Copyright © 1997

"Fucking Celeste," I said.

"What, honey?" my wife asked. "What's wrong?"

"Oh," I chirped. "Did you see Celeste's review of 'Wet-T Shirt'?"

June shook her head. "It's funnier than my story. Again. She even stops the review to tell JOKES in the middle of it."

"So?" my wife asked.

"So I HATE that!" I shouted. "It's not fair. I'm not allowed to do that. And did you see the review of the one before that?"

June shook her head.

She gave it one paragraph. Jeez!"

"What were the numbers, dear?" June asked.

"'9's' and a '10'", I answered. "But you have to look past the numbers. Everybody looks at the numbers. You have to read the review if you want to know anything. The numbers are a crutch." I was a little testy.

"Why? The numbers give a nice quick idea of how she liked it, right?"

"Oh, you have to be a writer to understand. It's her written criticism that's helpful. Even though I sometimes get my shorts in a knot when I read it. Anyway, she tossed that one off in one paragraph! She said 'it's good but he's done better.'" I frowned. "And like three sentences of story summary, and then the numbers." I frowned again.

"Fucking Celeste," I said to no one in particular. "And she *never* comments on the disclaimers where I try to sneak in the part about having to be 18 or older to read the thing." Like that.

"Now she's hired guest reviewers and won't even tell us who they are!" I was in a funk. "How are you supposed to know whether to believe them or not? Christ, it could be Mr.Fucking Spraycan writing the goddamn thing."

"There, there, dear. Why don't you just go downstairs to your computer and write a story?" June suggested. "That always seems to calm you down." She was right, as usual.

"OK, I'll try." I shrugged. I got up from the table and went to the stairs. "Fucking reviewers," I muttered under my breath. I went to the computer. I thought for a few minutes and started typing. Here's what I wrote:

Fucking Celeste - by MIKE HUNT

How had I gotten myself in *this* situation? I've been in some strange circumstances before, but nothing like this.

I was at a parent-teacher conference. At the Sadley Virgin School. In Flint, Michigan.

You see, I don't have children. None. Not at the Sadley Virgin School, not anywhere. Hell, I don't even live in Flint!

Maybe I should back up a few hours and to tell the story properly.

I was visiting Michigan on business. Flint, Michigan. Not exactly the tourist destination of America, but there's still a little business left there. The city always reminded me of Pittsburgh or Rochester. I think of the bricks when I think of those cities. More precisely, the grit in the bricks. Those are hard-working industrial cities. You don't find the pretty bright brick like in Atlanta or Boston. No, in Flint it's dirty brick and dirty fingernails. And unemployment. Lots of it. That's why I was there.

The government had hired me to do an analysis of how many people were really unemployed, as opposed to how many were just collecting the checks. So I, already employed, got to go count the unemployed. I thought they could have hired one of the unemployed to do the job, but that's not how it works, I guess.

Anyway, my sister lives in Flint, actually just outside it, and has a kid, a bright young boy named Eric. I was staying with them for a couple days in the guest room, and had come back to the house after my hard day at work on unemployment. It was around 5:00. The phone rang.

I answered it, thinking it might be my wife June calling to say "Hi." Instead it was my sister. She was obviously on a cellular phone; I could tell by the crackle.

"Mike!" she said.

"Oh hi," I replied. "What's up?"

"Thank goodness I got you." She sounded a little breathless. "I had an accident in the car..."

I interrupted. "You OK?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," she answered quickly. "But the car's kind of smashed. Crazy teenager coming out of a McDonald's parking lot." I could imagine.

"Do you need a ride?" I asked. "Where are you? I'll come get you."

"No, no," she shot back. "The tow guy is here and he's going to tow me to the garage. I'm on his phone. He thinks he can just hammer the fender away from the wheel and I'll be able to drive it, at least until I can get it repaired properly."

"Oh, good," I said.

"Anyway, I have AAA, and I can catch a ride home from a taxi if the car isn't drivable. But he thinks it will be, so no big deal." I was silent. "But I do need a favor, if you don't mind..."

"Anything," I said.

"Eric's school advisor has a parent-teacher conference with me tonight that I'm likely to miss. Would you go and sit in for me? I mean, it's not the same exactly, but you know Eric, and you can tell me what she says."

"Sure," I said. I'd never done this before, but I figured I could substitute OK.

