Page 3 of Disobedient
I slipped into the tiniest dress I had, intending to pull Briggs into an empty room and tell him to have his way with me. The worst that could happen was the embarrassing, humiliating moment that would come immediately after he turned me down.
I was determined to not let that happen though. I’d seen the way Briggs’s eyes dilated when I calledMr.Harrison. If he wasn’t interested in me, I’d eat my own hand. I could see lust written on his face when he watched me walk around the house in shorts and a t-shirt without a bra. I saw his eyes zero in on my chest and see if the shirt would show off my tits.
Briggs Harrison might be in his forties, but he’s still a man at heart. If I sway my hips in front of him and spread my legs apart behind closed doors, there’s no way he’ll be able to resist me. And if he does, well, that’s going to make things awkward around the house. But considering my daddy would kill him if he knew what his best friend was thinking about me, I figure nobody is going to be spilling the beans on what happens between the two of us.
BRIGGS
The lock-in kicks off with a bang. Literally. Fireworks explode over the campus and shower every color of the rainbow down on the graduating students. Half of them are laying on sleeping bags in little cliques. The other half curls up with their friends on blankets. Everybody enjoys the show.
The graduation lock-in is our way of keeping kids safe. Where they might usually convince someone to buy them some alcohol and party at someone’s house, at least here at the school, we can keep them corralled in one place alcohol-free.
I know that shooters have gotten onto the grounds in the past. Whenever the teachers and I make a round the morning after, we find little caches of them. But at least if one of them were to drink too much, we can control the situation. We can call for help, get them some water, and keep them situated until their parents or an ambulance arrives.
Not every student stays. It’s one of the off-years this year and none of the cheerleaders or sports teams participants are here. The so-called popular kids are probably off at somebody’s house throwing a rager. I can’t blame them. When I was a student at Naughty Pine High School, I didn’t stay for my grad lock-in. I went to a buddy’s house, got plastered off of four beers, and tried to sleep with my best girlfriend. To this day I’ll never forget the embarrassment of her rejecting me for not being good enough.
I make my rounds as the fireworks show ends. Graduates can filter into the gym where dozens of carnival games have been set up. The cafeteria has been transformed into a casino, complete with dim lights, slot machines, and our gym teacher teaching kids how to count cards while playing Blackjack. One building near the gym and cafeteria has been left open. There are some rec games on the ground floor in various classrooms, but the upstairs has been reserved for kids who want to take a nap. There are some comfortable chairs, blankets, and even some donated pillows they can use for the occasion.
I shake some hands, grab some blankets, and help the staff clean up the football field. It looks like tonight is going to be a good time. Everybody is buzzing with excitement and I see groups head into each of the three buildings. There are tables full of food and drinks in each location and the smell of fried food emanating from the gym draws me in.
I’m inundated by bright lights. At least outside there were some dark skies. In here, it’s music pounding from the speaker system and fluorescent lights filling every inch of the space.
I head to the vendor supplying funnel cakes and order one with strawberries and as much powdered sugar as he’ll give me. A graduate nudges me in the side and says I’m headed for a diabetic coma. “Hey, I gotta keep up with you kids somehow. You guys might have the energy to pull an all-nighter, but I’m lucky to pull an all-dayer.” The sugar will keep me energized for a few hours longer. Later, I might slip into one of those nap rooms for a quick snooze.
“Hey, Briggs,” my eternal tormentor arrives with a group of girls following her. She shoots me a wink and I’m torn between looking at her face and letting my eyes trail lower to wear her little red dress ends.
“Good evening, Summer,” I nod at her and her friends. “You ladies here for some funnel cake?”
There’s a flurry of giggles as the girls poke at Summer and I wonder if they know about the friendship between her father and me now. I know she didn’t want it exposed when she was a student, but now that she’s graduated, maybe that’s a different story.
“You feeling like a funnel cake, Summer?” Tilda asks. I recognize her from a few of the plays I’ve seen the theater put on over the years.
I came to the plays and musicals when Summer started performing in them as a way to support her. I’d sit with her parents until the last few minutes. At that point, I’d slip away to the back of the auditorium and wait for the people to disperse before I congratulated her. I’d do my part shaking hands with the parents and telling them that their kids were musical prodigies, but I was really just there to support the girl I’d watched grow up. When I became the principal, it made even more sense for me to be at the theater performances.
Summer tosses her friend a roguish smile over her shoulder. “Why? Do I look like one?” It’s a corny joke, but when she turns her head coquettishly to look back at me, I swear her eyes scan my whole body.
I changed into a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt before the event began. Now I’m wishing I hadn’t. It feels like her brown eyes stop at my chest, glazing over as the fabric stretches across my muscles.
The moment is interrupted by the funnel cake vendor. He slides a paper plate across the table and asks the ladies what they want, taking the attention off of me for a minute. I surreptitiously grab my funnel cake and back away from the group, only catching Summer’s eye in the process.
“Hey, wait,” she breaks away from her girls. A few mumbled words later, she has me all alone a few steps away from everybody.
I stand there holding my funnel cake in one hand and my nerves in the other. I wiped this girl’s ass when she was a baby. I took care of her when her parents had to work and she was sick. I watched her have a thousand firsts. But all of that is negated by an unconscious rise of feelings. I don’t know where they come from or why they happen. I look at this girl I’ve known for the last eighteen years and I see a woman standing in her place. “What’s up, Summer?” I clear my throat before speaking, but it doesn’t help. There’s an edge to my tone that I can’t deny.
Summer bites her bottom lip and it makes me hard in unexpected places. “You should meet me in Building B later.” She speaks in a soft, low tone as if she doesn’t want anyone to hear her. In fact, I’m barely sure I’ve heard her correctly.
“Excuse me. What?” A flush rises on my cheeks and I wish it were darker in here so she couldn’t see what she was doing to me.
“Building B?” She says innocently. “Aren’t there rooms on the second floor for people to use if they get tired?”
I can see where this is going and I tighten my grip on the funnel cake plate. “Why, uh, why would you want me to meet you there? You sure you don’t want to meet up for some ping pong downstairs?”
She steps closer to me and I can smell the strawberry shampoo she used earlier in the day. If anyone is looking at us, they might have some questions about how close we are right now. “Unless you’re going to use the ping pong paddle on my ass, I don’t think so. Building B at midnight, okay? Room 239.Don’tbe late.”
Summer turns on the ball of her foot and traipses off to order from the funnel cake vendor. I stand there trying to remember how to breathe.
Did Summer Clinton really just say that to me? Or am I already hallucinating from sleep deprivation?
SUMMER
