That Which is Unexpected Read online

  “So just grab her tit! She seemed to enjoy it when I did it!” He told me.

  “I thought you slept with Lupita,” I sarcastically replied.

  “Right, her too!” Jason exclaimed. “Anyway, just try it!”

  So of course being a hormone driven fifteen year old male, I tried. I thought I’d be smooth and act like I tripped in front of her with my hands out stretched.

  ‘Great in theory, terrible in execution,’ I thought as she glided to the side and dropped an elbow into my back.

  As I rolled over and stared up while trying to work out a hostage negotiation with my lungs to exchange wind for CO2, she just smiled down at me with that seductive little smile of hers and said “I’m sorry, I thought you were trying to get a jump start on today’s lesson!” Tia sat me up and started tenderly rubbing the spot on my back that her elbow had recently impaled, while saying “You poor thing. There we go. Feel better?” leaving me with the assumption that maybe she didn’t know what I was up to.

  I told Jason the next day during biology class and he whispered back with “Okay new plan! While sparring, start to go in for a single leg sweep and when you go to grab her shoulders, just move one of your hands down a few inches and boom! Enterprise, we have made contact with alien life… wait, I don’t think they ever said that in Star Trek… let me try again. Just move one of your hands down a few inches and boom! These are not the droids you’re looking for!” Jason exclaimed.

  “THAT’S NOT EVEN THE SAME SERIES!” I shouted back at him before realizing the setting of our conversation. Mr. Lewis just looked at us with an incredulous stare, jaw agape until he sighed and shook his head slowly.

  “Mr. Treyfair, you are correct, that is not the same series. Thus, on the next test, you get two bonus points while Mr. Mathews gets docked two points regardless of his actual score. Congratulations Mr. Mathews! You have the unique opportunity to actually get an F- on the next test! I’m honestly hoping that you don’t show up that day so I can be the first teacher to ever give a student an F-!” Mr. Lewis said.

  Jason responded by standing up and taking a bow while I was too fazed by the fact that Mr. Lewis could hear us over the sound of his voice when we were whispering in the middle of the room. Come test day, Jason actually did get an F- and he celebrated by having the test and a copy framed. Mr. Lewis still had that test hanging up on his wall when we graduated.

  The next day I tried out Jason’s plan and it worked! The only problem was that I was so focused on grabbing Tia’s right breast that I missed her left fist flying straight towards my temple. That was the one and only time I had ever been knocked out while sparring with her.

  I regained consciousness to a pounding head, a cold, wet sensation on my forehead, a warm wet sensation on the back of my head, and a melodic sound nearby. As I took stock of my surroundings, I realized that the cold sensation was a wet towel, and the warm sensation was… sweat? I cracked my eyes open enough so that I could just barely see, but not enough to be noticeable to most people. I realized that my head was in Tia’s lap, the sound was her humming something that sounded like a folk song, and she was stroking my hair while looking down at me with her seductive little smile.

  “You’re getting better at this,” Tia told me. “If I wasn’t looking right at you, I wouldn’t be able to tell that you are awake. Now tell me about your situation.”

  “Well I was knocked unconscious, there is a wet towel on my head, my head is in your lap, you are stroking my hair, and you were humming something earlier… A folk song?” I asked.

  “Very good! You are right on most accounts, but it seems you are missing the most important detail!” Tia informed me, her smile slowly broadening.

  I was proud that I had grown up a little bit that day because it was the first time I realized that Tia is a psychological sadist. Then I realized what I was missing.

  Tia wasn’t wearing the yoga pants she was sparring in.

  I suddenly thought that maybe I had grown up too fast, my mind reeling with the idea that the moisture on the back of my head might not have been sweat. Of course fifteen year old me’s libido driven brain immediately got excited at the possibility. That is, until I realized a very important fact caused my heart to start racing even faster and not in the good way: Tia’s seductive smile can instantly change into her predatory smile.

  My thoughts had immediately split and then started scrambling into eight different directions with common theme of “Holy shit, Holy shit, I’m about to get raped.” The thoughts went something like this:

  Me 1: “Holy shit, Holy shit, I’m about to get raped. Where is my rape whistle? HAS ANYONE SEEN MY RAPE WHISTLE!?”

