Boy Victim- Sebastian Medina
“When can I see you again?”
I’m immediately transported to the present with the sound of her voice. I stand up from the edge of the bed and pull my jeans on. Buckling my belt, I turn to look at her.
“I don’t know. You’ll have to talk to her,” I shrug.
“What do you mean?” she asks. The flesh on her face reddens and I know she knows what I mean and she’s embarrassed that she knows. I shrug again and pull on my shirt. She sits up in the bed, pulling the sheet around her chest.
“You’re acting like you didn’t have a good time,” she says, “Did I do something wrong?”
I look at her. This was the third time we’d been together this year. I think. Her fingers were clutching the sheet. Her wedding band glistened in the sun coming from the wide windows.
“Of course, I had a good time,” I say crossing over to her side of the bed. I sit next to her and take her free hand. “I love being with you Susan.” This was part of the game: deception.
She smiles and she does so with her eyes- the corners of which maintain their crinkles even when she stops smiling- she must be at least fifty. She lifts her fingers to trace the sharp corners of my jaw line, the contours below my cheekbones.“You’re beautiful,” she whispers. I take her hand and kiss it then stand to put my shirt on.
Her phone vibrates and this time she doesn’t ignore it.
“Hello?” She flings off the sheet as she listens then swings her legs across the side of the bed. “Sorry, I was occupied. I’ll be back in about twenty minutes.”
I wear my socks then my shoes.
“No, don’t cancel. Tell Reggie I’ll be there soon. And I want to meet with the team before the end of the day.”
She ends the call and moves into the bathroom where I hear a stream of water then the sound of the toilet cover hitting the porcelain tank behind it. Yes, I’d been with her three times. She was the one who didn’t like people hearing her pee. She would turn on the tap before positioning herself on the toilet. It was the only endearing thing I found about her.
I look at my phone: a text from Jordan reminding me that we’re meeting to study for the biology test tonight, and a missed phone call from Maria. She never calls me directly; usually all communication comes through Kendra.
“Do you need a ride anywhere?” Martha comes out of the restroom and begins putting on her clothes.
“Uhh, no I’m fine. My school’s not that far from here. I’ll just jump on the Orange.”
She nods and fastens the clip on her skirt. “Remind what grade you’re in again?”
“Uhh, junior year,” I say running my hands through my short hair. I’d forgotten I had it cut yesterday in preparation for this. Clean cut, clean eating, clean skin- that was Kendra’s policy before meeting a client. “No one wants a sloppy hairy gassy pimply boy pounding into them just hours before they have go in for a major vote. And no one wants to celebrate a vote that way either.” She’d said during orientation.
“Great!” Martha says. “So what schools are you looking into?”
“Uhh I’m not sure about college yet,” he lies.
Kendra warned them not to speak of their futures or their past. The present with the client was all that mattered.
Martha nods and her phone vibrates again. “Yes, what is it?”
I’m fully dressed now waiting for her to leave. We are never allowed to leave first or at the same time. I’ll be late to pre-calc but hopeful not by more than fifteen minutes. Mr. Welsh- who is confusingly originally from Ghana- sent a letter home last week about my attendance. My father was furious, my mother cried. I’m a stellar student but since I got into this thing a few months ago, my performance has dwindled severely. I still hadn’t made up my mind about if I cared or not. If it mattered or not. At six foot three, I’d thought a way to support my struggling family was through modelling. I’d had prominent features since I was child, my entire life my skin had been close to flawless- porcelain like even, if porcelain was brown. I was given a phone number by a friend of a friend for modeling agency looking for people like me. People like me, to do this.
“Ok, I’m headed out,” Martha says collecting her large black tote in one hand and her coat in another.
I stand out of politeness. Kendra didn’t teach me that, my father did. “Uhh thank you,” I say. “I hope to see you again.”
She smiles. “I do too! I’ll give her a call tonight and let her know to set something up soon.”
I force a smile, “Thank you. Have a good day Senator.”