Girls, Girls, Girls by Jonah Black

Author:Jonah Black
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins

(Later that afternoon. Miss von Esse’s classroom.)

Okay, so here I am, in my eleventh grade remedial German class, which turns out to be taught by Miss von Esse in the same classroom as my eleventh grade homeroom, which I missed. When I first came up here to meet Miss von Esse I was thinking, No way, I can’t do this. When I got to the door, I took a deep breath, kind of pretending I was doing a difficult dive, like a double somersault with a half twist, starting from the handstand position. I execute the dive perfectly and the crowd roars and I plunge into the pool.

“You must be Jonah Black,” Miss von Esse said when I opened the door.

I nodded, and she stood up and walked around her desk and handed me my schedule. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said.

Miss von Esse is preppy, but not in a plain, L.L. Bean sort of way. She’s more like the Ralph Lauren model kind of preppy, with straight brown hair that falls just below her chin. A bob, I guess it’s called. She looks really young, too. Like, no older than twenty-five. I can picture her in a ski lodge in Vermont at the end of a long day, wearing an Irish fisherman’s sweater and her cheeks all red from being on the slopes all day and we’re drinking hot mulled wine out of goblets made of red glass. Over by the bar someone is playing Irish folk tunes on the piano and there’s a huge fire roaring in the fireplace and above the fire is the head of a stuffed moose with a brass plaque under it that says BAOIGHEOLLEAN.

“I am so glad you are in my class,” she says. She leans over my desk and I smell saddle soap. Then Sophie sits down on my lap and takes my face in her hands and kisses me.

“This isn’t right,” I say. I don’t want to do it in a classroom.

But Sophie says, “Let’s not worry about right or wrong anymore. Let’s worry about what we feel.” Then she unbuttons her blouse and hangs it up on the pencil sharpener on the wall. She unhooks her bra and swings it around on the end of her finger, and sways her hips in a dance that reminds me of the Hokey Pokey, only slower.

“I was supposed to be a senior,” I whisper to her. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

“I know, Jonah,” she says, lying back on the satin sheets. “I know.”

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