Aficionadas – Part One

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Adriana Chechik

Creative Non-Fiction  Creative Writing 214  Clara Gould Questions   I saw you running in PE class! Your buns are really cute! They make me hot! the note read. Below the message, as a signature, was written: Your Admirer!  Peter had waited until almost the end of the class on Wednesday afternoon. He wanted to put off disappointment should a note not be there, and to make the discovery of the note, if present, sweetened by anticipation. He folded the note, slipped it into his left jeans pocket. He pushed it deep down for a reason. His penis had been stirring in anticipation of a note even before he’d opened the drawer in the lab bench. When he saw the message his appendage had taken on the consistency of cured concrete. That was a problem. His penis had been straight down into the upper part of his left pant leg. He looked. It appeared like he had a dry board marker in there, jutting down, and it wasn’t going to just disappear. He needed to rearrange it so it was straight up behind his zipper. That was always less conspicuous. Then, when he stood at the end of class and walked to his locker and to the school bus, his un-tucked tee shirt would hide most of the evidence. The class was reviewing for the final exam in two days. Peter, hand in pocket, brought his bottom up and at the same time leaned forward, pencil in his right hand, and made a note in the margin of his text, as if he’d actually heard what Ms. Spyri had said and thought it important enough to write down. That cover established, his raised position gave him some slack in his lap, and he used his left hand to quickly whip his boner into the less conspicuous location. Then he settled back. “That must have been a good note,” Heidi, his lab partner, whispered. She didn’t miss much. That made her a great partner for labs, but a lousy person to sit next to when in need of boner redisposition. Peter was pretty much lost in the sciences. Through the labs, Heidi patiently taught Peter much about the subject. It was almost like teaching him to read in a new language. “Shut up,” Peter whispered back. He could feel his face taking on a deep shade of red. “Do you two have something to add that I’ve missed?” Ms. Spyri asked. The red in Peter’s face deepened when he looked up and saw Ms. Spyri was addressing them. “No, ma’am. Sorry,” Heidi said with ankara escort the right amount of contrition in her voice. “I was just telling Peter that the problem is so easy.” “Wonderful!” Ms. Spyri said. “So, why don’t you and your partner come up to the board and work this one together?” “No problem!” answered Heidi, smiling. Peter heard the amusement in her voice. He knew its source was the thought of him walking to the board, a little bent over, in front of an attentive class. “Fuck you, Heidi,” Peter murmured. As they came to their feet, though, the bell sounded. In a moment students were gathering books, talking, and walking toward the door. The notes had been there from time to time for about five weeks: sometimes a couple or three a week, sometimes none for an entire week. But once they’d started to appear in the lab bench drawer in front of Peter’s stool they continued, and he looked forward to them. Peter had left notes too, but there was never any reference to what he’d written or asked in the next note. Except once. The first note had appeared on a Thursday in April and its message had gotten his attention. So he left a note of his own: Who are you? Boy? Girl? The second note had been there the following Tuesday. It didn’t answer his question directly, but at the bottom was the dark red lip gloss impression of a pair of puckered lips. Peter, solidly straight and now reassured, could look forward to the teasing contacts, enjoy them, and let his mind wander. Now, near the end of May, Peter had received almost a dozen notes, this one the most suggestive and enticing. Just a week left in the school year. Would she reveal herself? The feelings and questions the notes elicited were heady for a high school junior. This girl must really be into me, he thought. Still, this shy, mysterious someone competed for his attention with Melanie. * * * * * In April, at roughly the time the notes started, Melanie – whom Peter had known through elementary and middle school – caught him up on the way to the buses. “Hey,” Melanie said, after tugging his shirt sleeve from behind. “Hey,” Peter answered. They were almost finished with their junior year, both seventeen. He’d caught sight of her only occasionally during the intervening years. So, a nice surprise. “Good to see you,” said Melanie. ankara escort bayan “Yeah,” Peter answered, pleased. Peter gave her