  Me 2 @ Me 1: “You don’t have a rape whistle, you jackass!”

  Me 3: “Quick! What’s the number for 911?”

  Me 4: “Where’s Chris Hansen!? SOMEBODY GET ME CHRIS HANSEN!”

  Me 5: “Quickly, somebody get me some snacks! I heard predators love snacks! We have to stall until Chris Hansen can get here! WE NEED COOKIES AND LEMONADE!”

  Me 6: “Holy Shit! CAN SHE TURN INVISIBLE TOO!? AND WHO THE HELL IS CHRIS HANSEN? SHOULDN’T WE BE CALLING ALIEN INSTEAD!?” 1

  Me 7: “HOW THE HELL IS ALIEN SUPPOSED TO USE A PHONE WITH HIS VELOCIRAPTOR ARMS AND TINY INSIDE MOUTH THAT I ASSUME DOES ALL THE TALKING? WE NEED THAT AUSTRIAN GUY! YOU KNOW, THE GOVERNOR OF CALIFORNIA!”

  Me 5: “NOT THAT KIND OF PREDATOR YOU DIPSHITS!”

  Me 7: “ARNOLD SCHWARTZENEGGER!”

  Me 8: “Why are you guys yelling? I don’t know why you are all freaking out. This might not be so bad! Just think about it… How many people can honestly say their first time was with a girl this hot?”

  Me 1-2 & 4-7: “You’re right!”

  Me 1: “Does anybody remember the proper way to put on a condom?”

  Me 2: “Does anybody here actually even remember health class?

  Me 4: “No… If you start to put it on backwards can you just flip it like a mini trampoline or do you scrap it and get a new one?”

  Me 5: “WHO ARE YOU, DANE COOK!?”

  Me 6: “WHICH JACKASS TURNED ON THE DAMN BLENDER?”

  Me 3: “HEY GUYS! I’M MAKING SMOOTHIES, DOES ANYBODY WANT ONE?”

  Tia laughed, snapping me out of my inner monologue.

  “You look like a mouse that has been cornered by an anaconda!” Tia choked out while still laughing. Nice analogy, Tia. I started to get up but she pushed my head back down.

  “Relax cherry boy! You have a concussion, the wet thing on your forehead isn’t a towel, it’s an ointment pad to help the concussion, and the reason I’m not wearing any pants is because you puked all over them,” Tia informed me.

  “I guess that is a pretty good reason to stay still,” I conceded.

  “Who said anything about that? I just want you to keep your head where it’s at because it feels good!” Tia teased, and then started laughing when she noticed my nervousness.

  “What? Would it have made you feel any better if it had been Chezarei in my place?” Tia asked while gesturing to the other bench where the silver-haired girl that I call my little sister sat with tears in her radiant blue eyes. “She’s been like that ever since she came down for her lesson and saw you unconscious.”

  Me 3: “Now how many guys get to say that their first time was with their little sister?”

  Me 7: “Insert ‘The South’ joke here and, according to Jason, like half of Japan.”

  Me 8: “That can’t be right…”

  Me 3: “JAMN strikes again!”

  Me 8: “JAMN?”

  Me 3: “Jack of All, Master of None equals JAMN.”

  Me 1: “When the hell did Jason get here!?

  Jason: “Hey Coles, you should really try these smoothies! They’re awesome!”

  Me 3: “No way bro! You are totally not eating all my Funions!”

  Me 2: “So that is what your brain looks like on drugs.”

  Me 5: “Do we even like Funions?”

  Me
1,2,4,6,7,8: “No”

  ****

  Chapter 5: At least be professional about it!

  I must have dozed off because my eyes are closed and I’m stretched out when I hear the gunshot, followed by the screams.

  “Everyone stay seated or this pretty stewardess’s pretty brains are going to paint the pretty walls! Now here’s what’s going to happen” blah blah blah I’m a stupid, politically incorrect terrorist. They’re called flight attendants, you jackass! …wait a second, why am I not more concerned by this? I crack my eyes open the same way Tia taught me to and survey the situation. Mr. Terrorist walks by, dragging the flight attendant towards the front of the cabin. When he is about six feet from the cockpit door, he stops.

