Not even the absurd notion of someone like her accepting me. I stroked the canvas with my brush a few times, satisfied with the proper hue. Although I had seen her glorious body in its entirety, it was her eyes that had me rapt. Clear, pale green. The color of apples before they ripen.
Wrong fruit, I chuckled to myself, and began mixing reds.
For her cherry lips.
CHAPTER SIX
Cerise
May 14, 1955
Dear Journal,
I saw her again today at school. Georgia was smoking behind the gym, alone. I thought about approaching her, but lost my nerve.
I do not have a crush. A crush is cute and wholesome. A crush typically denotes wanting to get to know someone better.
I just wanted her to hurt me.
I had heard from some boys in the locker room that Georgia was kinky. That she was into things like handcuffs and leather. I had never paid her much mind before this. In fact, I had never crossed paths with her at school. I hated this place, this prison my parents forced me into. They wanted me to have a normal life, with friends and birthday parties and girlfriends.
Georgia was decidedly not the kind of girl you took home, not even to parents like mine.
I didn’t really think she’d be my type, but once I heard the rumors, I began to follow her discreetly. Yesterday I heard her talking to one of my classmates between periods. He was staring at her high heels, and Georgia warned him that she’d punish him with those points if he didn’t man up and take her behind the bleachers.
I stayed in the shadows as he took her, and she punished him anyway. I had seen some sex in my life, but this was different.
She bossed him around. She rode him and called all the shots. She hurt him, taunted him, and she loved it.
Like I said, it isn’t a crush.
I think it’s the beginning of a fetish.
Confused . . . again,
William
Was this his way of recounting his sexual history to me? Was this somehow his preview for tomorrow’s scene? These volumes, sixty-five in total, were filled to the brim with entries—how could he expect me to find a hint about a scene that had nothing to do with vampires? So far, I had read about a half dozen of the journals, cover to cover.
Truthfully, I had no idea where he got them. There was no way, even if he stayed up all night, that he could get all this done. I shook my head and considered giving in for the night. It was midnight, and I had a pain-in-the-ass class first period: Italian. Ugh.
Substituting really isn’t as bad as most people make it out to be. I get to be the hero every day. Kids see me instead of their teacher and cheer; I make their day. Fuck getting a full-time job, one where I actually had to discipline and nag—I just want to be the fun sub who the kids love. No ties, no responsibilities. Subbing for Italian just sucks because it is the kids who flunked out of French and Spanish in middle school. Most of the time is spent just disciplining kids for texting in class, or for taking fifteen-minute bathroom trips and then having to call the nurse to verify their excuses about having bladder issues.
But I needed to know what happened with Georgia, so I had to either finish them tonight or bring the journals in to read in school. I couldn’t just leave the story where I stopped. He said he has faced nothing but rejection, but was she his first?
I began fingering through pages for references to her name. Most entries were about painting and drawing as outlets to feel less anxious. After about fifteen pages—two weeks—I found what I was looking for.
May 28, 1955