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“Oh, shut up, you had fun in the end. Besides, it’s not like I didn’t jump in with you,” says Sasha.
“Have you got anything I can change into?”
“Yeah, put these on. I’m going to go turn on the tumble dryer.”
The door opens but doesn’t shut again as Sasha makes her way to the kitchen. Great, now my willpower is really being tested, because I know that Lana’s getting undressed just beyond this wall and the door has been left open. Without fully thinking it through, I step out of my room as soundlessly as I can manage. The floorboards blessedly don’t creak as I move close to Sasha’s door and peer through the crack.
My heart is thundering. Lana’s standing by Sasha’s bed, pulling her soaked T-shirt up over her body. She’s only got a plain white cotton bra on underneath, but since it’s her wearing it, it’s now officially the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. She started developing boobs about a year ago. Needless to say, I was an avid follower of that progression. The bra is wet, too, and I suck in a breath as she unclips it and peels it off, throwing it on top of her discarded T-shirt.
My eyes soak up their fill of her pale naked skin, her pink nipples, as she towels herself dry. All too soon she’s pulling one of Sasha’s hoodies on over her head. It’s way too big for her, almost reaching to her knees, so when she takes off her trousers and pants I don’t get to see anything…else. She quickly gets into Sasha’s leggings, which again are way too big, and then she goes to sit by the dressing table to brush out her hair.
I watch for as long as I can before I hear Sasha coming back from the kitchen. Returning silently to my room, I feel like the luckiest bastard in the world that I got to see all that and wasn’t caught. The image of her topless is burned into my brain now.
I expect I’ll be wanking off to the memory of it for months.
The front door opens and shuts, signalling Mum’s return from her new part-time job at the post office in the next village over.
“Sasha! Robert!” she calls. “I brought dinner home. Come on and help me dish it up.”
“Lana’s here, Mum,” Sasha calls back. “Can she have some, too?”
“Of course, there’s more than enough,” says Mum, and then I hear Lana and Sasha making their way down to the kitchen.
Wonderful. Now I’m going to have to eat with Lana and do my whole ignoring act again. I’m not sure if I can keep it up after what I just saw. It takes me a few minutes just to work up the nerve to leave my bedroom because I keep thinking about locking her in my room and stripping her naked so that I can see her topless again.
The three of them are sitting at the kitchen table, eating the take-home lasagna they sell at the delicatessen next to Mum’s post office. We have it at least once a week, accompanied by Mum’s homemade coleslaw. I didn’t think I’d have an appetite, given Lana’s presence, but strangely I find I’m starving.
There are only four chairs at the table, so I can either take my plate back to my room or sit between Mum and Lana. I go for the former option, picking up the food and turning to leave. Unfortunately, I don’t get very far.
“Oh, no, you don’t, mister. Sit down at the table and eat with your family. I’ve barely gotten to see you at all since I started this new job.”
I sigh and sink down into the seat, practically feeling the warmth from Lana’s body next to me and wanting to soak up every scrap of it. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, and when I open them I find Mum staring at me with that irritating motherly concern on her face.
“What’s wrong? Are you sick? Have you got another one of those headaches?” she asks softly, reaching out to feel my forehead. I pull away from her touch because she makes me feel like a little kid when she does stuff like that, and I don’t want Lana to see me in that way.
Every couple of weeks I get these mind-numbing migraines. Apparently I inherited them from Dad. They’re fucking awful and make me even crankier than normal.
“No. No migraines, Mum. I’m fine, just hungry.”
“Well, eat up, then,” she says, looking relieved.
I feel Lana glancing at me at the mention of the migraines, and I can’t help it, I look at her quickly out of the side of my eye. She’s biting on her lip, and her expression seems sympathetic. I slide my eyes away from her and shove a forkful of lasagna into my mouth, chewing hard.
Mum seems intent on making me the focus of the conversation, as she asks, “How’s that English essay coming along, Rob?”
God, not this again. “It’s not. I’ve decided to leave it unfinished as a form of protest.”
“Robert,” says Mum, serious now. “Protests aren’t an option. You know your teacher hasn’t been happy with your progress. He can have you expelled if you continue to act out.”
“Good. He’d be doing me a favour, then,” I grumble.
Mum puts down her knife and fork with a clatter. “I don’t understand your problem with this man. He seemed very reasonable when I went to meet with him. He told me he’s done everything in his power to try and help you, but you just keep refusing him and disrupting the class.”
The teacher she’s referring to is Mr. Brennan. As if by some stroke of misfortune, I have him for both my English and French classes. What Mum doesn’t seem to understand is that the man is a fucking creep. I have a theory that he’s got some sort of latent homosexual crush on me.
Ever since I started at the school, he’s been particularly focused on me in class, selecting me to answer questions or discuss a book. A year ago he asked me to wait until everyone left for a “talk.” The talk entailed organising for private tutoring sessions with him, since English is my worst subject. I told him I wasn’t interested, and ever since he’s made it his mission in life to fuck with me. I mean, no ordinarily concerned teacher would set out on a personal vendetta after a student said no to a simple offer of tutoring. That’s how I know there’s something off about him.