"It's at 6:00, Room 212, I think, Mrs. Redstone, Sadley Virgin school. It's just a couple blocks up and over one. You drive right past it on your way into the neighborhood."

"Oh sure, I know it," I answered. "You sure you're OK?"

"Yeah, just have to fill out the accident reports and get towed and get fixed and come home. Nobody hurt, no damage done except to the cars. See you later. Thanks."

"Sure," I said. "Bye."

I hung up the phone and walked through the kitchen, up the stairs, and into the guest room. I needed to freshen up, and I took the opportunity to wash my face and hands and brush my teeth again. I took off my shirt and applied the wet washcloth to my torso. I felt like showering but didn't have time. This would have to do.

Ten minutes later I was walking out of the house on my way to the Sadley Virgin School. I'd pulled on a polo shirt and thought I looked fine. Of course I don't play polo. I'd call it a golf shirt, but you can't call what I do on the golf course golf, either.

I walked into the building and looked for the room. 212. It was at the far end of the building, 2nd floor. I found it without trouble and looked in. An attractive woman was seated at the teacher's desk in the front corner of the room. She was alone.

I knocked on the doorframe as I poked my head into the room.

"Mrs. Redstone?" I asked.

"Yes?" she answered.

"I'm MIKE HUNT," I said.

"You don't say," she retorted. "Can I help you?" she asked.

"I'm here about Eric. Wilma couldn't make it."

"Are you his father?" she asked.

"No, his uncle. They're divorced, the father lives in Oregon." I was answering questions I hadn't even been asked.

"Well, this is supposed to be for the parents or legal guardians," she said.

"I know," I replied, "but Wilma had a little car accident, nothing serious, and asked me to fill in. So here I am."

"I see," she said. She thought for a moment, then said "Sit down."

I pulled a chair away from one of the student desks and sat in it. There was an uncomfortable silence. I took a moment to size her up. She wasn't frowning, but she wasn't smiling either. Mrs. Redstone was red all right. She had red hair, almost orange red. It went well with the reddish outfit she was wearing. She looked to be in her late 30's.

Finally she said, "Mr. Hunt, I should tell you first that I'm quite forthright. I don't mince words. I'm known for it around here."

"OK, good," I said. This was not an auspicious opening, I thought.

"So first I should tell you that Eric is very bright."

"I think so too," I said. She threw a quick glare at me. She didn't like being interrupted, apparently.

"He catches on to new things quite easily and is a quick study. Too quick, perhaps. He doesn't apply himself. He only studies the night before a test, and his homework is rather slap-dash." She was on a roll. I interrupted again.

"Well, I was like that as a student. All except the 'bright' part, I guess."

"Yes, well, it would be helpful if he were more disciplined. He obviously could use a father figure in his life. His father's in Oregon, you say? Too bad. Because in spite of his brightness, he's becoming a problem here at the Sadley Virgin."

"How so?" I asked.

"He's sometimes disruptive in class. Tells the stupidest jokes to his classmates." It's hereditary, I thought. "Comes in late, fools around in the back, doesn't pay attention to my lectures. As I said, he's very bright when he wants to be. Does very well on the announced exams. Does just as poorly on pop quizzes." She went on. And on. I stood up from the chair and began wandering. I was restless hearing all this about my nephew.

I had my back to her when she said "I guess I'm leading up to the really bad news." I turned to face her. "I had to report him to the principal last week. There's serious disciplinary action being considered."

Now she had my full attention. "Why?" I asked. "What happened?"

"Well, this is delicate, but as I said, I'm forthright, so I'm just going to say it." She paused, far longer than necessary after that preamble.

"So, say it," I said.

"I caught Eric having sex with girl here after school." She seemed uncomfortable with the announcement. "Right in this room. Actually, right in that supply closet over there."

I turned my head and stared at the door to the closet. "In there?" I asked.

"Yes," she said matter of factly. "Now I know he's of the age where the hormones start raging, but that behavior is unacceptable here at the Sadley Virgin. The principal wanted to suspend him immediately, but I convinced him that Eric is a good student, and that I would talk with his mother during our conference. This conference. The one where his mother is supposed to be."

"Yes, I know," I said. "She had a car accident. I'm sorry she's not here."

"So what are you going to do about it?" she asked.

