Making the Grade Read online

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Five

  Other Works

  MAKING THE GRADE

  B. Jaye

  Copyright © 2013 B. Jaye

  All rights reserved.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I stood in line at my favorite coffee shop and tried not to look like the saddest man on earth. In truth, I was barely holding it together. After months of working and trying to save the relationship, my wife had finally sent me divorce papers the previous Thursday — two days before my birthday. After that I spent a miserable weekend, trying to find a way to feel optimistic about the life in front of me, and mostly failing.

  And so I found myself on a Monday morning, standing in line for my cappuccino and feeling like shit.

  At the other end of the line was a woman who seemed like the exact opposite of what I was feeling. I felt old, she was young. I've never been too happy with what I see in the mirror, but she's so beautiful—with blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and a face that hovers right in the middle between "beautiful" and "cute"—that it almost hurts to look at her. I'm fighting a midsection that seems to sag more every year no matter how many sit-ups I do, while she had one of the tightest, hottest bodies I've ever seen in a barista uniform.

  It used to be that this moment was the best part of my week. All along the walk from my apartment to the coffee shop, I'd be thinking about Marissa the barista: how she'd looked the last time I saw her, how she'd smiled at me when she handed me my coffee, how my stomach had given a lurch that one time when her hand accidentally touched mine. I had a full-on crush on the girl. Marissa was who I thought about when I was in bed with my wife, but I'd barely spoken to her aside from placing my order and thanking her when she gave it to me. I might seem like a pansy-ass, but in my defense I was a married man. I had no business hitting on a woman who was young enough to be my daughter.

  Most mornings it was a pleasure to see Marissa. This day, I was embarrassed that she would see me this way.

  "Hey, Dave," she smiled at me when I was at the register. "What can I get you?"

  I had a sudden inspiration to order something different. Something to break the routine, something to celebrate this exciting new life I would be leading. I stared at the menu of options and came up completely empty. I couldn't even remember what I'd been intending to order in the first place.

  "Ummm. I don't know?" I finally said, feeling like the biggest idiot in the world.

  Her smile vanished. "You OK?" she asked, showing far more concern than I would have expected.

  "Not really," I said. "My wife and I are splitting up." On some level I knew that this was a really inappropriate topic of conversation when you're buying coffee and there are five people in line behind you, but I didn't care. Marissa was looking at me with those amazing eyes, and I was really enjoying the attention. This was the first time that she'd shown any real interest in me, and I wasn't about to squander the opportunity.

  "Sally, cover for me," she called over her shoulder. Then she turned back to me and said the words I never dreamed I'd hear: "You and I are going to talk about this. Right now."

  We took a table by the window. I tore at a croissant that Marissa comped for me while she cupped her head in her hands and made me go through the entire story. I told her everything: how I had caught my wife cheating on me, how she had blamed me for the whole thing, how she said that I was boring and that I had given up on life, and how I now felt like I was starting from zero.

  "The worst thing is I have to start dating again! I hate dating! I even hated it in college! The thought of having to go out there and find someone, it just makes me want to curl up and die."

  Marissa smirked prettily at me. "And imagine, your wife had the audacity to claim that you've given up on life! How unfair!”

  I threw a scrap of croissant at her. "Don't be mean to me. I'm already bleeding, I don't need any more bruises."

  She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. "Yeah, you're bleeding. You're also really feeling sorry for yourself, and I have to tell you: it's not very sexy."

  I shrugged. "Fair enough. I'm not feeling very sexy right now."

  She leaned forward again and pointed at me as if I'd said something crucial. "That's exactly it. You've lost your mojo."

  "My mojo."

  "You're mojo. You've lost it, and it's obvious to everyone. You, Dave, need to get that mojo back."

  "I need to get it back."

  "You do. And I know how you can do it."

  I looked at her dubiously. "Marissa, I'm still in the middle of a divorce. Five days ago I thought that my wife and I would get back together. Don't you think I should take some time…"

  "No!" she yelled, drawing some curious looks from customers at the tables surrounding us. "No time! The longer you take, the deeper you'll sink into this funk, and then you'll be lucky if you can get some tail at a retirement home. No, Dave, you are going to get out there right away. The sooner the better. In fact, I'm going to set you up."

  A panicky feeling started to grow in my gut. "Wait. No. I'm not ready!"

  "Ready or not, Dave. You're doing this. Clear your schedule for Friday night. I know just the girls you should meet."

  "Girls?" I asked, wondering about the plural.

  "Girls," she answered. "I think Charla will be good to start. She just broke up with her boyfriend, and she's looking to have some fun." Suddenly she leaned across the table, looking for all the world like a police detective interrogating a suspect. "You're not going to embarrass me, Dave, are you? I set you up with a lady, you need to keep up your end of the bargain. Are you ready for this?"

  Despite the fact that I had just said moments before that no, I was not ready for this, for some reason I had trouble saying "no" to Marissa. I found myself nodding and agreeing that yes, I would keep up my end of the bargain, and yes, I would keep my schedule clear for a date with Charla on Friday night.

