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Mr. Corley

this one is on you

By Tennessee GarbagePublished 2 months ago 3 min read
Mr. Corley
Photo by Erik Mclean on Unsplash

Part One

Last period of the day, math with Mr. Dean. I sit in the third row, second seat from the far right. You sit three seats back and four to the left. You’ve been quite most of the term, and Mr. Dean hates that. He encourages people to speak up and be open like his life depends on it. He’s picked on you most of the time, asking you for answers or congratulating you on all you’re A’s. We’re not friends, hardly even acquaintances. Your friends with my friend and that’s it. I know your name is Izzy, but I hate that name. I like your real name. Isabel. Makes you sound delicate and sensitive, but your voice doesn’t match. That’s curious.

It's the end of the term which means its finals week. The time teaches cannot wait for. Whole hours of 6 period classes, in silence. Probably the most silence they hear in a year. I almost failed Mr. Dean’s because I fell asleep with my eyes open.

A rich dark cloak covered me, and I feel like I’m on a marry-go-round at nightfall mid-October. When it slows, I see you standing there in your purple Converse, baggy pants and your Black Vail Brides tee. It hugs you nicely. Your hair is long and straight, but you cover it with your hat. I hate this thing. You wear it so much it’s a staple. Your arms are stuffed into your front pockets, and your smiling, like there are devious ideas running through your mind. I can’t resist. I hop off the rickety equipment, smoothing out my dress.

I walk past you, pretending not to see you watching me. Your shoes scuffle while you spin yourself around, ready to follow me. Good girl. Your hand grips my arm, and you turn me around, lifting me up onto the picnic table. I’m looking at your waist, the way your jeans are snug against you. I drag my fingers along the inside of your band and feel your tummy twitch with each pass. Your grip on my thighs gets a little tighter each time. I look up at you and see you biting your lip. I want some too. I loop my fingers into your pants and pull you closer, spreading my legs. You kiss me, a full and intense spark ignites. I could feel your fingers get warmer the closer you got to the top.

I blink a few times and shake the reality back into view. Mr. Dean is standing in front of me, snapping his fingers. The class laughs, and you’re laughing. I randomly draw circles around the letters of my test, signing my name, dating the upper right-hand corner. Mr. Dean snatches it from my grasp with a disapproving look. I grab my bag and leave as the dismissal bell rings.

You waited for me outside, still smiling and then you chuckle once you see my face. “Did you fall asleep back there?” I nodded nervously. She holds out her hand to shake, “I’m Izzy.” I put my hand into yours and in an instant, there was a wave of warmth tightening in my hand. “Nita.”

My stomach began to ache, and the feeling trailed down south. I questioned my identity a lot over the years, but in this moment I knew exactly who I was. I wanted so much to explore this feeling, to chase the euphoria, but doing so would come at a cost. We couldn't be friends. Not ever. Not after this. But friends is how it started.

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About the Creator

Tennessee Garbage

Howdy! There is relatable stuff here- dark and twisty and some sentimental garbage. "Don't forget to tip your waitresses" Hi, I am your waitress, let me serve you with more content. Hope you enjoy! :)

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    Tennessee GarbageWritten by Tennessee Garbage

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