I was dumbfounded. I knew Eric had grown up a lot in the last few years, heck he was nearly my height already. And I remembered that the sex thing kicked in pretty strongly for me at about age 12. Several years ago for Eric, then.

"Uh," I said. "I don't know. You say he had sex with a girl right here?" I was just a few steps from the closet. "Actual sex?" I stepped to the door and reached for the knob. "Not just, like, kissing and making out?" I turned the knob and pulled. The door opened easily and a tiny closet was revealed. It had shelves on all three sides and was chock full of chalk, papered with paper, and flush with toilet tissue rolls.

"Yes, actual sex," she answered. "I didn't see their genitals in action, if that's what you're asking. But it was plain enough."

"How was it 'plain enough'?" I asked.

"I've seen enough sex in my time to know," she said. I looked doubtful. "And I'm *certainly* no prude, if that's what you're thinking," she added. "I teach hygiene and sex education here at the school." I looked even more doubtful.

"At this school?" I said. I obviously didn't believe her.

"Mostly hygiene, but yes, also sex education. We have a progressive administration."

"Well, I don't mean to question you, but looking at this closet it would seem impossible. There's not enough room. Look." I held the door wide open.

"There certainly is," she said defiantly.

"OK, I'll take your word on the tests and the quizzes and the rest," I said, trying to find a compromise, "but it's just impossible for me to believe that there were two people in here. You say the door was closed?"

"Yes," she answered. I came back into the room to get some homework assignments to grade at home and heard sounds. So I opened the door and there they were."

"Excuse me," I said. I stepped into the little closet and closed the door behind me. The darkness enveloped me immediately, and more than a little claustrophobia set in. "Impossible," I thought to myself.

I opened the door. "Impossible," I said. "Can't be done. No way."

"Are you saying I'm lying?" she said, angrily. Her face turned red to match her red hair and red outfit.

"Perhaps not lying," I said. "But maybe mistaken. Now maybe Eric and his friend were over here at the closet, and maybe they were even making out. Maybe even petting. But they certainly weren't having sex. And they couldn't have been in there with the door closed. Impossible," I said again for emphasis.

She stood up from the desk and walked toward me. "You're impossible," she said. "I don't like being contradicted." She scowled at me. "Come here. I don't like to have to prove what I'm saying is true."

She motioned me into the closet and I followed her instruction. Then she pushed me back against the shelves that held the pencils and pads and other supplies. She followed me in, and before I knew what was happening, pushed herself against me.

"It was just like this," she said, her torso pinning me against the shelves in back.

"But you said the door was closed," I said. "Can't be done."

"Of course it can," she said. She reached around and pulled on the doorknob. The heavy door swung around and whacked her in the ass. It didn't close.

"See?" I said. "You must be mistaken."

"I'm not mistaken," she said. "I never am." Her face flushed crimson.

"Never?" I said haughtily.

"All right. Occasionally. But it's rare."

"Then why won't the door close?" I asked.

"Perhaps I've forgotten something," she answered. "Yes, that's it. Now I remember." She stepped onto one of the side shelves along the bottom, lifting herself up a couple inches. Her body dragged across mine as she moved. Her breasts momentarily brushed against my chin. She settled back, our groins now tightly mashed against each other. I had an involuntary reaction. She didn't seem to notice.

She continued. "If I just, uh, move in a little closer and put my knees a little to the sides..." she said with some difficulty. She pushed against me again. I thought she might be enjoying pushing herself against me, but I got no such vibe from her.

"Try the door again," I suggested. She did.

The latch hit, but wouldn't click. Still not enough. She was clearly frustrated and angry.

"Maybe we're bigger than they were?" I asked.

"No," she said. My figure and hers are the same. And Eric's and yours are too. It must be this darn clothing." She looked down and scowled. "Aha!" she said brightly. "I have it." With that she reached down and pulled the front of her skirt and thick petticoat to the side. "I'll bet with this out of the way it'll work," she said. Now her panties were scraping along the front of my trousers. My bent up erection was working against her, though, providing a small extra measure of distance between the fulcrums of our bodies. The door whacked her in the ass again, driving my bulge into the valley of her panties. I sensed a change in her demeanor.

"Perhaps if I helped," I said gallantly, lowering my hand to my zipper.

"Only in the interest of proving that I'm right," she said, looking me in the eye.

"Of course," I said. "We must know if this is actually possible." She was saying one thing but meaning another. She seemed a little too eager.