Chapter 1: New Day, New School, and Ghosting Anew

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Teenagers, Romantic, Slow, School,

Desc: Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1: New Day, New School, and Ghosting Anew - This story is about James Gordon, a new student to the Catalina Foothills High School. Having recently moved from Boston, Mass. and sick of the high school popularity contest, Jay seeks to ghost his way through senior year, attracting at as little notice as possible. However, things never go as planned.

"Wake up, honey!"

The voice seemed to pierce the darkness as I was freefalling through the pitch black at speeds unheard of, with only the stars winking behind me. I shrugged it off, maintaining my heading, and listened to the air stream by my ears.

"Wake up, or you're going to be late!"

I ignored it, mumbling my discontent. The dim glow on my altimeter showed the needle descending from ten to nine and then again to eight thousand feet. By all estimates, I still had another thirty seconds before it was time to deploy, halting my body's hurtling trajectory back to earth and settling me into a more tactical descent.

Five thousand... four thousand... three thousand...

"I said, get up!"

I felt a rough tug on my right hip, rolling me over and halting the falling sensation. My eyes bolted open, arms and legs flailing as if I was a turtle on its back. It took me a moment to orient myself and gain my bearings, but the ceiling fan above me and the cardboard boxes I could see out of the corner of my eye clued me in that I was in fact not doing a night jump.

"What the hell?" I said, more out of confusion than anything else. Then it came to me: My family had just moved into our newly built home in the Catalina Foothills, an upscale community to the north of Tucson, Arizona. Several months ago, my father closed the sale of his engineering firm, netting what could only be described as a luxurious retirement for my mother and himself. Then, in order to escape the brutal cold of another hellacious winter in the northeast, particularly at my mother's insistence, the three of us packed our lives into cardboard boxes and hit the road.

Personally, I would have preferred if we would have waited until after I had graduated from high school, but my parents would have none of it. When I said we had moved to escape the brutal cold of the northeast, I wasn't kidding; my mother suffered from arthritis and Raynaud's Syndrome, a circulatory ailment that can make living in colder climes rather painful. I can understand their justification for wanting to move, even finding myself fully agreeing with them, but at the same time I was a just-turned-eighteen high school senior who had to leave his friends, nay, his whole life, behind.

"Come on, sweetheart, it's time to get up and get going to school."

As I wiped the sleep out of my eyes, I looked up at our family's ever-faithful maid, Miss Angela Robinson. Angela, or Ange as I preferred to call her, had been with my family since before I had been born, and I considered her to be closer relations than most people would their own siblings. Generally speaking, Ange was the person to whom I turned whenever I had a problem or questions about the mysteries of life, and I was very fond of her. That being said, I most certainly was not a morning person, and both her presence and her waking me from my dreams only served as a focus for my grouchiness.

"All right, all right, I'm moving," I groused, pulling myself upright. I yawned widely, covering my mouth, and then stretched, slinging my legs around to the side of my bed.

When she assured herself that I wasn't going to fall back asleep, as I've done occasionally in the past, Ange turned and walked to the door. "Once you've had your shower and gotten dressed, I'll have breakfast waiting for you in the kitchen."

Now before I get naked and jump into the shower, I figure it's only fair that I give a more rounded introduction of myself. My name is James Gordon, and I've been eighteen years old for a few months. I'm 5'8" tall, 155 pounds, and in athletic shape. I've got short blond hair in a buzz cut, olive green eyes, and I keep a trimmed beard. Also, I have a few tattoos, but those can only be seen when I'm shirtless. I've got a small red maple leaf tattooed on my left breast, heritage of my Canadian birth. I got this when I was sixteen years old, my father having to stand in the tattoo parlour while I had it done. I've got a tricep-sized black dotted "M" on my right arm in recognition of my having completed the Boston Ironman earlier this year, shortly after my eighteenth birthday. Finally, I've got a winged sword and parachute tattooed on my right shoulderblade, indicative of both my sport and my belief that the Archangel, winged warrior, watches over me when I voluntarily throw myself out of a perfectly good airplane. That was my most recent acquisition, done immediately after I earned my skydiving license.

