Before: "Are All These Schools..." (Sulky Peters Chapter 1/8)

Sulky was kind of the first real character I had, and is one of my favorites, but I've had to try to not make her dialog too cute. Any cuteness she has should kind of stem from her awkwardness. She's a self-conscious person. I think I took her name from the Belle and Sebastian song "Sukie in the Graveyard." The bit about writing the Dead Kennedys song was something I did in 11th grade math class. Got in trouble for that one. Just bored, not homicidal. This was another chapter that seemed to come together easily, but when I look at it now I know it needs to be cleaned up. So I'll post the embarrassing earlier version. Chapter two:

“Are All Schools Full of These Colorful Losers?

Hey, are you dead yet? Some days I think this school day isn’t ever gonna end, and you know I find that a lil’ depressing. 2:40 and the clock’s draggin’. My gut’s hungry and legs are jumping in total nerve-mode like I’m hella bored and still wiry. I’m still gettin’ used to school again, this third special day, and it sucks so royally. I press my fingertips across the closed lids. It’s sunny and fucking hot like the sky’s made of fat just dripping down on us. And this global warming’s gotta be the end, right? I think I’m gonna take a nap if I can, but—nah. Argghh. I think I’m gonna—what am I gonna do?

Mrs. Chalkly’s lovely voice crawls across the desks and everyone’s watches like a slug with rancid juice trails, while I’m trying to find some interesting cracks in the wall. What’s the point of dragging out this school thing each day? I mean, sex hours of school? Haha, err . . . six hours. Hell, that’s stupid. I’m so tired I’m gettin’, like, kinda high. The body’s producing weird drugs and stupid juices. Chalkly keeps grinding the chalk. And I have an itch on my thigh that I’d love to work on but Trevor two seats back keeps staring since my pants are half under my ass because of this uncomfortable seat draggin’ ‘em down. Like admiring my ass is going to get you in it. I don’t put my finger in there, so why should I ask for yours? I bet most dicks are the size of a pinky. Y’know, just ‘cause guys talk too much. Pee-pee can’t be all that.

“Yo, Sulky . . .”

I’m so afraid it’s Trevor, but he’s too far back. Turning head as Jed plays “Taps” on my shoulder—he thinks he owns a piece of me too. Just ‘cause we partied a few times, you know. Like all guys think. He forgets that the parties we were at had like a hundred kids—easy. In his Viewfinder it was just us and he thinks I’m the only girl for him, probably ‘cause he hasn’t had his dick in anyone despite the fact that he’s been writing the nastiest diary-type shit in all the boy’s stalls. Under everyone else’s name. Even his handwriting sucks. Probably wishes I was his sex slave. He’d build a mannequin just to say he got some. Also, curiously, is never absent from his gang of boys. For real. Catholic booty breaker, probably.

“You got a pencil?”

“What? Yeah I got a pencil. I’m in school.”

“Yo, for the test today. She said it was a form, right, where you need a pencil. Don’t be queer.”

“Dude, the test isn’t for another three weeks. Pay fucking attention.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure? I know—you get squirrelly, Sulky. You told me Lincoln raped his slaves, and that one got marked wrong. You definitely sure? I’m talking about the real truth here.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. I’m in the class, asshole. I have the course schedule.”

“The chapter two test? I’m talking about a specific test. I need to know so I don’t fail. I got a ‘D-,’ Sulky. C’mon. Help me not suck at life. My other friends are useless. I’m depending on you.”

“Oh. Chapter two. That was last week. Teabagger.”

“Bitch. You’re a—”

“Here’s a course schedule.”

I wish I was at home listening to the sound of the walls making babies out of dust. Pennsylvania’s blackhead. I can’t stand this place. Horseshit. You gotta pop to get out. You gotta dig the whigger pants if you want to really survive. This dreary scene named after some old spy. I guess that’s ‘cause no spy would ever want to come here. All you’d find is Hessian’s Ford Trucks and one okay convenience store with a broken slushy machine spillin’ rust. And lots of rednecks with acne on their asses and old faded jeans gone white. Disgustingly rich spoiled bitch kids, nerd hermits, crack kids, meth kids, kids who like whippets and even bio nerds who dig crickets. And I should mention the town has way too many testicles. My two cents.

They really need to build a fuckin’ turnstile here so I can get the hell out.

“Yo.” Another tap and I’m ready for violence.

“Yo, what the fuck, man??” I zip around and really hope he doesn’t care about the bounce in my black tank top. I’d cover up if I didn’t like the summer. September’s the last warm month here if you count 60 degree highs as still summer. We wear mittens for Labor Day.

He whispers: “Hey, calm down, babe. Let me help you unwind those yearning panties. Your ass is crying for help and I think I know why.” Arggh, Cheeve.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“You look stressed, and I can tell that someone who cares about your health is needed. So I spoke up. It must be hard work having tight clothes holding all that beauty.”

“You can bite me.” He gets to see all of my purple lips, straight teeth fresh after the braces are off, new lip ring. I snuck that into school this morning after hiding it during breakfast, in my cereal—then I swallowed it, and hid it in my teeth. Normally I’d hope he’d just notice the new hole, for God’s sake. Now he gets to see everything.

“So are you planning on going, because I hate doing to these things alone and you know how easily I get bored?”

“To what? The homecoming orgy? Oh wait, our school’s too poor for a football team.”

