’t a bad-looking guy. Tall and gangly with glasses but with enough of a wave to his hair to seem mysterious. He was quiet and shy so was surprised to be asked to a dance by a girl who was as gorgeous as she was popular. They had made out heavily in every corner of the dance floor and later as they rolled around on the plush carpet of her parents’ basement floor, he asked her to stand above him naked. She laughed at first but he continued to ask, a whine creeping into his voice, until finally she asked him to leave and never spoke to him again.

The girl he’d met on-line had filmed herself for Ryan, camera at her feet, as she did various activities in the nude—dancing, working out, ironing. She’d never said it was weird or that Ryan was a freak and it was for this reason, he likely fell for her and blocked out the fact that in the videos, he could see it was a teenage girl’s room with its requisite posters and picture collages on the walls.

Ryan didn’t answer the question and Lou let it go. The other men who taught in the universities had no qualms discussing how the young women pushed the boundaries of the dress code by wearing the required knee-length black skirt but altering it so it fit their small bodies like a glove and finding white blouses so small, the buttons over their pert breasts were always seconds away from flying off. The men discussed asses, legs, and tits in the same jovial way they talked about football and rugby. But during these conversations, Ryan smiled and said nothing. He claimed to not really notice and insisted that he preferred curvy blondes, a type that was lacking in Thailand.

It was true that he really wasn’t interested in having a Thai girlfriend. It seemed like too much work, especially given his low salary. But he found he couldn’t stop looking at them. Though they were in their early 20’s, they looked much younger and they all seemed to have perfectly shaped bodies with small waists, shapely legs, and breasts that seemed would rest perfectly in the palm of his hand. Their skin reminded him of lattes and their long, black hair was impossibly soft and silken. Some of them flirted with him mercilessly, touching his arm and standing too close when asking a question.

Lou was the one who broke the news to the ex-pat group.

“I told you guys he was a creep, but you didn’t believe me!! I knew something like this would happen!”

She then began to tell them the whole sordid story of a hidden camera in his shoe and the footage gained in weekly speaking tests. He’d been caught when he left his phone in a classroom and a teacher saw an image after turning on the phone. He’d surrendered the phone and left the country immediately.

The men were mostly shocked that they’d been unable to detect such a deep flaw in a man’s character. But life went on and as they raised their classes in a toast of farewell, Lou said by way of closing the subject, “Once a perv, always a perv.”