And, as you may have gathered, today is my first day as a senior at Catalina Foothills High School. Since my parents both had meetings with lawyers, doctors, and the director of the La Paloma Country Club, I was on my own. Hell, I was eighteen years old, after all; I didn't feel like they needed to hold my hand anymore, and I was grateful for it. But Ange was right; if I didn't get my ass into the shower, I would be late, and pissing of the school's jefe was not something I wanted to do on my first day.

"So, are you looking forward to your first day of school?" Ange asked me as I sat down at my place at the kitchen table.

I chuckled. "You make it sound like high school is a great place to be, Ange."

"You mean it's not?" she mused. "I remember when I was in my senior year, the fun never seemed to end... and it's not the kind of fun you'd want to miss out on."

I rolled my eyes. "Yes, because as you know, the periodic table of elements, applications of price elasticity, and the incessant ramblings of Ernest Hemmingway are all rides to 'Fun City.' "

As Ange put my plate in front of me, she gave me a playful swat upside the head, as friends and family do from time to time. "I didn't mean the learning, James," she said, the sarcasm dripping from her tongue. "I meant all the other stuff that goes along with being a senior. You know... lettermen, cheerleaders, rallies, dances..."

I sighed. "Not really my style, Ange, you know that. Maybe in your day, when dinosaurs ruled the earth, it was all in vogue, but..."

My smartass comment earned me yet another smack upside the head. What else was family for?

"Eat your breakfast, Jay, or you're going to be late for your meeting."

Following my post-meal brushing, I checked my watch and noticed it was time to get going. I grabbed my backpack, stuffed a handful of notebooks in it, and headed for the garage. Once inside, I slung my backpack over my shoulders, hit the lights, and looked back, shutting the door behind me.

When I turned back around, my eyes came to rest on my "baby." Bought and paid for with money I had earned as a result of years of hard work, and not as a result of "daddy's wallet," I felt an immense amount of pride whenever I went out with her. A sleek, brand-new Yamaha-blue YZF-R1 sports bike allowed me an inordinate amount of freedom that most eighteen-year olds didn't have. Plus, it had the added benefit of being as cool as shit.

I put my helmet on, grabbed a pair of batting gloves, and fished my keys out of my right jeans pocket. I hit the electric garage door opener, mounted my motorcycle and put the key in, turning the bike on. Then, making sure the bike was in neutral and my hand was depressing the clutch, I hit the ignition.

The engine purred to life, just waiting to be driven. Flicking down the visor of my racing helmet, I put my baby into gear and then rolled her out onto the street, making a right turn and heading towards school.

"So, Mr. Gordon, your transcripts say you just finished your junior year at Quincy Upper School, and quite frankly, your grades are nothing short of excellent."

The school principal, John Josephs, looked up from the papers on his desk and took a good look at me. In his mid-fifties with what must have been years of experience as a public school principal, the man commanded an air of authority which brooked no nonsense, all while declaring he was a man who very seldom didn't get what he wanted.

"Yes, sir."

"And I notice you were also a varsity member of Quincy's track team, cross-country running team, and swim team," the man said.

Again, I nodded. Looking at the principal, I got the vague impression that his eyes sparkled like a gold digger's when spotting an aging mark with extremely deep pockets. It left me feeling a little uncomfortable, despite the fact that I had given up varsity sports in order to train for my Ironman on my own schedule, without external demands and pressures.

"Well, as you may or may not know, Catalina Foothills has a top-notch athletics program. We have both excellent coaches and facilities, and I'm sure that..."

"Pardon me for interrupting, Mr. Josephs, but I gave up being a letterman. I just want to put my head down, do my thing in class, and graduate all while attracting as little attention to myself as possible." I kept my voice as level and respectful as I could manage, but I didn't want to be pressured into a public and visible role within the school.

