Homework

Aaron Rayburn

When the bell rang on Friday afternoon, me and the rest of the students slammed our boring English books closed and shuffled out of our seats before the teacher, Miss Horner, could assign homework over the weekend. But, of course, fate intervened. Miss Horner shouted our assignment over the loud, irritating rustle of papers and scuffle of feet.

"Class!" she called out, moving toward the door, trying to catch everyone's attention. "Due on Monday! I want chapters twelve through fourteen read and the questions at the end of each chapter answered in complete sentences! Not fragments!"

There was a cacophony of groans.

"And remember! There's an essay due in ten days! Which is the following Monday!"

I sat in the front seat, smiling, admiring Miss Horner's beauty. I didn't need to write anything down because I remembered virtually everything that came from that woman's pouty mouth. It was quite a shame she didn't teach World History.

"The title of the essay," she said, "is 'What Life Means to Me.' And I want it in at least five-hundred words!" She smiled brightly, stepping away from the door. "Have a wonderful weekend. All of you."

I loved her cynicism.

Again, the class grumbled, a few of the disgruntled students cussing her under their breath as they exited the room. It always fascinated me to wonder that these "adolescents" would think they would get out of her class on Friday afternoon without homework. It was already November. And it hasn't happened yet. Oh well, I guess they're the idiots, not me.

I was the last to leave the classroom-as always. And just before I broke the threshold of the doorway, I turned and made eye contact with Miss Horner.

"Goodbye, Miss Horner," I said. "Hope you have a pleasant weekend."

She flashed me her pearly whites and waved. "The same to you, John," she said, turning back to her paperwork.

If you couldn't figure it out by now, Miss Horner fascinated me in every way. My name is John Webber, by the way. Pleased to meet you, whoever you are. If you'll just stick with me for a bit of your time, I might be able to convince you of some things you never thought possible. All I ask is of you is to hear my story. My grammar might not be up to par, but what do you expect from a high school Junior who was raised way out in B.F.E.? That's Bum Fuck Egypt for all you prim and proper folk.

What I want to do is tell you a little more about Miss Horner because she plays a vital role in this story.

In case I forget to mention it, Miss Horner is a young black woman. Maybe that's part of her appeal, I don't know. I, myself, am white. People say you can't mix races or that you shouldn't mix races. What I believe and what society believes are two very different things, but I'm not going to get into all that. At least not right now. What I want to do is finish telling you about Miss Horner. She was thin, her facial features soft and tantalizing. She reminded me of the Donna Summer of the mid-seventies. Nice, I know.

I think she became aware of my feelings for her the very first day of school. I kept staring at her, not paying the slightest bit of attention to anything else. At the end of class when everyone was gone, I informed her that her boyfriend, if he had any sense about him at all, must repeat on an hourly basis that he was the luckiest man alive.

The moment she told me she was single, my heart sank and my hopes and dreams escalated at mach speed into Cloud Nine.

Then she brought me crashing back down into reality again. She must've seen the look of excitement in my face, or perhaps she saw what was really there: lust. Whatever. She cordially explained to me that she could lose her teaching license if she was ever caught fraternizing with the likes of someone like me. "Plus," she added disdainfully. "Society would frown upon us if we were seen together. You being white and me black. Me older, you younger. It just wouldn't work."

I was at a loss for words as different emotions coursed through me. I was happy that she hadn't said I wasn't her type, but then I was furious with her for letting race and age dictate who she was seen with or who she could possibly fall in love with.

"So just allow me to teach you about adverbs and adjectives and try to concentrate on that, okay?" she said, smiling. "For me?"

Reluctant, I nodded.

From then on, I made it a point to talk to her every chance I got. And in the few months we've known each other, she seemed to take a particular liking toward me. For me, that was a definite start.

I fantasized about her every time I jerked off. I envisioned my hot come dripping from those bright white teeth of hers. Okay, that may seem a bit gross, but the truth was the truth. And that's what I'm here to do. Everyone needs to hear the truth, even though it may sting a little, or even if it grosses you out a bit, but it helps us to understand human nature. I know you're probably saying to yourself, What the hell does a 18-year-old adolescent know about truth and human nature? You'd be surprised. I'm very mature for my age. Which is another reason why age should not play a vital role in this. I'm a junior in high school and yet I'm eighteen years old. Ain't that a bitch? Yep, I was held back in the first grade and I flunked the eighth grade. There were some variables involved in that, which I won't bore you with. Just hang in there a bit longer. Please.

The weekend passed and so did Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. I was upset because Miss Horner paid absolutely no attention to me in those long three days. I tried to talk to her, but she shook her head and sent me away without a word. Not only was I upset, I was frustrated. Obviously something had happened to her over the weekend, but there was nothing I could do about it. Maybe she thought I was too young to discuss her "grown-up" problems. And that angered me even more because she was only five years older than me and yet, we were both still legal. It was one thing to tell me that she needed some alone time, but it was a completely different thing to cast me off as someone who didn't care. It was probably better for me not to think about that too much.

