Homeschool

I was pretty sure that I was in a car. At least, it felt like a car, and sounded like a car, but everything was black, and muddled, and I couldn't think about it too much. After a few minutes we slowed and came to a stop, and the red brake lights told me we were definitely in a car. The trunk, probably. I had never been in the trunk of a car before, but it certainly made sense. Well, as much sense as waking up in the trunk of a car could.



I also couldn't move. My feet were stuck together, and my hands were pulled behind me and seemingly tied. The next time that the brake lights came on, I tried to look around, but moving my neck brought on a whole new spectrum of pain, so I lay still and just tried to think. No easy feat, in a back of a moving, dark car.



I mentally retraced my steps.



Licking apricot vaginas with Chazz. Check.



Date gone wrong with Katie. Check.



Waiting on Coach's porch. Check.



Date gone wrong with Chazz. Crap. Check.



Wow, I was really on a roll today. Did he really make me…spooge all over myself? Did I really say all of those horrible things to him? Holy hell, the look on his face as I was leaving was pathetic. Loser. Of course, I had been the one in tears. Double loser.



I sighed and rubbed my hands over my face. Except, I didn't, because they were still tied behind me. Crap. The last thing I could remember was storming out of Coach's house and leaving Chazz standing there with his mouth hanging open. Loser. And me, screaming like a petulant teenager. "I HATE YOU!" Double loser. Oh God, we really were made for each other.



Okay, back to the car thing. Unless we were sneaking into a drive-in, which seemed pretty doubtful, I should probably try and get out of here. I rolled onto my back and attempted to wedge my legs and feet against the top of the trunk to force it open, except there wasn't enough room to get lodged against it for proper leverage. Crap.



I once saw a movie, where the captive kicked out a brake-light and flagged the car behind them. I wriggled around so that my head was crammed against the spare tire, and my feet were somewhere in the vicinity of the brake lights, but again, there just wasn't enough room to shift into the proper position to punch them out. Crap! What the hell was I stuck in, a Smart Car? Oh wait, they don't have a trunk. A Yugo? Hmmm. I don't' know if they have a trunk or not. A Jetta? Sedan? Yeah, that could be it. A Jetta sedan, just like … my heart skipped a beat and I broke out in a cold sweat.



Just like Hector drove.



Double crap.



There's another blank space there. I guess I passed out, or fell asleep, but when I woke up I was freezing cold. My limbs were numb and heavy and burning with the chill, all except my head, which was hot and throbbing as if it had split in two. I turned my face and let my cheek rest on the cool ice.



Ice!



I was on ice. A rink? An arena?



I licked my dry lips and took a chance.



"Hector?"



A shrill giggle erupted from nearby on my left and I turned my head towards him. Slowly, his hunched form wavered before me, and I willed my eyes to focus.



"Where are we?"



He giggled again, and put a finger to his lips. "I can't tell you, Jimmy, it's a secret."



"Okay," I said slowly, "it's just that I'm hurt pretty badly, and I think I need a doctor."



"I know!" he nodded enthusiastically. "I hit you really hard."



"Yeah, yeah, you did, Hector. Am I bleeding?"



Hector shrugged in a way that let me know that he didn't particularly care if I bled out on the ice in front of him or not. He leaned over me and gave me a broad smile, but I was most taken aback by the vacant, glassy look in his eyes. I'd had a few occasions to speak with him in the past, and he was always frighteningly intense, but lucid. This Hector seemed vapid and empty.



Double-triple crap.



I was going to die. Oh man! This sucked so huge. Killed by my psychotic freak-o stalker. Great. And what was the last thing I said to my best friend in the whole world? I hate you. And then I punched him. Twice. Classic. This just got better and better. And now, they would find my mutilated body in a shallow grave somewhere, and when CSI got a hold of me, what would they find? A freakin' DNA happy meal. Blood and sweat and tears and snot and JIZZ from both me and Chazz, smeared all over my belly. I may as well have 'CHAZZ DID IT' tattooed across my forehead.



I thought of him, kneeling before me, God, was that just yesterday? His hand on my skate, fingers tracing through the laces. "What's the worst that could happen?" he'd asked. I snorted. Well, this certainly capped it.



"Cumon Jimmy, we have to hurry."



I opened my eyes. Had I drifted off again? A shiver rippled through me and I clenched my teeth to prevent them chattering. Why the hell was I lying on ice anyway?



"Why, Hector? Why do we have to hurry?"



Hector looked at me and raised his eyebrows. "Our routine, silly! It's time to get ready."



"You mean … skating?"



"Well duh! Of course skating. Finally, you and I are going to be able to perform our routine together." He let his eyes wander over me in a way that made my skin crawl and my testicles tuck themselves high into my abdomen.



"Oh!" I said, doing my best to sound enthusiastic, "that sounds like a lot of fun. It's just that, um, I need to warm up a bit. And I'm not sure I can skate if I'm, you know, bleeding profusely from my head, and all. Plus, I didn't bring any costumes. Or music!"