  Of course, I didn't tell her that I hadn't had Friday night plans for years. What she didn't know wouldn't hurt her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I spent the rest of that week fighting off a feeling of dread at what would happen that Friday. Marissa had done me the favor of getting my mind off of my wife and the divorce, but she had accomplished this by giving me something much bigger to worry about. I hadn't been on a date in over fifteen years. I didn't remember being good at dating even when I was doing it. How was I going to do this?

  I must have come up with ten different plans per day for canceling the date. I would claim sickness, or leave town to visit my mother, or just not show up and say that I forgot. I would enter a monastery, take a vow of chastity, or bribe a doctor to give me a false diagnosis of a STD. I would break my leg or fall off of a building or slip on a bridge and nearly drown. They all seemed like good plans, but I couldn't go through with them, and the reason was Marissa. I'd spent so long dreaming about her that now I couldn't bring myself to disappoint her.

  And so I found myself that Friday night walking up to a bar with a rose in my hand. The rose felt a little melodramatic, but I was following the instructions that Marissa had left on my voicemail. I'd done my best to look young and hip: I was wearing my leather jacket, my best jeans, and a pair of boots that looked a little rugged. My hair was a mess, like it always is, but I wasn't going to solve that problem anytime soon. If I didn't look my best, I had come pretty close. Inside, though, I was a nervous wreck.

  Inside the bar was dark and intimate, which was promising. I ordered a beer and took a table by the window. I put the rose on the table top, where it would be most conspicuous
, and then turned to the door so I could mentally evaluate the women as they came through, wondering which one would turn out to be Charla.

  As it turns out, she was the fifth woman through that door, after three women who came in with other men, and one woman, who I'm sure is a wonderful human being, but who gave me the fright of my life by walking towards me, giving me a smile, and then trundling on past just as I was convinced that this was Charla and she outweighed me by 200 pounds.

  When Charla did arrive, at first I mistook her for a waitress. She was sweet-looking, with long red hair and blue eyes so dark that they almost seemed black. I've always had a thing for redheads, and when she held out her hand and said "Hi" in a little-girl voice, I mentally sent a prayer of thanks to Marissa the Beneficient. Charla was wearing a dress that did a nice job of showing off a figure that boasted wide hips, generous breasts, and a narrow waist, and suddenly I was very much looking forward to the evening.

  At first I was at a loss for what to say, and we stared at each other in silence for five or ten seconds. "Can I get you a drink?" I asked at last.

  "Yes," Charla said, in a tone that communicated that a better man would have had her drink waiting for her.

  "What would you like?"

  "PBR," she said in a bored tone.

  I headed to the bar, relieved that I knew what the letters stood for. It would have been smoother to signal for table service, but I needed time and space to think of things to talk about with this young woman who was far too young and pretty for me, and who also seemed to be getting bored with me after 30 seconds of conversation. I needed to do something, and fast, to turn this evening around.

  When I came back with her beer, Charla watched me walk up with an skeptical look on her face. "So, you're friends with Marissa?" I asked. It was one of two questions I'd thought of. If this didn't touch off a good conversation, Plan B was to ask about her tattoos.

  "Yeah," she said. "We go way back. Marissa's saved my life, like literally saved my life, a dozen times at least."

  I had my doubts that anyone who looked as soft and feminine as Charla could "literally" have risked death dozens of times in her short life so far, but it didn't seem like a good idea to challenge her.

  "Marissa's great," I agreed. "When she saw I needed a friend she really helped me out."

  "Right," Charla said, and we both knew that she was the help that I was referring to. "Marissa says you're cool."

  "Oh yeah?"

  "Yeah."

  "That's nice."

  "Prove it."

  "What?" I asked, feeling confused.

  "Prove that you're cool," Charla said, with the beginning of a smile on her face. I was relieved to see it: that smile was the first sign Charla had given me since she arrived that she might be enjoying herself.

  I was at a loss. "How should I do that?"

  Charla scanned the room. When her eyes hit on a group on the other side of the bar, her eyes narrowed to a squint. "That guy, over there. The one with the body art."

  I looked over where she was looking. I could easily pick out the man she was talking about. He was huge, with hulking shoulders and bulging biceps, and a tattoo wound up from somewhere on his muscular back to twist around his neck.

  "What about him?" I asked, beginning to suspect that this situation could go very badly for me.

  "He's an asshole. We used to date. Then he dumped me for some anorexic twat, and he posted a bunch of lies about me to Facebook."

  "He sounds like a dick," I said in agreement. "What would you like me to do about it?"

  She leaned over the table conspiratorially. Through the haze of anxiety that was starting to build in my chest, I was still able to admire her beautiful eyes and the abundant cleavage she was putting on display for me. "I want you to go to the bar, ask for an ice cube, and then throw it as hard as you can at the back of his head."

  I stared in silence at her for quite a while, waiting for her to burst out laughing and admit that she was joking. The laughter didn't come. In its place was a simple question: was I going to do what this possibly unhinged woman wanted me to do? On the one hand, I could refuse and walk out of here. I'd be home and watching TV inside of twenty minutes, a bowl of popcorn on my lap. Of course, I'd never be able to look Marissa in the eye again. On the other hand, I could do what she said, probably get my ass kicked by a steroid abuser, and maybe end up in the hospital. Then, on Monday morning, I could come in for my coffee with bruises on my face to show Marissa that I had not backed down.

