Free Drag Queen in the Court of Death by Caro Soles Page A

done this before a few times in bad weather and once when I had a lot of new text books to haul back, but this time he helped carry the stuff up to the third floor. Thank God I'd cleaned up my room on the weekend!
    We put the project back together on my desk and then he sat on the bed to talk. I sat down beside him and the next thing I know I just feel us getting closer and closer. The air between us was charged like sparks jumping back and forth between two batteries! Suddenly I couldn't stop myself. I leaned over and kissed him, right on the mouth. And he kissed me back! I heard him moan, a small sound that slipped out of him without him even knowing and I just threw my arms around him and pulled him down on the bed. He was all over me. But when I tried to pull at his pants, he pushed me away and jumped off the bed like a scalded cat. He stuttered and stammered, his face red and his gorgeous eyes full of panic. He was afraid. Of me, of himself, of all the emotion swimming around in my small psychedelic room, pushing down on us from the slanted ceiling. Maybe he thinks I'll turn him in or something. I'd rather tear my skin off with red hot pincers, like that old saint in the book of martyrs Mary Margaret McGee showed me once in grade school. I tried to tell him how I feel about him, how I'd never want to hurt him, how I'd wait if he needed to think or whatever. I don't even know what all I said, but he kept backing away, gesturing in the air with his hands as if trying to keep me away.
    I burst into tears. I couldn't help it. And that was the best thing I could have done, 'cause he took me in his arms and rocked back and forth in the middle of the room, him crooning over me like I was a wounded pigeon or something. And I hung on tight and breathed in the solid smell of him, memorizing the strength in his arms and the comforting sexy feel of him against me. But then he pulled away and practically ran out the door and down to his car.
    I know he'll be back. He has to come back. If he doesn't, I'll just kill myself!
November 19, 1964
...I hate weekends now! I can't see Michael, can't look at him in class or catch a glimpse of him in the halls or watch him talking to someone in the parking lot. This is awful. For the first time since coming here I feel really alone. Scared he'll never come around. It's been hard before, sure, fucking damn hard, but not like this. Before, I felt like all I had to do was hang on and follow The Plan and it would be okay in the end. Now, I don't know anymore. I feel like I'm losing my way, alone in this foreign city where no one really knows who I am. Or gives a flying fuck.
All week Michael ignored me. He was very formal, not joking around in class or anything, like usual. Everyone noticed. Monica is asking questions. Then on Thursday, when we had our French tutoring session scheduled, I thought he was going to cancel out, but he didn't. He sat there across his big teacher desk and drilled me on verbs and tenses and vocabulary. He read out passages from Maria Chapdelaine and asked me questions. He made me go through one of those dopey oral question and answer conversation things that are so dumb. Like anyone really talks like that. Exactly an hour later, he gathered up his books and said he had to go.
By this time, there was no one left but the janitor. We don't have any sports or after-class activities and everyone gets the hell out of here as fast as they can. Why hang around this dump? I jumped up and followed him and grabbed for his arm just inside the door. He spun around and glared at me. It was scary.
"Don't touch me," he said, so quiet and intense the words just went right through me. "This can't happen. It's illegal."
"But—"
"I'm your teacher. I'm married. Get someone your own age."
He turned away and I jumped in front of him, desperate to stop him from walking away. "How old are you?" I said, like that mattered.
"Twenty-two, but that's hardly the point."
Twenty-two. "Only five years