I spent most of Wednesday evening up in my bedroom crying just because Miss Horner refused to talk to me. It might seem kind of childish to you, but Miss Horner was my whole world. She was the only reason I went to school. You know what love does to an impressionable eighteen-year-old; I don't have to tell you about it. We've all been there.

The midnight hour chimed and it was then that I decided to go for a walk because I knew it would do me some good. Long walks in the snow always did. Usually, I'd listen to Metallica along the way, but not tonight. I had some serious thinking to do.

After an hour of slushing through the snow, I found myself in front of the Go-Go-Rama, a strip joint that had somehow found its way into business at the beginning of the year. The issue always came up at election time, but always shot down. Except last year. For some reason. I think it did our little town some good. I've heard stories about how well the place was doing, one being that it was the only strip club for miles. But I'm sure there was some illegal shit going on inside, like prostitution, drugs, etc, you name it.

I had heard the club was open to people over eighteen-one of the few advantages of being eighteen, especially in a long and forgotten little town in which we lived. I was a little young looking for my age and I didn't have my driver's license with me. Surely I could pass for an eighteen-year-old. But like they always say … money talks.

I walked through the black double doors and off to the right was a fat man, sporting a rebel flag bandana tied around his head, a graying beard and a tattoo of a skull and crossbones centered across his forehead. He was enclosed in a small booth, just like a ticket salesman at the theaters.

The man eyed me suspiciously through the glass, which looked to have not been cleaned in several months. I scanned the bulletin board behind him. It read: $20.00 Cover Charge. Absolutely No Exceptions! Absolutely No Refunds!

I dug out my wallet. I didn't think I had twenty dollars. And even if I did, I knew I shouldn't be handing it over to some fat man just so he could allow me to view a couple of gorgeous, naked women flaunting their asses and pussies in my face for a few measly dollars.

But you were absolutely right; I talked myself into it.

An assortment of bills looked up at me from the crusty confines of my billfold. I took them out, counted out twenty dollars and shoved them under the glass. Now I was left with five one-dollar bills. My financial situation depressed the hell out of me, but I was here-absolutely no refunds! as the sign declared-so I might as well enjoy myself.

The fat man pointed toward my left to another black door. I opened it to the sound of Tupac's "California" booming though the speakers.

The first thing that grabbed my visual attention was a woman, asshole naked, smiling, strutting her sweet stuff down the center of the lighted runway while beer-guzzling men sat on bar stools near its edges, whooping and hollering and whistling.

The entire place was filled with the scent of liquor and stale cigarettes. Through the haze of dim lighting, I could see the thin murk of cigarette smoke wafting among the crowd.

I found a seat on the outer rim of the bar. I politely declined every delightful offer of alcohol and lap dances. I had to scope out the scene for a while before I started shelling out my big purse of five whole dollars.

I watched the dancers for the next half hour, truly enjoying myself. I also realized that this was the very first time I had ever seen a naked woman in real life. That thought really depressed me, but the place really raised my spirits because the girls actually smiled at me and paid attention to me. I knew they were only trying to get my money, but the feeling was still incredible.

Nelly's "Hot in Herre" ended and a dancer named Shannon was stooping along the runway, collecting her litter of dollar bills. I saw a guy actually toss her a twenty, an indication that he was loaded and would later be receiving special favors from good ol' Shannon. I may have lived for only eighteen short years, but I wasn't stupid.

The next girl who blazed out onto the runway from behind the blue dazzling strips of curtain was a girl who took my breath away. Actually, my breath caught in my throat with incredulousness. My eyes were deceiving me, they had to have been.

Up on the stage, clad in a white tuxedo, the jacket busting open, revealing two ripe melons, was a young black lady that could be no one other than the Miss Horner, teacher of English to at least one-hundred juniors at the local high school.

I stooped low in my seat because I knew that if she saw me, she'd be devastatingly embarrassed.

I watched her show with great interest. I saw her strip. I saw her tease other men with her engorging sexuality. I saw her bare breasts, her bare ass, her shaved pussy. I immediately went into ecstasy. All of my fantasies were coming alive right up on the stage. I wanted more than anything to be up there with her, pounding the fuck out of her from behind as she screamed her orgasms into my psyche.

Suddenly the whistles and catcalls from the other men interrupted my concentration. They broke through my dreams, sending waves of anger attacking the pulses of my brain. They were treating my queen like a piece of meat. But poor Miss Horner couldn't see through them. Her mind was closed to the inhumanity and shame she unconsciously endured through her tempestuous state of greed.

I stood up on the bar and yelled at them to stop harassing my woman. I was beside myself with no idea of what I was doing, but perfectly mindful of what I wanted.

The entire joint grew quiet, except for the pounding bass from the speakers. Every face was positioned toward me.

Miss Horner's eyes locked onto mine. I felt disconnected with the world. Suddenly I wanted to take back the last twenty seconds of this life. Humiliation settled over me in a hurry.

I watched my lady pick up her discarded garments and scurry back through the blue sparkling curtain. And yet, every eye remained on me.

I took Miss Horner's lead and quickly fled the area, bolting through the black double doors, out into the snowy street, darting home as fast as I could.

