The Glam Show

The Affair (Part I)

The Glam Show

 Chapter 1 (Part I)

The Affair

By

F. Thudman

 

Something Isabelle hated like shit was when she couldn’t have a smoke in peace. For fuck’s sake, which janitor did she have to blow to make sure that during third period, all the female toilet cabins would be empty?

 The retching sound that came from one of the cabins just made her temples pound. Someone was having a severe case of the pukes and what did you know, it made her want to join in. And here went the unknown chick’s breakfast, oh and something damn liquid too. She drank a fucking cow for breakfast, or what?!

 Well, you know what? Fuck it, the bitch could vomit as much as she wanted for all that she cared, Isabelle was going to have that smoke. If she didn’t, she would chop someone’s head off and play soccer with it. Since it seems it became the national sport, supplanting dumb hockey fights à la Sarah.

 Oh come on! She shouldn’t be thinking about Sarah before smoking, she would go through a whole pack at once and the fire alarm would start. On the other hand, being surrounded by sexy firemen, alone in a high school toilet (Miss McPukings didn’t count, really) had its charms. Sarah was most probably the reason she started smoking in the first place. That whore had a way to make anyone go crazy. Sneaky, vicious and conniving, Sarah was picking a fight with the wrong girl. All the rumors she was spreading about Isabelle might have been partially true, but it didn’t mean that she would forgive the slut for daring to cross her.

 But then again, the shit they had going on felt weirdly comfortable. Sarah would get Isabelle bullied, Isabelle would claw Sarah’s face beyond recognition. They said that the bitch had had at least a few plastic surgeries because of Isabelle’s bashing her head into walls and locker doors. But hey, Isabelle wasn’t vindictive by nature; she could recognize Sarah’s good sides. For one, she would have made a great hockey player. The national team would have gladly welcomed here, Isabelle was sure.

 Another thing Isabelle wasn’t was a murderer. When she heard, the horrid choking noises coming from a stall, she couldn’t just keep rummaging through her imitation of a Chanel bag (a lame, cheap-looking one at that) for her lighter. What if the chick just died because a lump of half-digested shit got stuck in her throat? Since the choking noises didn’t recede, Isabelle had a surge of adrenaline going through her veins. Ok, fuck it; she really did have to check on the puking chick.

 “Yo, what the hell is happening with you? You dying in there?”

 Well that was some great rationalizing. The chick was choking to death, tough luck she’d be able to answer that question. Bending over, Isabelle started to look under the stall doors frantically.

 “Hey, hey, hey, don’t fucking die in there!”

 Bingo. And what did she see under door number three, the soles of some lame-o school shoes. Okay, now let’s just get in. She pushed against the metallic door. Well of course, it would be locked; people usually didn’t go to the shitter without locking the door. What did an almost-Yankee (as in almost-American, literally) do when the shits were locked? She fucking kicked them in! And that is how Isabelle’s lame-o school shoes came in contact with the stall’s door and virtually made it fall out if its hinges.

 And there she was. The puking, choking wonder. And behold, beauty! But not really. Oh right, she needed to find a way to make her barf out whatever it was that got stuck in her throat. And how did an almost-Yankee do that? She just hit the back bent over the toilet stool as hard as she could (and trust Isabelle to have a dangerous righty) and heard a liberating plop! Hallelujah to that. The shivers that had been crossing the chick’s back declined before stopping completely. Only the wheezing sound remained.