I couldn't believe it. I got hauled in to Cassidy's office for a lecture and he was telling me that my tongue stud was a threat to national security?
{{You know what he means,}} Emma said sternly in my head. {{You could get your teeth broken if somebody punches you in the mouth at just the right time.}} Her tone hinted that any time would be the right time, when it came to Angelo Espinosa.
"I'm usually pretty safe, Senor Cassidy," I offered, my leering tone leaving no doubt what exactly I was referring to. Emma (when did I start calling her 'Emma'?) cut her eyes at me and Cassidy looked put out. I felt kind of bad for saying that. Cassidy's the kind of guy who you cut down your swearing in front of and try to behave like a nice, well-mannered kid. Jono and me were watching "Desperado" once on cable and Cassidy came in and sat with us while Antonio and Salma were getting it on, and we both felt uncomfortable as all hell. Which is a shame, when there's naked Salma Hayek to be enjoyed.
"If you're quite done," Emma said. It wasn't a polite inquiry. It was an order.
"I'm not saying you can't wear it in your free time, lad," Cassidy said soothingly. He's a good guy that way — he doesn't mind compromise.
Not like some people.
Emma's ice-shard eyes were leveled at me, a look I'd experienced from too many people. That "Behave yourself, you hooligan" look. That "With that attitude, you'll never get anywhere" look. I fucking hate that look.
"Fine," I growled, then opened my mouth, stuck my fingers in, and unscrewed the tongue stud in front of God and everyone. Cassidy groaned and rubbed his hand along his skull while Emma's glare dropped a few thousand degrees.
With this attitude, I'll never get anywhere.
Jono found me sulking in front of the Playstation, watching Solid Snake get riddled with bullets without doing much to help him.
{{You'll never beat Monet's record this way, mate,}} he commented, plopping down next to me with that leather-and-smoke smell that always confused me, considering he hasn't been able to smoke in ages.
"Wasn't trying to," I grunted. "Just bored."
He was silent for a while, then leaned his head back against the wall, just like I was doing. {{They made you take the mouth jewelry out, didn't they?}}
"Yup."
{{Bastards.}} No real malice behind the word; it was rare that we actually meant it, but we still said it anyway, just, y'know, to commisserate.
"Yeah."
{{Turtle,}} said Jono.
We had this game, see, where the two of us (usually drunk or stoned or something — on my part, anyway) would sit on the sofa, heads thrown back, and stare at the watermarks on the ceiling. The MassAc is well-built, but all the repairs and refurbishments that Villain Attacks require do take their toll. Therefore, watermarks. Jono's really good at it; he sees all kinds of things, from eggcups to fighter jets. I normally see Mickey Mouse. Mickey Mouse eating, Mickey Mouse jumping rope, Mickey Mouse getting a blowjob. Jono says we have to go to Disneyland together someday and tell Mickey what we've seen him doing on our ceiling.
He pointed the turtle out and I grinned tiredly, not feeling any less depressed but loving him anyway for trying to cheer me up. "Looks more like a tortoise," I mumbled, expecting and recieving a cursory whap on the arm.
{{Mickey Mouse and a tortoise,}} he amended.
"Mickey doing a tortoise...."
For the next few days I wandered around like I'd just been told I would bleed from the eyes for the rest of my life. Jubilee tried to jokingly bully me out of my mood, Paige tried the "wise and tender talk" avenue, and Ev, bless his soul, bought me a bunch of green-apple Jolly Ranchers and always let me have the remote control. Even Monet offered to play video games with me, and probably would've pretended to lose.
But Jono was who really got me through, because despite that gloomy-looking outside, he's one've the best vatos to have around when you need somebody. I think it's because he's not...well, he ain't cheerful, that's for damn sure. But he makes jokes all the same, those wry, dark jokes that we both lean towards. So he picks me up, but not in that annoyingly perky dharma-granola way.
The not-so-good part is — when one of us is bad, the other one is too. We've sort of got hoodluming in our natures, and when you're best friends, you do things together.
Classes were torture for everybody else, especially Cassidy and Frost, because we were just complete fuckheads for them all. Not that we did anything really bizarre — no pissing on the desks or nothing — but if there's anything Jono and me are good at, it's general mischief and wise-ass remarks.
When we studied poetry in Lit, Jono (who cut his teeth on Byron, I'm sure) gave this huge long recitation on what he thought the meaning behind "Ozymandius" was. Complete with references to other poems and everything. He took up the whole class with this big monologue, and then, when he was done, he paused for a moment and added, {{At least, that's what I think it means. I forgot to read it.}}
In Chem class, I brought along a bunch of incendiary recipes I got off — where else — the 'net, and Jono and me concocted bombs while the rest of them diligently cooked salts in their crucibles. We screwed one of the mixtures up, of course, and the entire wing had to be vacated until the evil-smelling yellow cloud we'd turned loose could be neutralized.