"Don't worry, Jimmy," he said, fumbling through his pockets for something, "I've got it all taken care of." He found what he was looking for, and proceeded to pull out an antique looking hypodermic needle.



"Oh!" I cried, "what are you—what do you need that for?"



"It's okay, Jimmy," he said, checking to see if there were any bubbles to inject into my bloodstream to stop my heart, "I have to get you dressed, and I don't want you to fight."



"I won't! Please!" Oh god! That needle looked nasty. I did my best to twist my body away, but was no match for him. "I promise!" I squealed, "I won't fight you. I'll do whatever you like."



"Silly," he said, plunging the syringe into my arm, "you're fighting me already. How am I supposed to trust you?"



"I won't," I breathed, already feeling the effects of the whateverthehell he just shot into me. "I just … front … can't then."



"Nightie-night," I think I heard him say, then nothing. Even the cold went away.



~*~*



The banks of lights came on in a linear series of flashes, each an affront to my abused and pounding head. I was standing at center ice. Sort of. I'm not sure that I could have stood up, even if I'd wanted to, but I was supported by some sort of harness, suspended from the ceiling. My skates just resting on the surface of the ice.



Nylon straps wove around my legs and butt, then buckled up across my chest and waist. Longer straps rose up from beneath my arms and extended to some sort of pulley system that my neck would not allow me explore further.



He had dressed me in an outfit that I barely recognized. A soft mauve with some sort of cloud motif. I searched my memory for when I might have last worn this. Junior Championships in Hungary? It had seen a lot of wear since then, by the look of it. The spandex was pilled in places and many of the sequins were missing or just barely hanging on.



I wondered at the significance of this particular costume. Was it the first time that he'd seen me skate? Or the first time that I'd won first place? I couldn't remember. My entire adolescence had been a series of rehearsals, plane rides, press junkets and competitions. Every city looked the same when you only got to see the inside of the arena and the hotel.



I hadn't been allowed to explore the cities or 'fraternize' with the other competitors, even ones on the same team as me. No wonder my social skills were so appalling. Aside from my dad and Coach, I didn't have the chance to make any friends growing up. Not that I wasn't happy, because I was. I loved skating. I loved performing. The only time that I can recall being unhappy was the three years between being banned from Men's Singles and meeting up with Chazz again.



The best, of course had been the last six months. I'd never had so much fun working so hard before. And winning the gold had meant so much more with a partner than doing it alone.



A lone figure entering the arena brought me from my reverie. I shifted in my harness and steeled myself for whatever might happen. The only thing that I knew for sure was that I was going to get back to Coach and Chazz or I was going to die trying.



Hector glided up to me wearing an outfit similar to my own.



"Come on, Jimmy, let's capture the dream."



I tried to not visibly stiffen at his blatant rip-off of Chazz's tag line.



"Sounds like fun," I managed instead. "What are we doing?"



Hector looked at me like I was the one in need of anti-psychotic medication.



"The 'Beaches' routine!" He raised his arms in a dramatic imitation of wings. "You're my wind, Jimmy."



Right. The very un-memorable memory of that routine was suddenly crystal clear. God, the late eighties were so lame.



"So," I asked, "how do we … do this together?"



"Just follow my lead," he said, holding out his hands.



"Gosh, I'd love to," I shrugged, " but you'll have to untie me first."



Hector giggled and slapped his head with an almost comic ferocity. "I completely forgot!"



"Yeah, me too," I smiled. He skated behind me, and I did my best not to flinch as he cut my bonds. Sudden relief flooded through me as the pressure was released from my wrists and shoulders. However, that relief was immediately replaced with revulsion when I saw the state that my hands were in.



You would have thought I worked on an oil rig. My knuckles were split and bloodied from my fight with Chazz and added to that were innumerable layers of muck and grime acquired from falling down on the streets, rolling around in car trunks and laying on ice that was God only knows how old.



I held them away from myself and shut my eyes from the horror of my scabbed knuckles and grease-monkey black crescents of grime under my fingernails.



"Oh shit, Hector. I can't! My hands! Oh God!" I said, breathing through my mouth, so as not to throw up. "I can't skate like this - I have to clean-- wash my hands!"



"They look fine," Hector said, his annoyance evident by the crease in his forehead.



"No." I said, panic rising in my throat, "You don't understand." And he didn't. My OCD was kept well under wraps. I always had a squeaky-clean image, but the public had no idea how far it went. My dad thought I'd be shunned if anyone knew my … problem, so it was always kept secret. "I have a … thing …" I said, trying to keep my voice even, "about my hands being clean. I can't …" I looked at my palms again, then looked away, "deal with them like this. I can't …" I started gulping air and blinking involuntarily. "I just need to … please, Hector, I can't skate like this."



Hector looked me over, gauging, no doubt, if I was having him on or not. I started counting and prayed he would understand, one freak to another, how important this was to me.



After what seemed like a lifetime, he nodded and skated off, returning shortly with a small basin of water and an old sliver of soap.



"Thank you," I said, nearly slumping with relief when I was able to dip my hands in the luke-warm liquid and work up a lather.



On my third go, he pulled the basin away, sloshing some of it onto the ice.