I couldn't sleep a wink that night. The events of the night raced through my mind over and over again like a song on Repeat. Then I began to think of my day at school the following morning. What was that going to be like? I couldn't fathom Miss Horner being there, nor could I fathom a confrontation with her. I began to think that I ruined her career and before long, she would have no choice other than to quit, and start somewhere else, somewhere far. As far away from me as possible.

Even though it disheartened me, I knew it was my fault. I understood that. And if I never saw Miss Horner again, I was going to have to deal with it. At least I still had the memories.

The next day, after the bell to the start of English class rang, I turned the corner of the long hallway leading to Miss Horner's classroom, which was the last room on the left. I knew she wouldn't be there. How could she? But as I entered the room, there she was, writing on the chalkboard.

She was wearing one of her short, gray business skirts, topped off with a small sport coat to cover her white, see-through blouse. But none of that mattered because the only thing I saw was her nakedness. And it was starting to arouse me all over again.

I quickly sat down.

Miss Horner didn't see me until she turned around. Our eyes met for a brief second, then she continued on with the lesson as if the events of the previous night had never even occurred.

I began to wonder if last night's events were imagined, if everything was a dream. I suppose it could be possible, but then I decided that everything was too real to be a dream. I know what I saw.

Miss Horner was quite professional and I was quite surprised. The entire fifty minutes of class went on like any other day until the bell rang. She looked directly at me and motioned me to her desk with her index finger. I figured I was a had lad.

"Yes, Miss Horner?" I said, nervously gripping the edges of her desk.

"How are you doing today, John?" Her expression was cynical.

I smiled. "Every day I get to see you is a good one. Especially at night." My smile was now beaming.

Miss Horner didn't seem to get the joke. She looked toward the door and said, "We'll wait until everyone is out of the room."

My sick, perverted mind read more into those words than were actually there. It's always a great fantasy, though.

Once everyone was out, Miss Horner looked at me, folding her hands in front of her. "Now," she said. "I didn't want anyone to overhear."

"Yes?" I prodded.

"But your essays are the best I've ever read by someone your age. You're well beyond your years. I think you should seriously consider writing as a profession."

I was dumbfounded. Sure, I was glad she liked my writing, but I thought this was … aw, who the hell am I kidding? Miss Horner would never admit that she was a strip dancer. Especially to me.

"You seem to be at a loss for words," she said, smiling.

I nodded. "You can say that."

"I really think you should try to put together a couple of short stories and send them in to a few fiction magazines. You might be surprised."

I shrugged. "That would be great, but I wouldn't even know how to get started."

"That's okay," she said. "I'd be glad to help you. I hate to see great talent go to waste."

I didn't want to talk about this anymore. I wanted to say something along the lines of me seeing her on the stage last night. I wanted to somehow blackmail her into having sex with me. It was a cruel thing to consider, but hey, I have needs, too, you know? There just wasn't any delicate way to bring it up.

"Do you have any story ideas?" she asked.

Ahhh, the perfect opportunity. I nodded slowly, the wheels in my head beginning to really crank. "I was thinking … about maybe about doing something … about a stripper."

She perked, surprise really taking her. I had her now. "A stripper, really?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

"Story line?"

"Story line … let me see. I want this woman to be in the eyes of the public, who secretly strips at night. For whatever reason, I don't know. Haven't figured that out yet."

"Well, if you should put together a decent plot, then I'd love to read it."

"I might start on it tonight."

"Well, good. Just remember that if you're going to write about a stripper to keep it as clean as possible. I can't really promote any type of smut. Us teachers have a code of ethics to uphold."

Did she just say what I thought she just said? I think so. I nodded, nevertheless. "Sure you can't."

"Well, John, I'm certainly glad we had this little chat."

I nodded again, knowing the conversation was coming to a halt. There was really nothing I could do about it. Miss Horner was being very stubborn. Did she really think that I didn't recognize her up there? She must've.

As I was heading out the door, Miss Horner said, "Don't forget about your essay due on Monday. I'm really interested in what you're going to write about."

I didn't know what she expected me to write about. I was actually considering blowing off the whole project. And now, with her comment about my writing ability, she put me right on Front Street.

"What's the title again?" I asked. I just needed to hear her voice one last time before I left school.

"What Life Means to Me," she said.

I nodded, walked out of the room, out of the school, skipping the rest of my day's classes. An idea came to me when I got home and suddenly I couldn't wait until the wee hours of the morning.

I cruised up and down Main Street for two solid hours debating whether I should go in the strip joint or not. I didn't exactly know why I wanted to go in there. It wasn't like I was going to burst in there like an angry father, wrap a towel around my woman and lead her away, never to look back again. Now, was it?

I pulled my rust bucket of a car to a back lot that sat adjacent from the Go-Go-Rama. Main thing was: I just wanted to see her again. That was it. And so I waited.

2:00 A.M. struck. I got out and sat on the façade of an old antique shop. If Miss Horner came out, saw me, then wondered what I was doing, I had an explanation ready. I was going to tell her how extremely sorry I was for the other night. Which I was.

Then, at nearly 3:00 A.M., Miss Horner finally did emerge from the back door. She staggered down the first few steps, almost falling. It was obvious she was drunk off her ass. But the best part, I noticed, was that she was alone.