But the shit didn't hit until late one Saturday night.
Now, let me tell you this about growing up in El Barrio. You learn to stay on your own fucking turf; you learn who to avoid and who you can talk to; you learn how to drink hard liquor and how to take a toke. Drugs are so easy to come by, and life is such crap, that nearly all of us from South Central have tried something at one time or another.
And my boy Jonothon, he was even more hardcore than me, back in Jolly Oul. He was doing Ecstasy and coke and acid and a whole buncha shit I've never done. {{I should be in them "Just Say No" ads, I should,}} he said once. {{Kids would take one look at me and never even sniff markers again.}}
But my chest and mouth haven't exploded into a big fireball, so I can still have the occasional joint if I feel like it. There ain't much opportunity, but every now and again when I'm real stressed out, weed's the best thing I know to take the edge off. Well, sex would probably be better, but marijuana's more accessible, y que?
Our usual place for "a bit've naughty" is on the roof above the mudroom. (Yeah, I know — what the hell's a mudroom? Ask Emma, that's what she calls it.) Nobody's in there at night, and the window we climb out of belongs to, of all things, a sewing room. Paige's used it a couple times to mend buttons and rips and stuff, but she's the only one.
So that's where we headed Saturday night, round about eleven-forty-five, with a bottle of Cuervo and a bullet's worth of bud. I like smoking with the bullets, 'cause I never got the hang of rolling joints and I never have papers around when I need them and tons of other reasons. Like, you can stick a bullet in your pocket if somebody comes by unexpectedly. Can't do that with a lit joint. Well, I guess you could, but, anyway.
We settled down on the shingles and I took a swig of tequila before sparking up, feeling the heat on my lips and the thick grassy smoke roiling into my lungs. I let it cloud my alveoli for a while and buzz its way into my bloodstream before leaning over to Jono and blowing smoke gently against his face. He shut his eyes and inhaled deeply — or pretended to — his eyebrows climbing his forehead, and then we both grinned at each other. I know he's got no mouth, but you can tell when somebody's grinning.
"Maybe an eyebrow ring," I murmured, staring up at the clear, clear New England sky.
{{Or a tattoo,}} Jono suggested, ever the man to keep me on the straight and narrow.
"Yeah."
{{Why's it so important to you, anyhow? The self-mutilation, I mean.}}
"Just...it's just something I can do, y'know?"
{{Teenage rebellion?}}
I scowled at him before answering. "No, asshole...I guess. I dunno. I just want one. I want something."
{{I'm betting that what you want in't an eyebrow ring, mate.}}
"What then, oh Eightball that Walks Like a Man?"
{{Shut your face. You want to be able to do something grown-up.}}
"Sex doesn't count?"
{{Sex doesn't count. Although —}} he put on an amusingly mournful expression, {{I could do with some've that myself.}}
I snorted, rolling my head around until my neck cracked, feeling funny pins and needles where my chin scraped against my chest. "You and Country Mouse having one'a your little tiffs?"
{{We had a blazing fucking row, y'twat. She thinks I should be more...affectionate, or sommat like that.}}
"Buy her a stuffed toy. Chicks dig stuffed toys. And it's good, see, 'cause it's like, the smaller the better, 'cause they like them to be cute and you don't have to spend much."
{{Strewth — why don't we go buy a smegging Happy Meal and I'll nick her the free toy out've that?}}
"Mock all you want, but it's true. Even Monet likes stuffed toys."
{{You what?}}
"Yep. I've seen 'em." I leaned closer, whispering confidentially, "Beanie Babies."
{{Shiiiiiite.}} We stared at each other for a while before the giggles kicked in — I'm a helluva one for the giggles — and then I had to try and hush myself up while Jono laughed all he wanted because it was all in our heads. Jono's lucky that way, although I'm sure he'd give me one of his patented "Are You Mental? I've Got No Bleedin' FACE!" looks if I ever said so.
I never had the chance to tell him, in any case.
The window to the sewing room flew open with a bang, and we whipped around to find the White Queen staring icily at us. Not Emma, not Miz Frost — the White Queen. She stood there with telepathic power practically lashing around her, around us, and her eyes were Arctic chill, sub-zero, permafrost. She was terrifying.
"Get inside," she said.
We did.