  “Actually, a passenger will make a better hostage. SIT DOWN!” He screams at the flight attendant while tossing her into an empty seat as she yelps. He looks at one of the passengers and starts walking toward them without breaking eye contact.

  Teenage female, 5’5”, blonde, blue eyes, body type: slim, Seat position: 3 back 1 right.

  Huh? Okay, that was strange. How did I know that?

  Mr. Terrorist is twenty feet away from me, walking towards his target with a nonchalance that does in no way suggest that he is holding a gun, or that he is spinning said gun around his right index finger. It certainly doesn’t suggest that he had threatened to blow open a flight attendant’s head with said gun less than a minute ago, and he is likely to threaten the girl behind me in the same way. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? If you are going to threaten people with a gun, take hostages, and attempt to hijack a plane, at least be professional about it, asshole!

  …No, wait. That’s not the issue here.

  It is a testament to how fucked in the head I am that I’m more angry about Mr. Terrorist’s nonchalance than about his attempted hijacking.

  I somehow feel that the girl knows that he is headed for her now. All of a sudden, I see myself lifting Mr. Terrorist off of the ground with my left hand and squeezing his face as his eyes explode and goo runs down my hand.

  No.

  This isn’t happening again.

  Not here.

  Then it’s over and Mr. Terrorist is fifteen feet away. I formulate a quick plan, noting the slow and steady rotation of the gun around the index finger of his hand that is closest to me. When he is five feet away, I execute.

  Playing the part of the sleeping passenger, I fake a muscle spasm and sprawl my right leg out into the aisle way, effectively tripping him. I follow up by flailing my right arm out with a groan, grabbing the back of his head and slamming it into the arm rest thrice. I go back to pretending to be unconscious, sort of like Mr. Terrorist, who is currently in the aisle with blood gushing from his head.

  I hear the passengers start to cheer as I continue to feign being asleep. The passenger on my left pats my left shoulder and I, as limp as a sack of potatoes, fall into the aisle onto the bleeding guy as everyone falls quiet. I stay on him for about two seconds before jolting awake and quickly standing.

  “Huh? Wait, what’s going on?” I ask the stunned passengers.

  “Whoa what happened to this guy? Somebody should help him, he seems to be bleeding a lot and—WHOA WHERE DID HE GET A GUN!?” I shout to the passengers, who are still completely stupefied by my little act.

  “Hello?” I ask turning towards the former hostage target, and I hear her gasp in response.

  “What?” I inquire.

  The girl simply points at my stomach and covers her mouth with her other hand as a concerned look plagues itself across her face. I look down to see a red ink blot expanding under my plain white t-shirt. I replay the events in my mind and realize that I had completely missed the second gun shot.

  When I was twelve I read a book of famous last words and that day I promised myself that my last words were going to be book worthy, or at least amusing to put on my headstone, because who doesn’t need a good laugh if they’re in a cemetery?

  “Oh… Shit… Well, somebody tell Hanes that they can’t check off bulletproof on the list of features for their new t-shirts.”

  I was only vaguely aware of my body hitting the floor, thankfully away from the possibly dead terrorist guy. I really didn’t want the last image of me that the passengers were going to see, the image that would be burned into their minds, to be of something that appears to be a cross between necrophilia and prison rape, to a third party.

  Small miracles, right?

  ****

  Chapter 6: IT’S BACOOOOOOON!

  I first met Cheza when I was ten years old, after Uncle Eric returned home from a business trip up north.

  “Cole, this is Chezarei. She’s eight years old and she’s family now so I want you to treat her as such, okay?” Uncle Eric said after I had welcomed him home.

  I remember looking at that pretty little girl with a pale complexion, seemingly uncut silver hair that flowed down to her lower back, and glazed over icy-blue eyes. I thought that she was a doll. It turned out that my first impression of her had been pretty accurate because that girl practically was a doll. She didn’t speak, always had a blank stare, and her movements seemed lifeless. Overall, she was very interesting to me, and familiar in some way.