"Enough. Now it's my time, Jimmy. I've waited for this for far too long."



And thus began a long and exhausting farce of a routine. For someone who spent countless hours obsessing over figure skaing, Hector had managed to pick up absolutely no skills or grace.



He attempted to lift me a couple of times and even though I was a good forty pounds lighter than him, he just did not possess the strength or stamina required to be a skater.



Of course, I tried to stay positive, giving him praise and encouragement throughout the entire ordeal. By the time we were finished, my head was pounding and we were both more than a little sweaty.



"Great job out there, Hector," I said brightly, "gosh, you'd think you'd been doing this your whole life."



Hector, however, was acting distant and sullen. The more we skated, the more it had become obvious, even to him, that ice dancing really was not his forte.



"Hey, don't get down on yourself, we all have to start somewhere. You showed good form today."



"Don't patronize me, Jimmy. I'm not an idiot, you know."



"I know that, I was just trying to- "



"Well don't. I don't need your pity."



"Okay," I said, holding up my hands to placate him. Hector grabbed one of my wrists and twisted it behind my back.



"It's time to restrain you again."



"Oh." I tried to not tense up against him. "Do you think I could shower first?"



"No time," he said, bringing my other hand down and behind my back, tying them together. "I have an appointment."



"Okay, but do you think I could get a bathroom break?"



Hector looked at me like I was deaf. "No time, Jimmy. I can't keep God waiting."



I paused.



"You- you have an appointment with God?"



"Well, yeah! I talk to him all the time. He says he's looking forward to meeting you, Jimmy."



"Meeting me?" This did not bode well.



"Pretty soon." Hector smiled and patted my back.



"But … I have to pee!"



"Not my problem, Jimmy." He skated over to the bench and put on my (Chazz's) jacket. "Man, this is sweet!" He swatted at the fringe. "I'll think I'll bury you in this." He reached into the pocket and withdrew the Verticoli. Wrinkling up his nose, he tossed it towards me. It slid across the ice and came to rest a few inches from my foot. "Bye!"



"I have to pee!" I cried, but he was gone. After a moment, the lights shut off in the opposite order that they had gone on earlier.



"When are you coming back?"



Nothing.



I stood on the picks of my skates and stretched my legs. The harness sat at a height that just barely supported me while standing, but it gapped slightly when I was on point. I wondered if I could work one leg through that small gap, then perhaps I could squish one knee in behind the lowest strap, then push up from there to free my other leg. After that, it would just be a matter of standing on the leg straps and jumping free from it.



My problem was having my arms tethered behind me. It threw my balance off in a way that I could not figure out how to counteract. I tried for the better part of what felt like an hour, and all I had managed to do was pinch and crush my poor balls in the unforgiving nylon straps.



This was not helped at all by the fact that I really had to go to the bathroom. God! When was he coming back? I was dying here.



"Hector! I have to take a whiz!"



"Heelllooooo? Anyone?"



No luck. Two more hours and I was frantic. How freaking long was his God meeting? You'd think he'd have more important things to do, like smiting people and raining plagues upon his minions or something. I tried counting, to soothe myself, but it only served to remind me how much time was passing, and how much fuller my bladder was now.



I leaned back in my harness to relieve any undue pressure on my stomach, and somehow managed to drift off for a while. A particularly vivid dream about filthy public washrooms woke me up, and now my entire midriff just hurt. Okay, now this was just ridiculous. How the hell did he expect me to not eat or piss or shit for days on end? Why the hell was he torturing me anyway? What the hell did I ever do to him?



"HECTOR!" I shrieked. "Get out here now! You freaky-crap piece of shit! Show yourself you coward!"



Silence.



"GET OVER HERE RIGHT NOW AND UNTIE ME YOU MENTAL FUCK!" I flailed against the straps and had myself a right little tantrum, twisting and spitting and swearing to myself. My bladder spasmed and I sucked in a breath as I felt the warm dampness. No! I clenched and held my breath until it passed. Okay, crisis averted for now. But obviously I couldn't just stand here and wait for my bladder to explode. How could I do this with minimal … mess?



I stood on my tiptoes, legs spread, then leaned forward. Hopefully gravity would take care of most of it, but with no hands to aim with, I didn't really have much choice in the matter.



Relax Jimmy, I coached. I shut my eyes and willed my muscles to loosen up, and took deep calming breaths. I tried to bear down and push with my pelvic muscles, but twenty odd years of toilet training were not easy to overcome.



"Come on!" I yelled at my urethra. My legs were starting to tremble from the position, and the pressure in my pelvis was beyond unbearable.



Running faucets, trickling streams, water fountains, shooting fire hoses, Niagara falls in all their liquid glory, and then, finally, there it was. A small trickle at first, then a full-on stream, and I nearly cried with the relief of it. By the time I had finished, my tights were soaked from navel to knees, and the ice around me was steaming from my release but I felt so much better that I almost didn't care.



I cared a hell of a lot more later that night, after I'd been standing in wet tights in sub-zero temperatures. Now I was starting to get angry.