My dad wasn’t terribly hard on me, just the obligatory, “If this news is true, I will be so disappointed,” and, “Can’t you see how your mother’s heart is breaking,” and of course/without a doubt, “Apply yourself to something greater, Pendel, because with God’s infusion of…” Hey dad, spare me the company line.
I had my meeting with Mr. Hanson the other night. My parents were with me, and they proved to be murderous traitors. I will never sleep well in my own home again, for fear of these two tactless pricks; I am sure now they will not be happy until I give up and die.
They basically cornered me, the three of them, and it was a set up all along—of this I have no doubt. My mom, dad, and I walk into Hanson’s office at like 4 PM or so, which already has things tense because my dad freaking HATES to miss a single, precious drop of the work day. I’ve often thought that work is where he feels the most at home; maybe my mom and I not being there is an extra added bonus for him, but who knows. Oh well. If it’s true, I can hardly blame him. Anyway, as soon as we get in the office, my beatific parents are shaking Hanson’s hand like they’re meeting a politician who just passed a law for them, or like he’s the cop who just busted the dirty thug that murdered their family. Very conspiratorial, as if they had been WORKING TOGETHER on something, is what I am trying to say.
I see this, and it seems to me that it would be ridiculous to pretend I didn’t sense some monkey business afoot, so I come right out with it and I say to them all, hey, would you guys mind introducing me to your friend? Everyone harrumphs, and looks at the floor, and then to each other with that “caught” look, and then Hanson gestures for everyone to sit, so we do. I sit last, because I guess I feel like this means something, but what, I don’t know. Then Hanson says, “Would you two like to start?” And he’s looking at the traitors with a smug mouth, his cock broom wiggling like mouse whiskers. They look trapped, but they go ahead and tell me that they know I am heading for trouble, it’s no surprise, and that they talked to Mr. Hanson because he was the one teacher they thought I must like, since it was my only very good grade. And that’s why Hanson asked me on the swim team. Like, so he can be some damned MENTOR or something. HA. As fucking if. Unbelievably, Hanson looks at me, and he says, “I thought we had something too, Pendel.”
Jaw dropping. Do the queer innuendos ever stop coming out of this freak’s mouth?
Then they are all off and running. It’s got nothing to do with being on the swim team; it’s just that my work has slipped. Being in an after-school activity will keep me out of trouble, they say, which I obviously need, since now the police are coming over to question me from time to time. I’m like, it was once! And they were like, well, that’s more than enough, and we don’t want repeat performances. Study with Hanson on weekends (!!) and talk more about college with him, and my future, and I am like, I am NOT going to college, and them my mom starts crying into a damned Kleenex cuz a horse is a horse of course OF COURSE. So then, they are talking about fucking CHURCH activities, like, fucking car washes and retreats and shit, but I put up my hand and say, hey, enough.
They look at me, and I drop a bomb. I’m like, if you want me to do something after school, I will join the golf team. Anything else and you can kiss my red ass. Now it was THEIR turn to drop jaw. But you see, I suspected this shit, and golf was my ace in the hole, suckers. They think I don’t plan…that I don’t think, but oh friends…I DO.
You see, Sugarbear plays on the golf team. He and a group of guys often drop acid and wander around the course a couple of times a week and he talked to me about joining. I thought to myself, now THERE is an after school activity I can fucking handle.
Well, what can they say? I just tell them I want to be with friends. My parents are so relieved to think I HAVE some that they just agree immediately, but I can tell Hanson isn’t so sure. He can burn in hell, for all I care. I am still damn-straight SURE he is a pervert.
I tell them we will have to reconvene on the weekend study buddy group (the thought of it makes me want to puke), and I think they know when to stop, not to push me, because they let it go. I will, too, I suppose. I have to think my way out. ASSHOLES.
Anyway, I have more news after talking to my shrink yesterday, I think I am fucked on the window thing. Someone else made a comment about it to, albeit RUDELY. Bite cock, Lana. But I have to save it. I have no time now.
If I am good at golf I will be so fucking pumped on irony that it might kill me.