Faye's Story

The pale-faced girl in the back of the classroom drowns out her instructor’s voice as she scribbles in her diary, heedless of the day’s lesson. Every so often she cocks her head towards the blackboard--the wires of her earphones making her look more like a robot than just another high school girl. But she doesn’t care, about class or anything else for that matter. All she lives for are the dark words in her journal and the equally gloomy lyrics in her head, her raison de la vie amidst the jocks and cheerleaders and other drones in this manufactured hell.

Every so often a classmate glances at her strangely, as if to appreciate the aesthetics of a carnival sideshow. Faye Morgyn doesn’t mind, though. She likes being weird. She gets off on it. It gives her a reason to feel superior from the mass of ignorant students in their cutoff jeans and tight blouses as she strolls the halls in her dark bodice and gloves, an 18th Century Goth in a sea of 21st Century preppies and stoners trying to get their next fix.

At least she’s special.

She continues to write as her classmates file out of the room, paying more attention to the tune in her head than the final bell ring. She notices her instructor‘s lips moving as he speaks to her. But she’d rather rock out and compose her brooding thoughts than give some schoolhouse lackey any time of day.

“Faye?” She hears his voice through muffled ears.

She ignores him.

“Faye?” His voice is louder in pitch this time, an undercurrent of exasperation in his words.

Still no response.

“FAYE!”

The yelling is enough to grab her attention. She pulls off her earphones and shoots him the finger.

“Fuck off. Can’t you see I’m writing?”

Mr. Doe grows beet red at the insult. He marches down the aisle and snatches the iPod from her belt, adding a menacing glare for spite.

“What’d ya do that for?” She glares back.

“See, this is why you’re falling behind.” He jabs his finger at her. “Do you give a damn at all about your grades, or are you just hoping to coast by on the kindness of strangers?”

“Didn’t peg you as a Gone with the Wind fan, Mr. Doe.”

The teacher glances at her playlist.

“Marilyn Manson. KMFDM. Motorhead.” He laughs. “Every single one of these songs is about **** or war or some type of mass destruction. You fit the profile all right. If I had my druthers I’d report you to campus security right now.”

“Profile of what?”

“A school shooter.”

“Hey! Just because I wear all black and my face looks like snow doesn’t make me a killer!”

“And just because I happen to read more than vampire novels doesn’t make me a fan of the KKK.” Mr. Doe sneers.

“Don’t lump me with those Twilight freaks! They make the Miley fans look sane in comparison.”

Faye leans in, her face a contorted mix of anger and contempt.

“You give me back my iPod, right now.”

“I’ll give it back when you listen to what I have to say.”

The Goth crosses her arms.

“Look, Faye, I’m going to be straight with you. Your grades are abysmal. Your coursework is spotty. One day you turn something in, and for the next several weeks it’s like you’re incognito. Unless it has something to do with Frankenstein or ghosts or a succubus, you’re not interested.”

“That’s not true!”

“I’ve read your poems in the literary magazine. Every single one of them is either about some girl stabbing herself in the heart, drinking poison, jumping off a bridge, or getting killed by some unseen ****. It’s like Sylvia Plath and Anne Rice had a test tube baby and it was you. How you got it in without getting censored is beyond me.”

“No duh.” Faye shrugs. “I’m the editor in chief. Now get to the point.”

Mr. Doe bristles at his charge’s tone.

“Did you know I got a call from your adviser? She’s threatening to cut you off the roster if your grades don’t improve. No more Faye Morgyn, Editor in Chief. How does that sound, you ungrateful bitch?”

Faye furrows her brow, incredulous at the insult.

“How dare you! I’m just a kid!”

“Good. I’ve got your attention.” Her instructor bellows. “You know you’re on the bubble right now, right?”

“What are you saying? My D’s and C’s aren’t good enough for you?”

Mr. Doe sighs.

“I have a proposal that may help you out, but you have to quit your pouting for once and listen.”

“Does this involve extra credit? Let me guess, I fuck you and all my problems go away. Is that it? Because if it is, it’s not only sad, it’s cliché.”

What, is she psychic now? Her instructor thinks to himself.

“Funny you bring that up, because that’s exactly what I propose.”

“How does it work? I blow you and I never have to see your stupid face again?”

“Actually, there’s more to it than that.” He smirks.

“How so?”

“BJ gets you a C, a simple fuck gets you a B and anal gets you an A. If you’re really good, I’ll throw in an A+ for effort.”

Faye leans back, turning his offer over and over in her head. Normally she’d hate extra credit, but at least it beats paperwork. At the same time, she’d be just like all of the sluts and whores in school she mocks under her breath. Hormones versus her dignity.

Decisions, decisions.

“Fuck.” She curses. “I'll go with a B. Beats frigging myself every night.”

“Does this mean you’ll take my deal?”

“You can have your way with me if you like, I don’t care. But only on one condition. It has to take place in a graveyard, and only at the stroke of midnight.”

Mr. Doe gulps.

“That’s a tall order, missy.”

“I drive a hard bargain, Mr. Doe. You don’t like the terms, you can find someone else to screw.”

“A deal’s a deal.” He extends his hand.

“Another thing. If I catch wind of this outside these four walls, your balls are officially mine. You got that?”

“Clear as a bell.”