"Miss Horner!" I called out, making my way to her at a steady jog.

She looked up, her eyes barely hanging open. She smiled. "You," she said, her voice playful. "I member you!"

"Have you been drinking, Miss Horner?"

Her lips crunched into her face. "Me?" she said, shaking her head. "Naaaah."

"I'm going to drive you home, Miss Horner," I said, scanning the cars in the lot. "But I don't see your car."

"It was prolly stolen," she said matter-of-factly. "Sons a beetches!"

This was a side of Miss Horner I had obviously never seen, one I didn't care to ever see again. It didn't settle well with me. "Well, wouldn't it be wise to report it?" I asked.

She waved at me. "Forget it," she said. "It was a piece a shit, anyways."

My eyebrows crinkled. Miss Horner drove a one-year-old Celica-hardly a piece of shit. I steadied her under my arm, leading her to my car. She turned toward me, then kissed my nose. "Yor such a sweetie, taking care of me like dis."

I felt myself stir down below as her succulent lips touched the tip of my nose again. I've always dreamed of making out with those lips. Just another inch down, Miss Horner.

"I'm taking you home," I insisted.

She protested angrily. "No!" she blurted. "I want you to take me somewheres where we can be alone." She kissed my nose again, but this time her lips found my lips and we kissed passionately, or at least I was. I really felt myself stir down below now. We stood in the back parking lot kissing like there was no tomorrow. It was just as I've imagined it. Well, almost.

I finally helped her to my car. And in the split instant when my hand slipped up her thigh and touched her crotch, I decided to award her wishes and take her somewhere where we could be alone. I certainly couldn't take her to my house and she didn't want to go to her house for some reason. I thought maybe she did have a guy living with her, but didn't want me to know. If it was cool with her, it was cool with me.

So after a short period of deliberation, I decided to go to Mr. Clark's house, a person I knew was gone for the winter. He had a home in Florida and for some reason was always bragging about it. Well, thanks a million, Mr. Clark.

When I got to the house, of course both doors were locked. So I broke a basement window, crawled inside and opened the front door, helping Miss Horner inside.

I flipped on the lights, dimming them to the soft glow of candlelight. Miss Horner plopped down onto the couch, pulling me down with her. She grabbed my crotch and started to massage it. "Sure is a nice place you have here."

"Miss Horner? Could you possibly stop that for a minute?"

"Why do you keep calling me Miss Horner?" she asked. "It's so formal. Call me Bambi."

"Is that your stage name or something?" I asked, totally appalled with the nickname.

She nodded, then put her mouth against my crotch. I could feel her warm wetness through my jeans. It felt awesome and I knew even if I wanted to back out, I couldn't. I stripped, then leaned back on the couch where Miss Horner-Bambi-put her succulent lips and tongue on my already throbbing cock.

No nervous wet noodles here. Thank God.

She looked up into my eyes, her jaws working. "I'll bet you've never had a black woman suck your dick before, have you?"

I shook my head. I haven't had anyone suck my dick before, but I wasn't going to tell her that.

"Do we do it better?" she asked, taking my entire shaft deep.

I gasped, my sexual organ throbbing for her wetness. "Oh, my sweet, Jesus," I uttered. "Please, Bambi, when can I stick it in?"

She chuckled. "Right now … if you want to." She stood, then sat on the couch beside me, her legs spread wide, her fingers digging at her twat. I saw a flash of pink. It was shiny and throbbing for me to fill it.

I put my knees on the couch, guided my pulsating member between those dark creamy thighs and found a sensual warmness spread across my lower body.

Miss Horner began to moan with delight, her breaths coming in short, hurried gasps.

"You like that?" I asked.

"Y-y-yeeeeeeeeeeeesss!" she exclaimed.

"I'll bet you never had a white dick this big, have you?" I asked. I've dreamt of this moment the first time I ever laid eyes on this woman. And now it was actually happening. Even though I wasn't ecstatic about the circumstances, I was crazy with love.

I didn't know exactly how long I would last before I blew my load, but I kept fucking and she kept screaming for more. I was waiting for the freak in her to come out because I had heard that about black chicks. It might have been a stereotype, but in Miss Horner's case, it wasn't.

"Oh, I love it when you fuck me!" she said between heavy panting. "I want you to stick it in my ass, oh yes!"

And so I put it in her ass. I have to admit, it was different-tighter-and more appealing than I at first thought. It seemed that the walls of her anal cavity were collapsing in on my cock. And it felt fucking wonderful!

The next thing I knew she was screaming for me to explode my hot juice all over her face. She got on her knees and began to suck me again. "Tell me when you're about to come," she said.

It didn't take long. Miss Horner grabbed my dick and started jacking it. Come erupted from me like a geyser, jetting across her face like a line of clear toothpaste. I believed she climaxed the same time I did, probably from the sensation of come on her face. The freak in her had come out.

She spread it across her cheeks until her face looked like a giant glazed chocolate doughnut. She wiped the residue from my dick on her finger and licked it clean, swallowing. I think I had another orgasm just watching her.