  I stood up. I turned and walked toward the door. At the last minute I veered over to the bar. "Can I have an ice cube, please?" I asked the bar tender. When she handed one over, I palmed it in my hand, feeling the wetness as it melted between my fingers, and stared at the back of the man who would quite possibly murder me.

  I took a breath. He would kill me. If I even tried to hit him with an ice cube, he would absolutely kill me.

  I took a second breath. He would rip me apart. He would punch me so hard that his hand would come out my back. I should run. I should run out of here and not look back.

  I threw the ice cube as hard as I could.

  I'm not going to say that I threw that ice cube 100 miles per hour. I'm not a professional baseball player, I'm just a regular guy, but this regular guy played varsity in high school and I had a pretty good arm until my shoulder started to get sore. When I threw that ice cube it took off from my hand like a bullet, and with uncanny accuracy it zeroed in on the back of Gorilla Man's head and exploded into his cranium with an audible "Crack!"

  "What the FUCK!" he yelled, leaning over and putting his hand to the back of his head.

  Whatever else he might have said, I don't know, because I was already running as fast as I could out the door, down the road, and down the first alleyway I could find. My heart was beating so hard that I thought I might be having an anxiety attack. I thought that the guy or his friends were chasing me, but when I looked back I saw Charla hurrying up behind. She was laughing so hard that she was having trouble breathing.

  "Oh man, that was epic! Why did you do that?!"

  "Why?" I asked, dumbfounded. "You told me to!"

  "I didn't think you'd do it, you crazy mother fucker! You saw him! He could kill you with one hand!"

  "Easily," I agreed. "Two or three fingers is all it would take."

  "Oh man," she said, putting her hands on her knees to catch her breath. "Oh man. We better get out of here. I'm pretty sure they'll be looking for us."

  I didn't need to be told a second time. I took off running again, not really caring whether Charla was staying with me, but at the same time kind of hoping that she was. Maybe it was the adrenaline speaking, but I hadn't felt so good in months.

  Eventually we found ourselves on a quiet street not far from the waterfront. I leaned up against the wall and took a good hard look at Charla. Her hair was messed up from the run, and it made her prettier somehow. She gave me a smile and took a step in closer, then leaned up for a kiss.

  The feeling was electric. The sensation of her mouth on mine, the faint flavor of a cinnamon breath mint in her mouth, and the aroma of her perfume put my whole body into overdrive. My heart beat double-time, my head swam for a moment, and I was a little embarrassed to feel an erection spring up in my jeans. It had been a long, long time since I'd kissed anyone other than my wife. My body was ready for more.

  I leaned in for another kiss. Our mouths meshed together and our tongues tangled for several glorious minutes. Finally Charla pulled back and looked at me with a playful smile. "I'll bet you want to fuck me," she whispered.

  "You know I do." The bulge in my pants was so big, it was visible from space.

  "And I think maybe I'll let you. But you have to prove that you're not lame."

  Apparently risking my life wasn't enough. "How?" I asked, wondering how much trouble this girl could get me in before the night was through.

  With her head she gestured to a cluster of pedestrians about a bloc
k away, who were gathered around a street musician. He wasn't bad, strumming an acoustic guitar and singing a song that sounded to my uneducated ears like generic folk rock.

  "Have you ever done it in public?" Charla whispered in my ear.

  "No," I answered truthfully, excited about where this conversation was headed but dreading it at the same time.

  "It's hot," Charla purred. "The risk makes it so much better than ordinary sex."

  "I'll bet," I said, feeling a little breathless.

  Charla moved in close. Her perfume was thick in my nostrils. "You can fuck me," she whispered, her hands coming to rest on my chest, "but not here. Over there. With them."

  I considered the scene. The crowd was ten or fifteen strong, and they were pretty focused on the performance. The street was also unusually dark, I noticed, on account of a broken street light that hadn't yet been repaired. It was crazy, it was ridiculous, it was a really bad idea, but I had to try.

  I took Charla's hand and walked her toward the crowd. My pulse was racing a mile minute, but from excitement or fear or a combination of both. My eyes played over the scene like a general in battle, choosing where to position my forces. I stopped five feet short of the back of the crowd and pulled Charla in front of me. I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her back into me, where my hard-on slid into position between her pillowy butt cheeks.

  I could feel that Charla was starting to breathe hard. She leaned her weight back into me, and I stroked my hands over her stomach and up to graze her breasts. She let out a quiet moan and tilted her head back. I rested my cheek on her hair and sent my hands downward again, to outline the curve of her hips.

  I listened to the music and surveyed the crowd. No one was glancing over at us, but who knew what might attract their attention? And then there was the chance of a police cruiser happening along. I wondered what the charges would be in a situation like this: public indecency? Was that a felony or a misdemeanor? I honestly didn't know.