"I'm certain once you take a look at our track and meet our track coach Mr. Jensen that..."

"No, sir, I think I'll be just fine with my classes," I said, interrupting him again. "I have to keep my grades up and all if I want to go to college."

"Well, we'll just hold that thought for the time being, and maybe later you'll change your mind. Now, about your classes. You've elected to take calculus, chemistry, and physics, all solid requirements for admission into any bachelor of science program. You've got your standard English class, as well as advanced French; and, you've also decided to take courses in both history and economics," he read off my admissions form.

"That sounds about right," I replied.

"Are you certain you don't want to drop one of your electives and change your physical education section from regular to varsity? For you, it'd still be easy credit, you'd be able to make friends quickly, and you'd have no trouble catching the eyes of the coaching staff."

The man just wouldn't give up, it seemed. I shrugged it off. "The electives keep my doors open, and I haven't decided what I want to study yet in college. Besides, like I said before, varsity sports aren't really my thing anymore; I keep fit enough on my own schedule."

Mr. Josephs sighed, a man defeated, finally realising that pursuing the issue was a lost cause. "Well, I guess that's that, then. Here's your schedule..." He shuffled through a pile of papers on his desk, came up with one and handed it to me. "... and if you'll wait just outside my office, I'll have one of the student aides show you around campus."

That was my cue to get up and exit, stage left. We both stood up, and I shook his hand, thanking him for his time. I grabbed my helmet and shouldered my backpack, making my way out of the office. I closed the door behind me, and grabbed a vacant chair just outside, and waited for someone to show me the ropes.

A few minutes later, a rakish-looking guy made his way through the school's office and beelined it towards me. The first thing that came to mind in describing him was gangly, but as he got closer I found that the word didn't quite suit him. Instead, he reminded me of some of the triathletes against whom I had raced in the past; piss-poor swimmers on account of their relative lack of upper-body density, but absolutely murderous on the bike and running legs of the race.

"How's it going?" he asked me, extending his hand. "I'm Sketchy."

The look of confusion on my face must have shown as I stood up from the chair and shook his hand. "Sketchy?" I asked.

"Yeah," he laughed. "My real name's Jason Fitterer, but after a year of questionable dating decisions on my part concerning the quality of the virtues of the women I was seeing got me irrevocably branded."

I nearly choked. I couldn't tell if he was being serious or not; and, if he was being on the up-and-up, I wasn't certain if I wanted to endure the potential attention which would result from my being seen with him. Sketchy seemed nice enough, and I wasn't being snobbish — I just wanted to keep a low profile.

He must have caught on somewhat to my thought process. "Don't worry about it," he said. "The rumours are vastly exaggerated and no one places any truth on them anyway." He paused, grinned, and then put on British airs. "Your reputation shall not be besmirched as a result of your being seen with me, sir."

I laughed. Sketchy had quite the sense of humour, and was definitely an all right guy. While I didn't want to enter the high school popularity rat race, and wanted to attract as little attention as possible, it couldn't hurt to have someone to talk with every now and again.

"Gordon," I replied in my best Sean Connery imitation, shaking his hand. "James Gordon."

And thus began my nickel-and-dime tour of Catalina Foothills High School. Sketchy and I left the administration office and I kept pace as we took our time walking to the school's bookstore. I had been assigned a locker number in the N-wing of the school, but I still needed to get a few supplies before I went to class.

"To the left, you'll see some of the school's more commonplace classrooms, flanked on either side by docile lockers. But if you'll look to your right, ever so carefully... don't make any sudden moves... you'll see some of the more exotic lockers of this region," Sketchy went on in a Crocodile Hunter impression. "Look now," he whispered in a lowered voice, "a very elegant yet distinguished water fountain! Notice the plumage!"

I cracked up. "Sketch, you are something else, lemme tell you."