A few minutes later, she leaned back on the couch, naked, her eyes closed, a cigarette dangling from the ends of her fingers. I had no idea she smoked, nor did I know where she got the cigarette and light. Some role model, huh?

I stared at her for a good ten minutes before a number of crazy thoughts came into my brain. I begun to have visions of last night, of the guys huddled at the bottom of the runway, whooping and hollering at my baby. And in the next instant, I saw them with their dicks out, probing my lady's pussy, then fucking her. And I couldn't stand it. I saw all those horny bastards pawing over her, the tips of their dicks touching every point of her body like acupuncture needles. I understood that Miss Horner's sexual resistance was weak, her being in need of cock every single night. But I was more than willing to take care of that for her. I was young, I could handle it. Now it was up to me to protect her from the wolves, to save her from an eternity of ridicule, of being marked as a fucking whore.

I walked into the kitchen and scavenged for the biggest, longest blade I could find. I came out, carrying an eight-inch butcher knife. I looked at my teacher lying naked on Mr. Clark's couch, the ash from her cigarette about to drop. I tiptoed to her, took the cigarette, snubbed it out, then held the tip of the blade an inch above her neck. I saw it shake and I wondered if I was actually nervous about saving Miss Horner's life. She had already had the sexual experience of her life. What more did she need?

I tapped her shoulder. She stirred, but didn't wake. I tapped her harder, calling her name.

Her dark brown eyes fluttered open and she smiled. She must not have seen what I was holding.

"Bambi," I whispered.

"Yes, darling," she said, her eyes closing again.

"Our time together is up."

Her brows furrowed as if she didn't understand, or as if she were disappointed.

"It's time for you to leave this earth now. Because if you don't, then you'll be a miserable wreck. You don't want that. And I certainly don't want that."

Her eyes popped open, directing themselves toward my weapon. She gasped.

And in that instant, I hammered the knife down and buried it in her throat. The tip of the blade had to have come out the other side of her neck because the handle was pressed against the reddening skin of her throat. Blood spewed dark red from her infliction. A wheezing sound expelled as Miss Horner panicked, her limbs flailing helplessly.

I pressed my body against hers, minimizing her movements as best as I could as the blood expelled from her body. She coughed hot bursts of blood into my ear, but it was all right. It would be over soon.

She stopped shaking, or convulsing, or whatever you wanted to call it. I stood back from her corpse, not believing what I had done. I ended the life of another human being. I committed the ultimate sin. There was blood everywhere and I knew I wouldn't be able to hide the body or clean up the mess. What to do, what to do.

An idea struck me. I was going to do nothing. No one knew she had gotten into my car. Mr. Clark wasn't due back until mid-March. Miss Horner's body would lay right there until someone found her. Then it would be too late. The evidence would take care of itself. Or so I hoped. I've watched enough of those crime scene shows on T.V. to know that there was some trace of evidence lying amidst the blood that would lead the police back to me. Trying to hide a murder in this day and age was virtually impossible.

It was then that I decided to torch the place. But not for a couple of days. I didn't know if it would make a difference or not, but that's what I decided. Hell, this woman smoked. They'd determine that the blaze was set by a cigarette. It was perfect. I'd wait to see if Miss Horner's sudden disappearance made big news. If it did, then her body would go up in flames.

I grabbed every towel I could find, crept out of the house, laid the towels out on my driver's seat, climbed in and sped away, hoping to never have to go to that house again. Although I knew I would. Probably sooner than later.

Fifteen minutes later I was soaking in the bath tub, crying, scrubbing the red muck from my body. I felt no remorse at what I'd done. I was crying because it was a shame that me and Miss Horner couldn't have made a life together because of our so called "differences." If society wasn't such a fuck-stick about its racial views, Miss Horner would be alive right now. And yes, I'm blaming society for her death.

I woke up groggily the next morning, the sun shining onto my face in through the mini blinds. It was as if God was radiating his sin-finder on me, highlighting my evil deeds. I felt horrible, but decided to go to school anyway. People-everyone-was going to be talking about Miss Horner's absence because she rarely missed school. But no one should know what happened to her. I felt that if I didn't show, I'd look more like a suspect than ever. Maybe that was guilt. Fuck it. What's done is done. No going back now.

The bell rang for the start of third period. I had heard nothing of Miss Horner the first part of the morning and now it was my turn to report to her classroom. I wondered who was subbing for her.

I turned the corner of the hallway and saw her door, the last one on the left. The closer I came to it, the harder my heart pounded. Finally, I rounded the corner, and looked at the teacher's desk.

My heart stopped. My breath caught. I couldn't breathe.

Miss Horner was at her desk, bent over a stack of papers, clad in my favorite attire: a black skirt with a black, tight-fitting top.

My mind was screwing with me. I had Miss Horner on my mind for so long, the person sitting in the chair merely resembled her.

I rubbed my eyes, shook my head, and looked again.

Still there.

Holy shit. Her ghost had come to haunt me.

She looked up at me, smiled, then nodded toward my seat.

I took it, taking the longest route possible, not removing my peeled, shocked eyeballs from the image at the teacher's desk.