“Haha, no shit. I’m talking about Laura Turner’s thing.”

“Right, yeah. Cute girl, decent jailbait. Not my style.”

“You should come.”

“Eh, how ‘bout no way?”

“Why? You’re too good for drinking, me staring down your shirt, and possibly a whole lot more?”

“I’m not into that shit. Why would I spend my night with a buncha drunk bitches trying to find their reflections in a glass? Especially if they’re trying to screw kids at this school.”

“Hey, I’m just going ‘cause everyone else is going. If I have to spend a night alone, I need at least one person there, and I can’t see that happening. See, I haven’t found the right person at this school yet. So why would I spend my night alone when I could be with some people who are going because they just want something to do?”

“Solid reasoning.”

“I’ve got another indecent proposal for you.”

“Suck a knob.”

“I’ll let you change your mind later,” he says. Cheeve’s an interesting guy. But, not so interesting as he thinks he is. Sometimes I feel like pretending Cheeve doesn’t exist. But he is cute, in his stuck up, derivative, misogynist kind of way.

“God, do you hear that?” Cheeve asks. A kid snores next to him like he’s got a bee hive’s horny queen in his nose. The boy’s not asleep, but he breathes heavy like big kids do. Cheeve starts nailing this kid’s shoulder with his finger. He’s fucking disgusted like when he found out Clinton never went further than the stogie. “Hey. Hey. You.”

“Eh?” The boy turns around slowly like a drunk stag. He was happy staring at Mrs. Chalkboard’s flat pinpoints and 80s shoulder pads. Quite the horny time warp.

“You asleep?”

“No.”

“So why don’t you stop snoring.”

Cheeve gradually leans back and the kid goes on breathing as quietly as he can. But I think it makes it worse, because I can hear his nostrils tremble. His insecurity’s like a fart. Then the dinner bell rings and we get to leave.

“Second thoughts?” Cheeve asks in the hall. I always try to make for the girls’ room after class before I hit my locker. Boys always target you at your locker, but if you spend a lot of time in the bathroom they totally ignore you. It’s genetic. Even a brief trip will get them off your back, because they don’t want to know what goes on in there. They always think it’s some infection or bleeding or sexual crap. They never think that sometimes we gotta take a nice dump or a big leak too. Nothing better than a huge load to knock out the early morning groggies. Especially if it’s late in the day.

“Not exactly. I thought I’d go home and write some poetry. You know, get real depressed in my room and check out what the warts coming out of my uterus have to say. See which one inspires me. There’s a yellow one named Bertha. She’s winning.”

He puts his hand against a locker to block me. To hold me like a tree blocking soil. Somehow he got his jean jacket on already. “You always have something to say to me. Always try to gross me out with dirty jokes like that. I don’t think you’ve even had sex. So what’s wrong with me? I’m just a nice guy, right? I’m just trying to make friends. Repeatedly. Until you say yes.”

“I try not to think about it too much.”

“Oh, but you do. I find notes with your little one-liners on them after class. What were you writing on your desk today? Something to convince me you’re an angry dyke who wears boxers and doesn’t use deodorant? Come on. You shop at Bath and Body Works like every other girl. I don’t care if your mom still cuts your hair or you ride a bike. You’re a fucking chick.”

“‘God told me to skin you alive.’ I was writing a song lyric.”

“Touchy.”

“Hey, feel free to leave me alone, corn-fucker. No one’s forcing you to bother me. I’m only here to amuse myself. I got nine months ‘til college, and I could really give a shit about being here. It’s not my town.”

“Just hang out with me, Sulky. It bothers me that we aren’t closer. You might actually find yourself not missing that bitterness you wear like a cheerleader skirt. We don’t even have to hold hands.”

“No hands—really?”

“No, but we can make out.”

“Get AIDs and die a sickly welfare death.”

“Give me AIDs, Sulky. Then we can have sex without worrying. We’ll be able to focus totally on us. No complications.”

I should like girls, but he’s so extra charming today. I want to hang out with him. He’s too much fun, too much for me to openly like. “That’s really morbid. You should have that checked out.”

“Fine,” he huffs, pouting his lips so that he looks so vulnerable. I love him. I love watching men break down like their muscles do their crying. Oh, it’s sweet, but none of you are tough inside. All of you have something for me to take, and I can be good or bad. “You want to hang, you know where I live. Not that I couldn’t be doing something better, but I’ll give you a chance. ‘Til I get bored.” He walks down the hall and down the stairs. I assume he’s out of the building before I move. I stand there for a moment listening to the janitor come out early—probably trying to get home in time for Jeopardy.

The walk home is sticky and lonely. I didn’t bring my jean jacket to school today because I’m afraid he’ll know I’m copying him. But I still sweat and simmer. Irish skin always does, and black clothing gets hot. I think of his fingers—dry lips—hair—bad jokes—lame taste in music. And his always crush-worthy skin. He’s gorgeous, you know. But, God, I hate boys. I hate everything on this Earth. I hate that there’s trash for me to take out when I get home. When I get to my room I put on the jacket because I feel like sobbing but don’t have the guts. And I don’t have the time. I’m busy waiting for Cheeve to come over, but only because I know he’s waiting for me at his house. The gross feeling that this is a beautiful life. Tonight I’ll settle for masturbating before sleep, and wonder what will happen to us. Every single one of us. Because as much as I hate here, I know I have nowhere else to go yet.