Good Girl, Bad Girl
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Adam Frederick is completely blown away every time his erstwhile girlfriend, Charlene, stretches and threatens to bust the buttons of her blouse. And so is everyone else in class, including the teacher. Nevertheless, Adam thinks he has a chance with Charlene. Little does he know that her attention is elsewhere. And Adam is the focus of another girl in class, whose preacher father has kept her repressed for years, and whom Adam tries his best to avoid. At work at the local radio station, he is always being yelled at by the program director. Adam is sick of it, but one day when the PD is out of town, he has a chance to prove himself to the PD and to his listeners, one of whom will become extra-special to him.
Paul Swearingen
Paul Swearingen is a retired English/journalism/Spanish teacher who managed to survive 34+ years in public, private, and government schools. He also was a radio newsman and disk jockey, a newspaper editor and photographer, a personnel manager for a large retail store (now defunct), and a long-time publisher of the National Radio Club's magazine, "DX News". He lives in Topeka, Kansas, where his main current duty is to keep his garden under close control.
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Good Girl, Bad Girl - Paul Swearingen
Good Girl, Bad Girl
Paul Swearingen
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2015 by Paul Swearingen
Discover other titles by Paul Swearingen at Smashwords.com:
The High School series … stories about high school life, and maybe even you!
You Can Believe It
Can’t Stack B-B’s
Enza 1918
e-Stalker
Good Girl, Bad Girl is a work of fiction, and all characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblances to real events, locations, or people, living or dead, are coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover photo: courtesty of sixguysataprataplace.blogspot.com
Good Girl, Bad Girl
By Paul Swearingen
Chapter One
Charlene Johnson was … How can I say this delicately? I guess that’s not possible. She was stacked, even more so than Marilyn Monroe had ever been. And Charlene was alive, very much alive. When Luzinberry, our teacher, was on the warpath, all she had to do was to stretch. One button-popping reach towards the ceiling, and Luzinberry … plus the rest of us guys and maybe even a chick or two … would just stop and stare. Charlene knew she had total control over us at a moment’s notice.
Any class that started at eight am was a downer, but I really needed American History to graduate, and Lowell Luzinberry had informed me during the first week in May that the next time I didn’t show up I’d lose credit for the class. After absorbing that news, I managed to lever myself out of bed every freakin’ day. Thank goodness for the doughnut shop coffee that kept my eyes open long enough to guide my Falcon four-door to the school parking lot and me on to class, where Charlene’s one-woman show was guaranteed to keep everyone awake. Including Luzinberry.
So it was no wonder I finally quit hitting the snooze button so I would show up for class on time, and maybe that’s part of the reason that Charlene had gone out with me a time or two. She apparently thought I was some kind of a rebel, and to her, anti-establishment guys were sexy, like James Dean, and the fact that I was also a deejay at KNTK, the local radio station, didn’t hurt, either. I really thought I was headed for a home run with Charlene.
I was so out of it at 8:00 that Monday I’d even forgotten to check Charlene out as I stumbled past her desk. I could barely focus my eyes on the blackboard, but when I finally did and could decipher Luzinberry’s crabbed handwriting, I read: 500-word standard persuasive essay, due Friday, beginning of period. Topic choices: Should the U. S. bomb Hanoi into a parking lot, or should we pull out immediately? Should the FBI launch a new investigation into the JFK assassination? Should LBJ resign immediately?
Should I run out the room screaming or just pass out, right then and there? Better yet, should someone force Luzinberry to resign so the draft board could swoop in and send him to ‘Nam and get us some relief?
He was no help. I mean, the guy was only a couple of years out of college and looked almost like one of us, complete with a pair of mutton-chop sideburns. You’d think he’d act like one of us, at least once in a while. But instead of livening things up at the end of the year, he hits us with another essay, the topics all gloom-and-doom political crap. Give me a break!