She taught the class about gerunds and modifying adverbs and I couldn't tell you what else. I was trying to sort through all the crazy shit circling around my battered brain. If the person standing at the chalkboard was really Miss Horner, then who was the person laying dead on Mr. Clark's couch?

You mean the person you fucked, then murdered?

That had a God-awful ring to it, didn't it?

That was the question of the century. And I hadn't an answer. Given the facts that were in front of me, I had fucked and murdered a complete and utter stranger. Was this possible? Was I so fixated on Miss Horner that I had a simple case of mistaken identity? Poor fucking Bambi. Poor fucking Bambi.

All signs pointed to yes. Which means I could be carrying around some fatal disease right this instant.

Oh fuck.

It hit me right then that I definitely had to burn the house now.

The bell rang and Miss Horner prattled on about our weekend assignment, which was the essay, "What Life Means to Me."

It was obvious that another person's life didn't mean shit to me. My own, however, was a different story.

I bolted from the room, horrified that I could be spending the rest of my life in prison, waiting for the moment a couple of guards tell me that it's time to go, that it's time to meet my maker.

From school, I went to the library and picked up a number of books about death and life after death. Suddenly the subject was very appealing to me. And suddenly I knew what I was going to do my report on.

I closed myself up in my bedroom for the duration of the weekend, reading my books, reading the passages over and over again, delving into the world of the unknown.

I jotted some quick notes for my speech. I had a brilliant plan devised and I couldn't wait to deliver it. It was going to go down as the single most talked about event this shit-hole town as ever experienced.

Sunday night, I parked several blocks from Mr. Clark's house and ran down the alleys with my gas can swinging painfully from my right arm until I was standing on his back porch. I was relieved to find the house standing as dark and tranquil as it did on the night of the murder. No disturbances, no yellow police ribbon. That was good. Everything seemed to be in order for the next phase.

As I peered into the back window, I found myself more frightened than I've ever been. I kept envisioning Bambi lashing out at me as a mangled, half-eaten corpse.

But the only thing there was deafening silence.

I crawled through the broken basement window, dragging my gas can behind me. Once inside, I winced at the overpowering stench of death. It had been three days. I turned the corner of the living room and stared at the carcass draped across the couch in the same position as I had left it. A good sign.

I doused it with gasoline, splashing the flammable liquid over everything I could. I lit a cigarette, let it burn half-way, then set it down on the couch. A burst of blue flame erupted from her body, then orange-yellow flames took control.

I ran from there as fast as I could. I didn't hear the first siren until I was in my car, half-way home.

I didn't sleep a wink that night because I was waiting for the early morning, six o'clock news and I had to admit, I was a tad bit nervous about my upcoming speech for Miss Horner's class. If you knew what I had planned, then you would understand.

6:00 A.M. came and I watched clips of the firefighters put out the fire I had set three hours earlier. The news anchor said that the fire chief had no idea how the fire started, though he suspected arson, and that the fire was still under investigation.

They said nothing about the charred body inside. Which made me wonder if there actually was a body in there. What the hell was wrong with me?

The morning eventually brightened. I slipped on a black winter coat and stepped outside. Apparently it had snowed some since I was outside last. I decided to walk, I needed to walk. The extra time to clear my muddy mind would definitely do me some good.

The icy wind bit at my face all the way to the front doors of the school. And despite the bitter cold filling my nostrils, I could still smell Bambi's rotting carcass. I threw up over the side of the outside steps, wiped my mouth and stepped into the heat, which was even more nauseating than I'd thought it'd be.

I puked twice more in the restroom, one time during each of the first two periods. Next was Miss Horner's class. This was it. I ambled into the room, spotting Miss Horner behind her desk giving me a hard look as I took my seat. I didn't know what that was about. It was as if she knew what I had done. I felt even sicker.

"Okay, class," she said once the tardy bell rang. She stood at the front of the room, looking as delectable as she could in her short, tight, form-fitting skirt. And, for some reason, her breasts looked bigger. Maybe it was because I hadn't seen her all weekend, but who the fuck knew for sure. I know it was a damn shame to have lust in my mind at a moment like this, but sometimes a young fellow couldn't help it.

"Does everyone have their essays ready?" she said, her teeth shining in a perfect smile. I couldn't help picturing my come dripping off those gorgeous teeth again. Then I saw the face of Bambi, her burnt, skeletal jaw chomping down on my dick. I quickly sent the thought away.

The classroom fell silent. Everyone was hoping that they wouldn't have to read their essays out loud, but Miss Horner was always on us about public speaking, helping us to get over our fear of it.

"Who wants to read theirs out loud first?" she asked.

Groans erupted.

"C'mon, Miss Horner!" Gus said from the back of the room. "Why do you always make us read them aloud?"

"Because," said Miss Horner, "when you all become congressmen and senators, you'll be well endowed in the public speaking department."

That was met with laughter. I made a mental note to myself that all laughter would cease once I took the podium.

"So, Gus," said Miss Horner. "Since you're so adamant to speak, you can read yours first."

I quickly raised my hand.

"Yes, John?"

"Uh, Miss Horner," I said. "Can I talk to you for a moment? It's kind of urgent."

"Of course, John. What is it?"