"That's why they pay me the big bucks. School aide and all that nonsense, although you won't catch me dead six ways from Sunday wearing one of those lame-assed uniforms that public schools try to force on their representatives," he cautioned. "Just jeans and T-shirts for this boy."

"You know, that's something I can understand. I was never really one who went in for attracting attention, and a dorky vest is just the thing which brings on the kind of attention that nobody wants." I sighed and shook my head, memories of Quincy flooding back. Whether it was an aide's vest or a letterman's jacket or sweater, I was never really keen on being in the limelight.

"Office aide at your old school?"

"No, varsity sports. I swam, did track and field, and ran cross-country, and I was pretty good at all three — but I was never really comfortable with attention of others that being a letterman brought about," I explained. "It's true that all of the sports I did brought attention and prestige to the school, but they're also individual sports... and so I was really only competing against myself."

"I can understand that," Sketchy said. "I play varsity volleyball. Fortunately, it's not a highly visible sport like football, and so my teammates and I can get away with playing simply for the love of the sport instead of a swelled head and the bullshit that goes with it."

"Amen to that," I said as I pushed open the door to the school bookstore. I grabbed a couple pencils from the shelves, shelled out a few bucks, and then we left, making our way to find my locker. I checked my watch, noting it was nearing lunchtime, and hoped that the cafeteria's food was better than at Quincy.

As it turns out, it wasn't. By now, having gone to several different schools in both Canada and the United States, I jokingly convinced myself that there was an evil right-wing government conspiracy afoot ensuring that public school food sucked regardless of where in North America one went. Simply put, I was going to start brown-bagging it on a daily basis; Ange had always packed me a lunch since kindergarten, and today was different only because we hadn't yet fully unpacked.

As I nibbled on a French fry, sitting quietly by myself at a small table by the far end of the quad, I observed the goings-on of Catalina's student population. For all its reputation as an excelling school, those attending it didn't look any different from those at any other school I had attended. There seemed to be a fairly regular mix of meatheads and brains, of wildflowers and wallflowers, of those in the in and those looking in from the outside. It was a combination of lettered leather jackets, Tommy Hilfiger, the Gap, and Sears. African-Americans, Latin-Americans, and whites with all varying blends in between.

All told, it seemed like I would be able to blend in without much notice. I really wasn't any different from anyone else attending the Foothills. By electing to not participate in varsity sports, my profile would be considerably further reduced, and by purposefully going out of my way not to integrate myself into the typical high school popularity rat race, I was fairly certain that my senior year would pass quietly and without much fuss.

When the bell rang at the end of the lunch period, I checked my schedule. I had French fifth period and closed out the day with chemistry. Now, if only I could remember where all of my classes were, I would be in business.

Fortunately, I didn't pull what I often referred to as a "Magellan," ending up in some far remote corner of the world getting cannibalised by the natives. I managed to find my French classroom in the school's language arts building, commonly referred to as "D Wing". I never quite understood why the students called it that, although I had some suspicions. At Quincy, the students who managed to keep in the sciences, particularly the AP streams, looked down on those who studied languages, claiming they did so for easy credit, even if they managed a "D" grade. As someone who demonstrated a general interest in education, I personally found those students to be standoffish intellectual snobs; yet another reason among many as to why I would never appreciate the "finer points" of high school, as Ange would call them.

As I entered the class, the amount of postering which the teacher had done in decorating her class struck me. Most recognisable, of course, were posters of the Arc de Triomphe dedicated to Napoleon's victories in the early 1800s, of the Eiffel Tower, and the Roman Catholic cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris. The teacher had also accumulated aspects of French culture from around the world, including a map of the province of Quebec and its flag, replicas of Claude Monet paintings, and more. For all the criticism which the French had taken following 9/11 and America's invasion of Iraq, I had to admire the teacher's aplomb and passion for her subject.