You know that sick feeling you get in your throat and your stomach when you realize you forgot to do your homework and the teacher's nearing your desk? Or when you're having a great day and then you suddenly remember that tomorrow, summer vacation's over? Or when you set down a glass on the table, think, "That's kinda wobbly. I should move it," and then you don't, and then you knock it over and break it and stain the carpet?
Quadruple that, and you'll know how Jono and I were feeling, standing in Emma's office as she sat in her chair and just looked at us. And looked. And looked.
Finally, Jono — the guy must have cojones of pure marble — ventured, {{Miss Frost, we're really —}}
She cut him off right there. "Don't go any further, Starsmore," she warned. "I don't want to hear apologies, or excuses, or righteous defense. You two were partaking in illegal narcotic substances on school grounds. Might I remind you that you are still under the guardianship of myself and Mr. Cassidy? Might I further remind you that you have a responsibility to your teammates to keep your synapses fully functional?"
"To be real honest, Miss Frost," I started, "Jono wasn't really doing anything, just keeping me company."
The glare she fixed me with was enough to chill my blood, especially paired with the dirty look Jono was shooting at me. "I have no doubt that if Mister Starsmore could share, he would have," Emma intoned.
{{Too right,}} Jono added indignantly. Standing up, Emma turned that glare on him and said, "You go to bed, Jonothon. I have to discuss this with Cassidy. Come to my office tomorrow morning before first class."
He clearly didn't want to leave me holding the bag, but there was really nothing else Jono could do. I could tell he wanted to argue — the guy's got a million arguements for everything, I think he was born a devil's advocate — but we both knew better than that. He'd be up all night formulating the most logical, reasonable way to exonerate us for tomorrow morning; we might respect Cassidy and Frost for all they've done for us, but that doesn't mean we accept punishment without a token fight.
All the same, when the doors shut behind him it was like a clap of thunder. Doom.
Emma stood behind her desk and we just stared at each other for a while. I'd never seen her so angry (at me, anyway), and it was scary, but at the same time, she was weirdly and disconcertingly fucking gorgeous. I was so used to calm, collected "Frosty" that seeing her like this, practically vibrating with rage and faintly flushed with its heat...it was almost intimate.
"What is it, Angelo?" she finally said. I raised an eyebrow quizzically and she came around to stand in front of me, fiery icy blue eyes thinning slightly as she peered into my face as though she could read the answer there. "What's been bothering you? Why are so so intent on this --" Emma waved one hand, exasperated, "— this behaviour?"
"What, you mean drinking and smoking up and getting a tongue piercing?"
"Yessssss," she hissed, annoyed by my flippant tone. I couldn't help but feel a hot spur of pleasure inside me, a mean satisfaction at having pissed her off.
I grinned. "I dunno, Emma," I drawled, seeing her lips thin at the familiarity. "Maybe it's 'cause I'm eighteen and I'm still here, with the same old people, living under your roof with your rules. Maybe it's because I actually kind of miss L.A. and my family and being able to speak Spanish with people who look like me. Maybe it's because I'm sick of being treated like some kid who has to go to bed when you tell him to and eat when you tell him to and yes-sir no-sir whenever you get mad."
"Are you unhappy here?" Emma bit her words off, jagged icicles. "You're certainly not obliged to stay, Angelo."
The bitterness of my short, barking laugh sounded abrasive even to my own ears. "Oh, yeah," I spat. "And where the hell would I go, Emma? Back home, where everybody thinks I'm dead and the 'bangers would Gat me down like a dog the minute they saw me? Or what, to Westchester? Yeah, they'd welcome me there. 'Nother X-Brat come to join the posse." She'd folded her arms in anger now and was waiting for me to finish, so perversely, I kept going. She'd have to listen to it all, if she was going to be like that.
"I can't even move out properly here, to Boston or whatever, because I don't have a job. I don't even know if I could get a job. 'Whupping evil mutants' ain't exactly a transferrable skill, y'know."
"Are you finished," Emma said. Not a question, not even a thinly veiled hint.
"I dunno. You tell me." I stepped closer to her, wanting her to feel small, and overpowered, and helpless — all things which I knew the White Queen was not. "Even if I did move out, join the real world and get a real job, how long d'you think I'd last, Emma? Even an ol' streetwise cholo like me? I'd be running back here before you could say 'maladjusted', and you know it. None of us would make it outside of the Academy. You raised us to think the way you think, and now that's all we're good for."