I leaned back in my seat and tapped my pencil thoughtfully on my front teeth. Nothing seemed to inspire me, and I looked over at my buddy Carl Sandell for some inspiration. He was no help, either. His head swayed back and forth as he stared at the blackboard, and I knew in his way he was trying to deal with the prospect of yet another one of Luzinberry’s revenge essays before he, too, could graduate. We’d known each other from ninth grade on, although he was more of a jock and tended to run with the letter-sweater crowd. The only sweater I owned was the wrong color, not the school color, and the only thing it had on it was lint.
My eyes wandered to the open window, and I couldn’t help but notice that the Monsanne chick was staring at me again. Now, Barbara Monsanne wasn’t exactly a dog, but I couldn’t get up any interest in a girl who preferred long plaid skirts and shapeless white blouses, all apparently dictated by her religion. Or maybe her father-the-preacher just didn’t want her to look like a normal girl? Besides, I needed to concentrate all my resources on Charlene, who didn’t seem to let on that I was the only answer to her dreams.
I pretended I didn’t see her looking at me, and I turned the other way, just in time to catch Charlene, who was wearing a tight, yellow, sleeveless top, raise her hand. I silently thanked the gods for again somehow persuading me to show up for class this morning.
Mr. Luzinberry? May I ask you a question?
He waved her up to his desk, and I watched to see if she would do it
again. First, she stood right next to him and talked in low tones as she pointed at her paper; he wrote a few words on it with that deadly red pen. Then she bent over the desk and moved in for the kill. Their heads were just a few inches apart at this point. She moved in a little closer; just a fraction of an inch separated her hip from his elbow. She jabbed at her paper, and he nodded, slowly. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but – there. She did it; her thigh made contact with his arm, and he didn’t move away. She nodded, said thank-you, and walked behind him so that she could brush against him again. Oh, baby!
Even when she went back to her desk she managed to put on a show; I noticed that she was careful to pull her miniskirt down with a quick yank to the front of it, although it never seemed to be enough, especially when she pointed her knees in Luzinberry’s direction and allowed them to spread just enough.
I allowed myself another sidelong glance towards the windows to see if the trees were moving at all and we might be lucky enough to get a cooling breeze through the classroom, which already was hot and humid enough to make my shirt stick to my back. Barbara was glaring at Charlene, and I wondered if she was about to burst into tears or leap upon her desk and call the wrath of God down onto Charlene’s head.
Mr. Frederick? Do you need some help with your essay, too?
I glanced at the blank sheet of notebook paper, college ruled, on my desk, and shook my head. No, I don’t think so.
Then kindly maintain your attention on it, Adam. You know this is your last chance at a grade in here before the final. All right?
Yes … Sir.
I managed to drag out my response enough so that Luzinberry wouldn’t take exacting revenge on me for being insubordinate, but he would still understand that I thought that he was an officious prick. I glanced at Carl again, and he rolled his eyes and grimaced. At least we were in agreement in our feelings towards Luzinberry.
I managed to get something down on the sheet of paper, although I knew that when I got it home it would make no sense whatsoever to me. Finally, the bell rang and I tried to get out the door, down the hall, and into the restroom before anyone else, but a voice behind me stopped me in my tracks.
Adam. Are you in a rush? Can I talk to you for just a minute?
It was Barbara. What did she want now? I gauged the strength of my bladder, decided I could last for perhaps another minute or two, and nodded and moved out of the doorway. Carl brushed past me and shook his head in sympathy, but I noticed that he didn’t slow his progress as he headed down the hall.
I don’t want to keep you, but I just wanted to let you know I enjoyed your group’s panel discussion Friday,
she gushed, her eyes focused right on mine. I especially like how you portrayed Hitler’s viewpoint. Not that you’re anything like him or believe anything that he stood for. I just like how you held your own against the rest of the panel. I wish I could have been on the panel, too.
I glanced down the hall towards the boys’ bathroom. Damn; probably every stall was taken by now.
Yeah, I don’t know why I volunteered to be the bad guy,
I offered. Maybe it had to do with being gone the day the assignment was posted and having a choice between Nero, Genghis Khan, or Hitler when I came back. Seemed like a reasonable challenge, trying to keep everyone hating me. I don’t think you would want to be a bad girl, too, would you?