She walked toward me and I stood up, walking to the back of the class to the coat room that ran the width of the room. I turned, watching Miss Horner walk down the row of seats. I wasn't able to read her face, but I was able to detect a twinkle in her eye.

She entered the closet, put her hand on my chest and pushed me against the wall. My heart thudded against my ribs. Then I felt her other hand on my crotch.

"I want your cock," she said. "I've been fantasizing about it all weekend and I won't go another minute without it."

I reached out and put my hands on her tits.

She pushed me again and I snapped out of my own fantasy.

"John!" she rasped. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

I shook my head, and then lowered it. "I don't know, Miss Horner. I'm so sorry. I've been going through a lot of stress lately."

Her arms were now crossed over her chest as she looked at me disingenuously.

"The thing is," I said, "I'm eighteen and you're only five years older than me. Why won't you-"

"Because I already told you," she said. "Black folks don't mix well with white folks."

"Why turn this into a race issue?"

She didn't answer me. She only looked at me like I was some kind of pathetic, whining loser.

"Can I ask another question?"

She nodded impatiently.

"Do you believe in life after death?"

The look on her face changed. It went from commiseration to deep concern. She leaned forward, her face inches from mine. "Why do you ask that?"

I looked up at her, shaking my head. "No reason," I said. "Why shouldn't I want to stay in this life when I have a gorgeous black woman, whom I adore?" I hoped she recognized the deep sarcasm there.

"John. You're not being fair with yourself." Her mouth was a mere two inches from mine. All I had to do was stretch my neck a little.

"You're sixteen," she said. "You have your whole life ahead of you. Soon you'll meet a girl that's ten times better than me. I promise."

Why do people always say that? Was it just a motivational thing?

"I've been studying the spirit world for several years now," I told her. "Other spirits have told me that people who kill themselves roam the earth as vagabonds. Hundreds of people kill themselves each day."

Miss Horner stood mesmerized by my words. "You're talking out of your ass now, John. Why don't you take your seat and we'll discuss this after class?"

I grabbed the sleeve of her shirt and tugged a little. "Believe me, Miss Horner, this life isn't for you. Something better is waiting for you-for us-on the other side."

"Please let go of me and take your seat, John."

I did as instructed. And as I sat there, listening to Gus read his stupid essay, I became genuinely frightened of my own presentation. How was it going to go? How would people react to it? I had some pretty graphic stuff to reveal. By the time Gus finished, I was sweating like a stuffed hog.

Miss Horner invited me to go next. This was it.

I stood, knees weak, my nerves rattling my teeth. I was going to vomit again, but there was nothing left. I trudged to the podium and laid my single sheet of paper down. I was silent for a moment, thinking. There was another question I wanted to ask Miss Horner before I began, but I didn't want the rest of the class to know my business.

What the hell; I asked anyway.

"Miss Horner? Do you honestly think we'll get a chance at love in the next life?"

There were a few chuckles from the class as Miss Horner's face reddened. "Excuse me?"

"Never mind," I said quickly, facing the classroom, looking out among the room's unperturbed faces. "Hello, class," I said. "My name is John."

No one said anything, but at least a couple of heads nodded in my direction. I noticed there were some people in the back who were nodding off to sleep.

That'll quickly change, I thought.

"What Life Means to Me," I began. "Let me just start by explaining to you what my life means to me. My life is in utter shambles." Suddenly I began to catch a few more of people's attention. "Yes, that's right. Shambles, I tell you!" I paced back and forth across the front of the room with my heavy coat sticking to my arms, sweat pouring down my face.

"I regretted the fact that I had to get up this morning," I said. "You have no idea how many times I have gone to bed wishing that I would never wake up."

I looked around the room. Now every face was positioned toward me.

"I grew up on the east end of town, fighting my way to where I stand today. It's nothing I'm proud of; it's just a hard fact of my life. Everyday, I look at the lives of the rich and think, why couldn't I have been born into that family? Why should I suffer? Why should I be treated any differently than they? Just because I'm not part of the 'in' crowd makes me a piece of shit?"

There were some cursory looks toward Miss Horner.

"And you know what my answer to that is?" I went on. "God didn't intend for me to have that life.

"So, I ask you, is fate already mapped out for me? What's the deal? I'm supposed to make a good life from a bad upbringing and pretend everything is hunky dory? While all you fucking rich kids get everything handed to you? I'm sorry, but that's pure unadulterated bullshit!"

"John!" said Miss Horner. "You need to watch your language."

"I'm eighteen, Miss Horner, remember? I can say any goddamned thing I want." I turned back toward the class, not waiting, or caring actually, for a reply. I seemed to have struck a nerve. All of the rich kids in the room stirred uncomfortably while the poor ones seemed to possess a flicker of fire in their eyes.

I held up my finger. "But I've got a plan, oh yes." I walked back to my desk and retrieved a book from the stack laying there. "This book," I said, holding it high in the air, walking back to the podium, "is all you poor kids need to know to have a new and fruitful life."

I looked over at Miss Horner, who shot me a confused and frightened stare.

I winked at her.

