By: L. Kenyon
I hate Susan B. Spelling.I hate her.I hate the way she emphasizes her middle initial too: capital B period; let me tell you something, B stands for “bitch.”So conceited, so untouchable: Susan. I hate her stupid popular friends, too, and the way they strut around the school together like they fucking own the place. I hate the way they laugh. But most of all, I just hate her.
Forty-five minutes a day I'm stuck in the same class with her - as if English didn't suck enough. She sits dead center up in the front row, so no matter where I look I see her - her stupid, wavy, blond hair - her stupid voice - her stupid, perfect smile – and her stupid pretty eyes.I hate her.In the spring, her dresses remind me of my grandmother's flowered wallpaper. My grandmother’s house always smelt like moth balls and licorice and I hated that, too.
So self-righteous, not a care in the world: Susan.And in the winter her sweaters cling to those "please-look-but-don't-stare-at-me" big tits, and if you’re lucky, just lucky enough to get close to her, you can smell that waxy mint lip gloss she always wears - that shit makes me want to puke in my mouth.Straight A's and always eager - hand always raised - always the teacher's pet - every boy’s fantasy: Susan.I call her house. I'm not stupid about it; I block caller I.D. and if someone answers I always hang up. Except once when Susan answered and I didn't say anything right away so Miss Better Things to Do hung up on me.I see her in the cafeteria at the "look-at-me-table" laughing; I see her in my dreams at the gates of hell, smirking. I've watched her at her field hockey practices - sticks and skirts will break and hurt.I ride my bike to her house at night.
I hate her perfect family; no unsmiling faces on that mantle and I know because I know the inside of that house very well. I've even been inside her room. I know her stupid secrets. I know her stupid dreams. I hate her. I hate the way she floats like an angel down the hallways to be adored and cooed at by everyone.
I hate the way I love her.
But when attendance is called today, there will be no punctual Susan B. Spelling to smugly answer, "Present!" No more perfectly postured A-list flower to sit crossed-legged, twirling her hair and tapping her pencil on the side of her desk; I made sure of that. I put a stop to it. I've done the world a favor; she would’ve never had to work for anything in her whole life; getting by on her pretty smile. The world was hers to walk on and over and there would never have been a reason for her to be decent or caring or sweet; her world was going to be fucking bullshit. But not now, I made sure of that; I put a stop to it.It wasn't hard to do, or particularly messy. In the end, it was too bad for her that her parents can actually afford seclusion. I didn't need to worry about being seen. She won't be found. I was careful. And then of course there’s Peter Buckwald, Susan's boyfriend. I almost forgot about him; ass kissing, jock douche bag. “Mr. Anderson this and Mr. Anderson that.” Won't he be so heart broken when Susan turns up missing. I bet you his little blue baseball cap will tumbled off his head – fucking pussy - I hate him too. And I know where he sleeps, and which window is his.
Although, things just might be looking up after all; at least I will never have to call on perfect Susan B. Spelling in my classroom ever again.
(“Susan Spelling B” is from a collection of dark tales entitled “Welcome to Dandy” - coming soon to discount stores and thrift shops all over America. L. Kenyon is from Vermont where trees grow. Now he lives on a concrete block in New York City with a pet television set.)
Labels: Fiction, L Kenyon