Emma looked up at me, her lips tight and dark. "We raised you to think for yourselves," she snapped, but the freezing bite wasn't in it. She sounded...she sounded just the tiniest bit weary, like she'd been carrying something heavy for a long way and was almost done in. I tried not to feel bad for her. "The last thing I want is for you to feel trapped in either the Academy or in this lifestyle."
"Then let go a bit!" I got a hold of myself and toned my voice down, lower, calmer. "Don't fight so hard when we strike out on our own." Emma's gaze flicked away, skittering over the floor, and I could see actual trepidation in her eyes. I closed the short, chilly distance between us and slipped my arms around her, incredulously feeling a slight trembling pass through her body. "We're grown up now," I murmured, faintly aware of myself talking even through the shell-shocked dizziness that was swirling up around me. "You don't have to worry about us getting into trouble."
"I know that." Emma glared up at me, annoyance crackling through her voice again.
"I'm eighteen," I insisted, refusing to let her tone cow me. "Old enough to smoke."
"We've never approved of you smoking --"
"Old enough to drink...."
"Not according to the laws of Massachusetts."
I smiled and my voice was honey and gravel. "Old enough to fuck."
My fingers tightened on the curves of her hips and Emma pressed her hands against my chest, more out of startled instinct than anything else. "Angelo —" she began uncertainly, then more strongly. "Angelo Espinosa, a modicum of respect in the way you address me —"
The press of my opened mouth against hers obliterated the rest of that particular reprimand. I could barely think, lost in that sultry orchid smell of hers, the icy heat of her body against me, the wave of heat that was engulfing me from the toes up. Emma didn't kiss me back, but she didn't shove me away, either. I don't think I even noticed until I pulled away, panting slightly and almost nauseous with desire.
"Feel better?" Emma asked. She sounded like a hunting lioness. She sounded deep and disturbing. She sounded wonderful.
But the realization of what I was doing -- without even the excuse of drunkeness, this time — was starting to seep back into my fogged brain. I couldn't let go of her, not just yet, but when I spoke my voice was subdued. "Yes...." I swallowed, wildly disappointed by her unresponsiveness. "But I'll have to try harder next time."
The bloody red of her slightly cruel mouth hardened, then her lips parted, sending a shudder through me. "Angelo," Emma said distinctly, delivering my name like a swear word, "you always could perfect anything you set your mind to."
And then her hands were in my hair, dragging my head down so she could kiss me, only it wasn't like any other kiss I'd ever experienced because it felt like she was devouring me, and I couldn't think of anything else but her but maybe that was because of the promising softness of her hips thrust against mine. I moaned helplessly and pulled her closer, and it was on the verge of painful, being so close together, but I couldn't move for the life of me.
Emma started moving backwards, toward her desk, and I stumbled along for a couple of steps before clueing in. Her hips bumped against the desk before I knew it, and we were tugging each others' clothes awry and then her mouth was open and her head thrown back and I could feel the shining cut ends of her hair brushing my knuckles as I was deep inside her and God, was that my voice grating out words, they were in Spanish so it must be me, and Dios Emma moaning, her fingers whitening on the smooth polished edges of the desk she was clinging to as we did it, as we had sex, made love, fucked, whatever the hell you want to call it.
Maybe, now that I think about it, you can't call what we did "making love."
The bad thing about me, about basically being a dyed-in-the-wool pessimist, is that it also makes me attracted to the more dangerous things in life. Oh, I've got my dumb-ass Pollyanna moments — how else d'you think Hank McCoy convinced me to join this game? — but generally, if it's unhealthy for me, I'm all over it.
Torres was just like this, all delicious curves and razor edges, and I wanted her so badly it nearly got me killed. I don't know just what it is, but the pain in these sorts of situations gets almost addictive for me — yet another reason Jono and I are best friends, because he understands harmful addictions better than most people. We've got self-destructive streaks so long they make the Great Wall look like hopscotch.
So seeing the hellfire in Emma's eyes while her fingernails dug into my back only dragged me in deeper, ensnared me more, drove me harder. I wouldn't say that we're both deep-down bloodthirsty people, but I know that we recognized that same lust for wickedness in each other. And once you start being bad — especially if it used to be a way of life and you haven't been for a long time — it's fucking hard to stop.
I can barely recall what we did after, how we rearranged ourselves and our clothing and her desk. All I remember is that I felt numb, like if you put salt or lemon juice on a cut and the stinging's worn away. How else are you supposed to feel after you've had sex with your teacher?
When Emma ushered me out of her office, giving me one last scorching smile as she shut the door, there was only one thing I was certain of — and that was that we were going to do this again.
I've never been so right in my life.
"...And it's not just the aesthetic value, son, it's the...the safety concerns!"
October, 2000