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So, whose phone was it? That question was answered when the phone went to voicemail. I could hear Tina’s voice: ‘Hey, it’s Tina. I’ll call you when I can. See ya!’ Then I heard the caller. ‘Tina, honey, it’s Mom. Where are you? Are you OK? I can’t reach your Dad. They won’t let us near the scene. Please, baby, answer the phone! Oh God, please pick up the phone!’ I wanted to answer. I wanted to talk to Tina’s mother. I didn’t even remember her name, but I wasn’t really worried about social niceties at the moment. I was alive, and it would be a good idea to let someone know that. I could tell that the phone was near my right hand, since the sound seemed to be coming from there and the glow of the screen seemed to be in that area. Now, here was a challenge. How was I going to talk to Tina’s Mom and get the help I needed? The phone had gone quiet and dark. Shit! For the first time, I was scared. Odd, I thought, why wasn’t I scared before? Why did my inability to talk to a woman I had. I have fantasies of my own, and sometimes I act on them in ways you wouldn’t believe. For example, there’s the hot new basketball coach. Yes, THAT basketball coach. The one that all the girls whisper about, doodling on their notebooks, pairing his last name with their first name to see how it looks. Walking the long route to class just to pass by his room, then dropping something by his door so they can bend down in front of him. He’s the coach that the female teachers fantasize about. The one that they change their schedules for, plan their lunches around, find excuses to email and chat up in the hallways. The one they think about when they touch themselves at night, the one whose name they call out as they fuck themselves with silicone cocks. That coach. What no one else knows is that he’s sexting me while I’m in class, discussing the theme of revenge in Macbeth. The class giggles as my cell phone chimes. I hold up a finger to silence them as I read my message, and immediately feel.
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