Part 8 (2/2)
”It depends. I need your help.”
He laughed. ”That's what this is? You want me to help you in your divorce?”
”David-”
”Dude, Professor, how'd you even find out? She told you, right?”
I shook my head. Why was it me on the receiving end now? ”That's not important.”
”Did you follow her? Wait, why would you wait, like, half a year to tell me if you knew back then? So she had to tell you. Or someone else. Someone else told you?”
”Stop right there.” I was leaning forward, pointer finger up and accusing. ”I know is how I know. I found out. And you, you'd better be glad it's me here asking instead of my lawyer. It's more than just you f.u.c.king my s.l.u.t of a wife. You weren't the only one, you know.”
”Neither were you.”
”Well thank you, young man. I needed that. As if I didn't already know. What, it makes everything better? It obviously p.i.s.sed you off a little too, her not wanting to ride you anymore. You remember the exact time she told you. I bet it was a day after the last time you f.u.c.ked her. And I bet you pleaded with her. 'Please, please, no, I'll do anything.'”
”Shut up!”
My subconscious got the better off me. No more restraint. ”It was that good, wasn't it? I should know. Make fun of me all you want, but I got a lot more of it than you ever did or ever will. Years of it. So you want to be p.i.s.sed off at me, or do you want to get back at her?”
He stood. ”I don't care. It's still better than helping you. You're a f.u.c.king p.r.i.c.k, man. Every day I walk into your office, I know you're going to make me feel like I'm beneath you. Like you're the big giver of wisdom. I'm so sick of it, man. Sick of you. I don't care how many times you tried to be, like, nice. It was always this condescending bulls.h.i.+t. n.o.body likes you. No one in any of your cla.s.ses. They all think you're a d.i.c.k.”
I stood, too. I eased my sungla.s.ses out of my pocket, slipped them over my eyes. Stepped closer. ”That's enough. I know better. I've gotten as far as I have because people like me, they like my work and the way I teach. Just because you're a pathetic scholars.h.i.+p kid whose best is only a fraction of what some of your cla.s.smates have on their worst day, don't think for one day, not even one second, that you're better than me.”
”Get out of my house. Just get the f.u.c.k out. I quit.”
”No, you're going to help me.”
”f.u.c.k you.”
It was the exact wrong time. Way too late. I'd f.u.c.ked it royally, but that's when Octavia's whispering voice in my mind turned to a shout.
I slapped David hard across the face.
I mean, much harder than I expected. My hand throbbed like I'd slammed it in a car door. David gritted his teeth. His cheek went bright red.
Oh no. No, no, no.
Octavia again: now, tell him what you want.
”David. You helped my wife forge my name on a quit-deed. I need you to tell that to my attorney, and tell me where to find the robot pen she used.
He lifted his chin. ”You ever hit me again-”
”David!” Came out as a bark.
He blinked. ”I don't know what you're talking about. If I did, I'd tell you. I wouldn't help you, but I'd want you to know it was me who f.u.c.ked you over.”
Before Octavia's voice warned me that he was probably telling the truth, my hand was on the move, aiming for the same spot on his face.
But this time, before I'd even followed through, David had grabbed my wrist and forced it down. He shoved me. I went down, flipped over the chair's armrest. He straddled me before I realized what had happened, punched me in the chest. I fought him, held his arms, s.h.i.+elded myself and tried to buck him off.
He got a hand free and landed his own slap across my face. My sungla.s.ses went flying.
”You like that? How's that feel? Huh?”
Another one.
”Feeling like s.h.i.+t yet? The way you made me feel? Huh?”
Another one.
I said, ”Enough! That's enough, G.o.dd.a.m.nit!”
”I don't think so.”
”Get! Off!” I threw all of my weight to the left.
He fell back, banged the back of his head against the edge of the end-table, rattling the picture frames on top. He grunted and reached for the point of impact. I scrambled up and away.
His fingers came away from his head b.l.o.o.d.y. He winced.
I felt bad. I wasn't even really hurt. ”Are you okay?”
”Get out of here.”
”I'm sorry, David, okay? But, seriously, I'm about to lose my house over this. Do you understand? My house!”
But what do kids understand, right? He was probably thinking Then get another house. You've got money. Or, Get an apartment. Or, So? Point two, who was going to believe him? He's going to try to say a professor slapped him? All I had to do was fake it. I did, even. Seethed through my teeth and grabbed my shoulder.
”I think you dislocated it.”
A couple of drops of blood fell from his head to the carpet. He looked up, mouth open, imagining his future slipping through his fingers like sand. He said, ”Look, I'll change my major. I won't take any English cla.s.ses. Just...I don't know anything about your house or robots or anything. I swear.”
I closed my eyes. ”I think I'm going to throw up.”
”Please, Professor. I'm sorry. It wasn't what you think. She came onto me, but it wasn't about you, I don't think. It was...I can't tell you.”
”What the f.u.c.k do you mean, you can't tell me? You won't?”
”That's not what I meant. I mean...I can't. I don't know. It just happened.”
I didn't believe it.
He glanced left and right, picked himself up and looked over at the clock on the wall. ”I need to clean this up before my mom gets back. Please. Get out of here. Don't get me involved. I can't help you.”
<script>