  “Cole can you please take Chezarei to her bedroom, the empty guest bedroom next to your room? I need to discuss some things with Tia and Sara,” Uncle Eric requested.

  “Sure,” I replied.

  “Hi, I’m Cole,” I said to that girl, eliciting absolutely no response, so I grabbed her hand and led her towards the guest bedroom that shared a wall with my room.

  I felt that I couldn’t leave her alone so I turned on the small TV that was on the dresser, changed the channel to Nickelodeon, and sat with her on the bed. Twenty minutes after that, Sara entered the room, said “Hi Chezarei, I’m Sara. Let’s go shopping to get you some new clothes and things,” with a pitying look that was just noticeable to me underneath her warm smile, and led Cheza to the car by her hand. I turned off the TV and left the room when I heard the front door close. I had a question for Uncle Eric.

  “What’s wrong with Cheza?” I asked when I located him (this was the first time I had called her Cheza. I don’t know why I did, but it just felt right so I stuck with it). Although I was rather astute for my age (I actually knew what astute meant then), it was hardly necessary to tell that something was very amiss with this girl.

  Uncle Eric sighed, turned toward me with a grim expression, and said, “Her parents were killed in front of her Cole. She’s like you.” He didn’t need to say anything else. It was enough of an explanation for her behavior. After all, I had been the same way five years prior.

  “Okay,” I said in a voice barely above a whisper. “I know what to do.”

  Uncle Eric just looked down at me and smiled, completely aware that I wasn’t going to ‘wake her up’ using the same method that was used on me.

  …

  I don’t remember much about my mother being killed, but I do remember retreating into myself for the two years that followed. Sara had been homeschooling me so I wouldn’t fall behind, although she overdid it a bit and I ended up about three years ahead (because of my ability to soak up information like a sponge. It seems to be pretty easy to learn when you don’t have very many stray thoughts in your mind) with an extensive knowledge for mythology, of all things.

  “Mythology was the only subject that caused your eyes to become slightly more focused when I was teaching. Other than that you were completely unresponsive,” Sara told me when I asked her about it some years later.

  About nine months after I arrived at the house, Tia started training me in close quarters combat. Training while in my doll-like state wasn’t nearly as effective as my homeschooling had been. A week after my seventh birthday, Tia had finally had it. I had already learned forms by watching and being thrown, kicked, and punched, and she had nothing else that could be taught without experience, so she told me to attack her. The most she’d had me do be
fore was punch a bag (which I had done in a very doll-like fashion of moving my arms back and forth while the rest of my body was perfectly still), so I had no idea what she was talking about. I just stood there in response.

  Tia became exasperated and stormed over to where I was standing. She stopped and stood there silently in front of me with a blank expression before suddenly punching me square in the nose, one of those nice hits that cause the person receiving it to tear up uncontrollably. Those tears that rolled down my face, a face that had been otherwise emotionless for two years, broke the floodgates. I dropped into a pile on the ground and started bawling for over an hour. Tia simply sat down next to me and held me for the duration. Over the following three months, I slowly came out of my shell and went to school for the first time.

  …

  Cheza was going through the same thing I did and I wasn’t about to try and break her nose to see if she would snap out of it. With no alternatives, I simply fell into the part of the dutiful big brother. A few days later I asked Uncle Eric about her hair, having never seen that color before. “She has Waardenburg syndrome. It is characterized by her hair color and blue eyes,” Uncle Eric said and that was enough of an explanation for me.

  After about six months, Cheza was moving around and her eyes appeared alert, but she still didn’t speak or show any emotion. To try to counteract this, Sara told her to write down the things she wished to say in a notebook, but it didn’t take. My guess is that Cheza took what Sara said too literally and she didn’t have anything she wished to say so she didn’t write the things that needed to be said.

  Then one night, eight months after she’d arrived, I awoke to find her standing in my doorway wearing sky blue pajamas with white clouds and holding her pillow. Tears were streaming down from her terrified blue eyes as she hyperventilated. I got out of bed (finding the house to be a little chilly for a t-shirt and basketball shorts), and hugged her until she calmed down because I was too tired to show any other form of concern. After that, I went back to bed.