the once-over as discretely as possible. Yo! he evaluated, Melanie’s grown up! Had he seen her all the time the gradual changes would not have been as dramatic. Her straw-colored, thick hair began with a low hairline and ended at her shoulders, middle part. Even now, at the end of the day, her face looked fresh and scrubbed, her cheeks were rosy. At five and a half feet she was a few inches shorter than Peter. He could tell her body was taut, athletic, under the wide-open, flannel shirt with the yellow tee underneath, and her faded jeans. “You look great.” “Been running cross country since freshman year. “Yeah, I heard. Third at state this year?” Peter appreciated how that yellow tee shirt had no contact with her tummy, a combination of a flat stomach from tens of thousands of calories of cross country running and the breasts that pushed it outward. “That’s right. What’s up with you? Mom says you’ve probably got a dozen girlfriends.” Peter colored slightly. Yeah, one, at least. I think I do. Maybe. If you can count notes in a drawer as a relationship, Peter thought. I just don’t happen to know her name is all. “Nah,” he said and fell silent. “Well, maybe one of these days we ought to do something together?” Melanie asked. “Yeah,” Peter said. “Yeah, definitely.” He was making the motions that indicated he was about to turn and head for his bus. Is it the penis? The testosterone? Melanie thought. What makes them so damned dense? Melanie was willing to take the initiative. She didn’t have a date to the junior prom. Peter wasn’t hard on the eyes: black hair brushed back, lean face, just the suggestion of dimples, brown eyes, a couple or three inches short of six feet. It might be nice to get to know this older version of him. Yeah, she could do it, but a girl likes to be asked. “Okay, well, see you,” Peter said and began to walk. ‘Peter’ was just about to leave Melanie’s lips when he abruptly turned. “Hey, you got a date for the prom?” Peter asked. Well, Halle-fucking-lujah! Melanie thought. “Wow, no! Gosh, I completely forgot all about that, Peter. Sure. If you’re asking then great, let’s go,” she said. “Okay,” Peter said, “I’ll call you.” He turned escort ankara and headed for his bus. She wanted me to ask, he thought. I think she did. Man, she’s grown! And there’s whoever-she-is checking out my ass and liking what she sees. Next thing you know I’m going to have to carry a stick to keep from drowning in women!    * * * * * The idea occurred to Peter at the dance: could Melanie be the one leaving the notes? It was possible. So he asked her, as casually as he could, what science she was taking. Oceanography. And the Oceanography classes didn’t use the lab in question. That didn’t bother him. In fact, a yes would have been a disappointment. So, Melanie and still whoever as a backstop. Isn’t life grand? he thought. * * * * * What Peter didn’t recall was how he’d found that first note. Heidi had asked in April, a week or two before the prom, if there was a lab manual in his drawer. Nobody ever went into the lab bench drawers. He’d opened his halfway and scanned what he could see of the interior, had said no, and closed the drawer. But Heidi had asked was he sure? Maybe all the way at the back? So he’d opened the drawer again, swept his hand across the back, and had felt the folded paper. He’d brought it out, Heidi forgotten, and opened it. Hi, Peter! I’d like to get to know you! – An Admirer! * * * * *  On Thursday, Heidi sat atop a grave marker at the cemetery near the school, a favorite hangout, and unzipped her lunch pack. The sunlight warmed her skin, and she turned her simple, pretty face up to let it wash over her. She had brown hair that reached well down her back and curled around her shoulders, intense blue eyes, a small nose reached by an attractive low bridge from her forehead, and full lips. Her large breasts made her look top-heavy; they were over a midsection that varied only slightly in width through her waist. Her legs were sturdier than she’d like and only lifted her to five-three. She hoped as an adult she’d be able to get a breast reduction. They made her incredibly self-conscious and, whatever her mother might say, she felt they were all anyone saw when they looked at her. A couple years ago her mother had talked her into a pixie haircut. It had been a disaster. She’d felt like a pair of walking tits. Now her much longer hair gave people something else to look at. She could recite chapter and verse from the don’t-notice-my-big-bust fashion bible: chokers, necklaces (small beads, amulet, small medallion) no lower than the suprasternal notch , jackets with shoulder pads, straight-leg jeans, boat-neck tops.

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