She giggled, her voice almost a screech at the end.
Oh, Adam. That’s funny. And the only reason anyone here at Niotaka High could hate you would be for that country music you play on your radio show.
Same old story. No one my age that I knew liked country music, but it kept the advertising revenue coming in, and in my case it provided me with a part-time after-school job that at least financed my car payments. It’s not exactly my favorite. I’d be playing The Stones or The Doors or Steppenwolf, but you know what the program director and the station manager say, don’t you?
Her eyebrows lifted as she anticipated my answer.
The townspeople like it. The advertisers like it. It pays the bills. So that’s what we play.
She nodded as if I had just uttered the wisest thing since Moses read the tablets on the mountaintop. Hm. Maybe we should bring in a guitar player and a southern gospel singer and get rid of our organ player in our church. My dad says what shows up in the collection plate on Sundays barely covers the light bill these days.
I glanced at the hall clock and down the hall again and decided it was time to head for the bathroom.
Yeah, great idea. Uh … I gotta go, okay?
All right. Oh, I’ll probably see you this Saturday, too. My dad’s bringing some program tapes out to the station in the morning, and I’m going to ride out there with him.
Mm. Sure. See ya.
I raised my hand in a backwards wave and trotted down the hall.
Chapter Two
Carl intercepted me outside of the restroom just as I was about to rid myself of the excess coffee I’d swilled on the way to school. Hey, buddy, we need to talk. Got something I need to tell ya. Meet me in front of the library right after school?
I nodded through gritted teeth and pushed past him. Wonder of wonders, a stall was wide-open.
I felt so relieved when I left the restroom that I decided to track Charlene down and see if she was booked for Saturday night. I knew she’d be stationed with her two cronies at the other end of the hall in what was unofficially known as the Senior Zone
, where freshmen never lingered, sophomores hurried through, and only the bravest junior females stopped long enough to say hi
to guys they were interested in.
The other guys called Charlene and her friends The Three Stooges
behind their backs, as Charlene had dark, straight hair like Moe and wore it in a sort of long page boy; Arlene was the one with uncontrollable red hair, and she even played the violin like Larry did in real life, and although Darlene had enough hair to identify her easily as a girl, her nose was shaped exactly like Curley’s. Or so the other guys said. I didn’t buy that description, but I’d been told that the three girls had met in ninth grade after coming from different grade schools and immediately had clumped together like magnetized ball bearings. Maybe it was the name thing, the identical name endings, that kept them together? More likely they had conquered the Senior Zone as a triumvirate, and no other girls dare challenge them. And it was only since I had recently achieved the status of local radio star that I had dared to move in on one and only one of them. I knew my limits, and I was really surprised the first time Charlene accepted when I asked her out.
I glanced at the clock. Three minutes left. Just time enough to try to get her scheduled in for next Saturday evening.
When I nudged in between Charlene and Darlene, Darlene gave me an exasperated look and turned to the girl on her left. Come on, Arlene. We have just enough time to powder our noses while Romeo here tries to move in on our friend.
Arlene pretended to give me a dirty look, but she ended it with a half smile and walked away, her loose skirt twitching in a manner that I found quite interesting. But I recovered in time and turned to Charlene.
Say, that was quite the performance you put on in American History, Charlene. Luzinberry didn’t know what hit him, did he?
She sniffed and examined her fingernails. I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Right. And he just wants to make certain that you don’t end up flunking out of junior college your first semester.
She gave me a blank look. I don’t think there’s much chance of that. My daddy is one of the biggest contributors to the college’s scholarship fund. In fact, if you’ll remember, I was the first senior this year to be awarded a scholarship there.
Uh-huh. Oh, say – I seem to have Saturday night off this week. Could I interest you in dinner and a movie afterwards?
"You mean pizza and The Dirty Dozen? I believe that’s what’s playing this weekend."
Uh … yeah, unless you’d …
No, that’s fine. Pick me up about seven? I have something to do with my mom most of the afternoon. Sort of a family thing.
Perfect …
The warning bell cut me