Since I didn't know where my assigned seat would be, I decided to wait for all of my classmates to file in and then speak with the teacher. A couple of the students gave me a funny look as if I was lost; then again, I was a new face, so I should have expected their reaction. It would probably be a short while before they became so used to me that I would simply blend in and disappear.

A moment later, a woman in what I estimated to be her late twenties or early thirties walked in and, studiously ignoring me, made her way to the instructor's desk at the head of the class. Tall and thin for a woman, standing at what I guessed to be about five foot eleven, her posture radiated the arrogance for which Parisians are famously known. Not put off by it, as it was similar to the stature of many French Canadians among whom I had lived my early years, I walked next to her desk and presented an admit slip from the principal's office after excusing my presence.

"Voyons," she sighed under her breath, almost so that I could barely hear it. "Faut-il que j'enseigne un autre qui véritablement n'a aucune connaissance de la langue?"

Her attitude shocked me; at first glance, she had dismissed me as yet another student dropped in her lap who had absolutely no command of the French language. Notwithstanding my fluency in the language, what truly bothered me was her subtle disdain for teaching people whom she viewed as less than her. If her passion was teaching, she should have zeal for raising her students out of ignorance into understanding; if she viewed teaching as a chore, I felt she should find another job.

"I'm sorry to trouble you," I replied in English. I felt it only appropriate that I mask my fluency in French so that I might thumb my nose at her sometime later. "I'm James Gordon. Where would you like me to sit?"

She sniffed and then waved her hand at me in a "go away" gesture towards the back of the class. I looked and noticed there were a handful of empty desks, so I picked the one at the rear of the second row to my right. I settled in, pulled out a scribbler from my backpack which I carried with me, and then fished a blue pen out of my left jeans pocket.

"You've picked a poor day to join us," I heard a voice whisper.

I looked to my left, the direction of the voice. Its owner was a taller guy with broad shoulders and a strawed-out blond hairdo that simply screamed "chlorine abuse!" Without a doubt, he was a swimmer; for years I had sported a similar 'do, until I decided that buzzing it short saved a world of trouble.

"Why'd you say that?" I whispered back.

"Madame Sainte-Foie is giving us a test today, and she's got a reputation of being a brutal hard-ass when it comes to grading grammar."

"Silence, André," the teacher admonished. The student shuddered as she called him out in French, causing his brow to furrow.

"I hate it when she calls me that," he said. "It's Andrew, not André, you stupid French..." he muttered underneath his breath. Already, I knew that I didn't like the woman.

Shortly after, Mme Sainte-Foie passed out packages to each individual student, moving up and down the rows. When she got to me, she seemed to snicker, and sarcastically wished me "Bonne chance."

Well, if I wasn't going to put her in her place with a perfect score, I knew exactly what would.

When the bell rang at a quarter past one, I picked up my test paper along with the rest of my classmates and deposited it on her desk facedown. On the back of the paper, in the spare time I had gained as a result of completing the exam well before any of the other students, I snarkily wrote the first few lines of La Marseillaise, France's national anthem:

Allons enfants de la Patrie,

Le jour de gloire est arrivé!

Contre nous de la tyrannie,

L'étendard sanglant est levé!

Loosely translated: Fuck you, stiff letter to follow!

The rest of the day seemed to pass without any further hitches. I did manage ending up in the same Chemistry class as Sketchy, who quietly nodded at me with a private smile — assurance he'd help me keep the low profile I assiduously wanted to maintain.

The teacher, an Austrian man in his late fifties by the name of Arnold Blitzer, was both extremely involving and knowledgeable; I was impressed to find out he had a doctorate and began teaching out of love of chemistry following an extremely successful career in the oil industry. At the end of class I felt I had a much stronger command of the subject.

"He doesn't let a single student coast, and he somehow manages to get everyone to understand," Sketchy whispered at one point in the middle of the class. "I don't understand how he does it — he's a fucking Cheminator." I had to bite back laughter; despite a same first name and national origin, Professor Blitzer bore little physical resemblance to Schwarzenegger, although the commonalities in personality between my chem teacher and the Governor of California were strong enough to warrant consideration.