"I won't tell you who wrote it," I said, "nor will I tell you what it's about. But when I leave here today, it'll be right here." I set it upright in the chalk tray. "You will be able to view it whenever you like." I faced the class again, holding up my hands. "But enough about the book. Let's get back to me."

Another bout of nervousness began to shake me. "This is my life in a nutshell." I counted each of the following major strikes against me on my fingers. "I'm poor, not good-looking, not that smart, I have no friends, no girlfriend, no car, no job, no special talents, and no parents that give a rat's ass about me."

I held up my hands, fingers splayed evenly apart. "That's ten, folks. Ten strikes against me. That's the whole motherfucking inning, plus a bonus swing. And once again, I come up empty-handed."

I turned toward Miss Horner, who was wiping her eyes, then I faced the class again. "Can anyone tell me what it's like to murder another human being?"

Every face seemed to gasp in unison.

"I can," I said, digging my hand into the inner pocket of my coat. There was no time to confess like the present. "I did it last Thursday." I watched several faces drop in shock. Several others twisted in disbelief, while others seemed to mock me.

I pulled a gun from my oversized coat. I turned it toward the class. Every girl began to cry. A couple of guys ducked behind their desks, even those that refused to believe what I'd just said a few moments ago. Miss Horner fell out of her chair, to her knees, pleading. Scattered screams tore throughout the room.

But I heard nothing. I was in some kind of freak zone.

"I'm here to change my life, folks!" I said. "I'm eighteen years sick of the life good ol' God has chosen for me. And so I'm going to alter it, starting right now."

I held my free hand out to the class. "You all are so blessed to have this day in your memories! Take this day and cherish it for the rest of your miserable lives and remember that I was the first pioneer into the makings of my own destiny!"

I shifted my gaze to Miss Horner. "Remember what I told you," I said, putting the gun to my head. "This life isn't for you. Come with me and rejoice in our new life, in our new world!"

"Please, John. Put down the gun. You don't have to do this."

"I've always loved you, Miss Horner. But you never gave me the chance."

I watched Miss Horner's tears fall down her cheeks as I pulled the trigger.

I floated up from my headless corpse as the entire class scrambled frantically around the room beneath me, Miss Horner among them. She slipped on my blood, her mouth open, perhaps screaming or vomiting in a gut-wrenching panic, as she went for the door. I saw the cover of the book I wanted everyone to read spattered in blood, still sitting upright on the chalk tray.

I could hear nothing, but I knew further chaos had erupted.

I floated above the classroom, above the school and into the dark overcast sky. I saw lightning and lucid images of other souls escalating into the heavens around me. Soon after, my eyes closed against my will and I fell into a deep sleep.

When I awakened, I found myself lying on the floor of an old barn. I got up and roamed the world for days, perhaps weeks, trying to rediscover myself and the strange new world of the afterlife.

I finally decided to come back to my hometown. I watched Miss Horner for months, through her bedroom window, wondering-hoping-she would do the deed.

She did not. So it was up to me to push her toward the edge.

I ended up murdering her husband, which I didn't know she had. He was in the Army, stationed in Germany. She lied to me, perhaps to spare my feelings. Which was nice of her.

Months passed and nothing happened. Miss Horner grieved for a while, then that was it.

Then I murdered her parents.

That seemed to have struck a nerve because she mourned tragically in her bedroom hours upon hours every night for about two months straight before her tears finally tapered off.

A month after that, she began to date another man. I murdered him as well. Still, Miss Horner kept on living.

A week after I murdered her boyfriend she discovered that she was pregnant. I waited the nine months until the child was born. I waited a few more months, time for Miss Horner to grow really attached to her baby. Then one night, while it was asleep in the crib, I smothered it.

Once Miss Horner discovered her baby's death the next morning, she broke down. She shouted obscenities at God; she began to beat her head against the walls. She slashed her arms and legs with knives. She simply couldn't take the tragedy of life anymore.

I was finally beginning to win.

Hours later, as the sun blazed in from her window, with her dead baby lying in her lap, Miss Horner sat at her vanity, looking in at herself through the mirror. On the glass counter, to her right, was a gun. She stared at it for what seemed an eternity before picking it up and holding the muzzle against her temple.

"You were right all along, John," she said. "This life isn't for me."

Again, I watched Miss Horner's tears fall down her cheeks as she pulled the trigger. Then I watched her soul rise from her bloody corpse.

Miss Horner would eventually be all right. After all her suffering. She deserved it.

It was then that I had a revelation. I thought that if I wrote these events down, people like you would read them. I'm proof that they work. Miss Horner is proof that they work. So if you're reading this right now and are unhappy with your life, kill yourself. It's the perfect solution. When you leave that world and come into mine, I'll help you choose a different path, a path that is more suitable and enjoyable for you. It's like winning the lottery of eternity.

I smiled, thinking back to the last homework assignment Miss Horner gave to me what seems like eons ago.

What Life Means to Me.

I would have to say … I don't know just yet. In my own mind, I'm still living it … waiting for you … to do the deed … to do yourself the favor … put the gun to your head … and pull the trigger. It's the best decision you'll ever make. Trust me.

Miss Horner and I will both be waiting.

And watching.

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