Read Online The Bitch Posse by Martha O'Connor - Free Book Online
Authors: Martha O'Connor
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So she lies. “Bay, I’d never lie. Not to you. You’re just what I said, sensational. There’s an English opening at Tarn next year. I’m pretty sure I can . . . ”
His gaze flutters around the room like a butterfly, at the walls the windows the clock, everywhere but at her face. “Don’t say any more. Just fold up the damned thing and seal it. I don’t want to know what you wrote.”
Nausea spins in her stomach, choppy waves rolling under a boat. Tears well up in her eyes, and she threads her fingers through his hair and pulls him toward her, as if by touching her he can become her, so she won’t have to be herself. Into his ear she whispers, “I’m sorry, Bay. . . . ”
He shakes his head. It’s not okay but it’s all right, and he’s making his old sand circles on her back with his fingertips, comforting her. Maybe he does love her, after all.
She opens her lips. His mouth meets hers and the sickening spin turns into a happy, little-girl dizziness. She’s on a carousel, the kitchen blurring around her, and she feels like laughing. As he hardens against her, she swirls her tongue into his, in this pure, good, fresh morning, yellow as dandelions, bright as daisies, clean clean clean of blood. The slice on her stomach has clotted over like blackberry jam. He wouldn’t even have to notice it if he didn’t want to. She lifts herself onto the table, opens her legs. And now she will fuck everything, and everything will be okay.
His eyes seem bruised, like a flimsy petal she’s rubbed too much between her fingers, and she’s pulled him too close, she knows that, even as he’s fucking her one last time of the morning.
Goddamn it, I shouldn’thave said that. I should have just written the evaluation and sealed it in the envelope like I was supposed to, oh, God.
He pushes into her, farther, farther, why can’t he fuck her harder, hurt her, make her bleed? She links her ankles behind his back to pull him in even more, and just as she’s about to come she opens her eyes and notices the flames leaping from the pan. The pancakes are burning, and she yells, “Fuck!”
Bay pulls away and grabs the sprayer from the sink as she rushes over and turns off the pilot light. He douses everything with water, and now the nice morning smell is wrecked, the scorched butter odor hanging in the air like smoke from a refinery fire. All she can fill the awkward moment with is “Whoa, close one.” The sex is ruined, of course, their heat burned into ash, and it’s useless trying to start again.
She fills the sink with water and drops the smoking pan into it. It hisses for a moment, steams up, then sinks beneath the soapsuds. There’s no time for breakfast, no time for anything.
“Should get going.” Bay grabs his lesson plan from the kitchen table, the beautiful, gorgeous lesson plan that’s perfectly typed and formatted. She did look at it, she
did.
He timed five minutes for warmups, ten for a freewrite, twenty for a group activity, and . . . Oh, Lord, she drank too much last night. Her head hurts. A swallow of red wine beckons her from the bottle on the counter, and she lifts it to her lips, finishes it.
She splashes the coffee into the sink with the scorched pan. If she had time she’d light a candle and kill the ruined, petrified smell, but of course it’s seven-thirty already and traffic’s fucked up by now. The mug clatters to the counter, and she follows Bay to the bedroom. From her dresser she pulls out her knit top and cardigan sweater and jeans for teaching, layers because it’s always so cold in the morning and hot by afternoon.
Next to her Bay wordlessly pulls on his clothes. Neither of them looks at the knife that sits on the bedside table, stained with Rennie’s blood.
8
Cherry
March 1988
Holland, Illinois
There’s a test in French, and I never study, so I cut and headed over to Sam’s. Marian inhaled all her coke over the weekend, which means she’ll be a complete and utter
So she lies. “Bay, I’d never lie. Not to you. You’re just what I said, sensational. There’s an English opening at Tarn next year. I’m pretty sure I can . . . ”
His gaze flutters around the room like a butterfly, at the walls the windows the clock, everywhere but at her face. “Don’t say any more. Just fold up the damned thing and seal it. I don’t want to know what you wrote.”
Nausea spins in her stomach, choppy waves rolling under a boat. Tears well up in her eyes, and she threads her fingers through his hair and pulls him toward her, as if by touching her he can become her, so she won’t have to be herself. Into his ear she whispers, “I’m sorry, Bay. . . . ”
He shakes his head. It’s not okay but it’s all right, and he’s making his old sand circles on her back with his fingertips, comforting her. Maybe he does love her, after all.
She opens her lips. His mouth meets hers and the sickening spin turns into a happy, little-girl dizziness. She’s on a carousel, the kitchen blurring around her, and she feels like laughing. As he hardens against her, she swirls her tongue into his, in this pure, good, fresh morning, yellow as dandelions, bright as daisies, clean clean clean of blood. The slice on her stomach has clotted over like blackberry jam. He wouldn’t even have to notice it if he didn’t want to. She lifts herself onto the table, opens her legs. And now she will fuck everything, and everything will be okay.
His eyes seem bruised, like a flimsy petal she’s rubbed too much between her fingers, and she’s pulled him too close, she knows that, even as he’s fucking her one last time of the morning.
Goddamn it, I shouldn’thave said that. I should have just written the evaluation and sealed it in the envelope like I was supposed to, oh, God.
He pushes into her, farther, farther, why can’t he fuck her harder, hurt her, make her bleed? She links her ankles behind his back to pull him in even more, and just as she’s about to come she opens her eyes and notices the flames leaping from the pan. The pancakes are burning, and she yells, “Fuck!”
Bay pulls away and grabs the sprayer from the sink as she rushes over and turns off the pilot light. He douses everything with water, and now the nice morning smell is wrecked, the scorched butter odor hanging in the air like smoke from a refinery fire. All she can fill the awkward moment with is “Whoa, close one.” The sex is ruined, of course, their heat burned into ash, and it’s useless trying to start again.
She fills the sink with water and drops the smoking pan into it. It hisses for a moment, steams up, then sinks beneath the soapsuds. There’s no time for breakfast, no time for anything.
“Should get going.” Bay grabs his lesson plan from the kitchen table, the beautiful, gorgeous lesson plan that’s perfectly typed and formatted. She did look at it, she
did.
He timed five minutes for warmups, ten for a freewrite, twenty for a group activity, and . . . Oh, Lord, she drank too much last night. Her head hurts. A swallow of red wine beckons her from the bottle on the counter, and she lifts it to her lips, finishes it.
She splashes the coffee into the sink with the scorched pan. If she had time she’d light a candle and kill the ruined, petrified smell, but of course it’s seven-thirty already and traffic’s fucked up by now. The mug clatters to the counter, and she follows Bay to the bedroom. From her dresser she pulls out her knit top and cardigan sweater and jeans for teaching, layers because it’s always so cold in the morning and hot by afternoon.
Next to her Bay wordlessly pulls on his clothes. Neither of them looks at the knife that sits on the bedside table, stained with Rennie’s blood.
8
Cherry
March 1988
Holland, Illinois
There’s a test in French, and I never study, so I cut and headed over to Sam’s. Marian inhaled all her coke over the weekend, which means she’ll be a complete and utter
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