When the bell rang at a quarter past two, I nodded to Sketchy and meandered back to my locker. I deposited my chem book, thankfully having no homework for tomorrow, and then grabbed my gloves and helmet. Then, I walked out the school's front door towards student parking, and jumped on my bike to go back home.

"So honey, how was your day?"

Dinnertime at my house had always, for as long as I can remember, been a social gathering in which everyone got caught up on everyone else's day. My parents, Angela, and I have always been very close, and we always took a genuine interest in the well-being of our family.

I shrugged, my mouth full of salad. "It wasn't too bad, Mom," I answered after swallowing. "There was a bit of pressure from the principal to join a bunch of varsity teams, but I let him know I wasn't really interested."

My dad laughed and grinned. "Don't be surprised if he keeps hounding you — I'm sure the athletics results in your transcripts from Quincy had him seeing championship trophies. Just don't let him muscle you into it if you don't want to do it. We Gordons don't take to that sort of thing."

"Oh, Andrew," Mom lovingly admonished, "leave the poor boy alone. If he's anything like his father, I'm certain his stubborn streak will have him digging in his heels any moment."

"Hey, I resemble that remark!" Dad replied. We all had a good chuckle at his expense.

It was a fair characterisation. Andrew Gordon, my dad, was a self-made man. The first of many children born to a poor Scottish immigrant family in Canada, he fought discrimination and many stereotypes in his earlier years. By virtue of the sheer force of his will, he graduated from Sir George Williams University in Montreal as the youngest engineer in the history of the school, and with top grades to boot. He worked as an apprentice for a few years, and again broke ground as he passed his Professional Engineer's Examination, youngest ever in the province.

Slowly, as a result of years of experience in the field of engineering, he started up his own process control consulting firm in Boston. It had a little trouble in the initial years, but eventually stabilised and grew to the point by which my father's name became a commodity in the consulting industry. CEOs of well-known companies would request him personally, after which my father would modernise their operations for an equitable percentage of his clients' yearly savings. After about twenty years of operating his own company, he received a buy-out offer that only a fool would turn down, and retired at the relatively young age of forty-nine with $80 million after taxes in his bank account.

You'd never expect from looking at him and at my mother Celia that they were multimillionaires. They didn't feel the need to integrate themselves into the high society of the nouveau riche. Around the house and when he ran errands, Dad was content to wear grimy sweat pants and old T-shirts. Mom still managed our family's books, although we did have a trusted family friend go over our taxes. While the house we had just moved into was very large and had all sorts of specialty rooms, including a miniature cinema theatre, we Gordons simply didn't flaunt our wealth. I think it had a great deal to do with Dad's roots, but regardless of the cause I was thankful for it. The last thing we needed was a school of piranhas trying to eat us out of our hard-earned comforts.

"And did you make any new friends?" Ange asked.

"One," I said between bites, "although I'm pretty certain the definition we're using is different. Sketchy, the guy who showed me around campus, and I have a quiet understanding about my desire to stay out of the high school rat race, and we share a couple classes."

"That's nice."

"And what about the girls?" Dad asked me while sipping his glass of wine. Mom promptly rolled her eyes, and I laughed. "They more or less flocked around you at Quincy."

"Oddly enough, I didn't really give them any thought. You know how they were at Quincy; that's something I can do without."

It was true. I never really understood the attraction of wealth for wealth's sake, but for some reason the girls at Quincy seemed to be more interested in the thickness of my family's wallet rather than in anything else. It more or less turned me off of high school girls entirely, my mental picture being one of shallowness, lack of maturity, and greed.

"Well, Jay, you never know what tomorrow might bring," Mom said. "Who knows, there may be someone different and special at Catalina."

"It's possible... but I'm not going to hold my breath."

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Story tagged with:
Ma/Fa / Teenagers / Romantic / Slow / School /