Bomb Pop

Excerpt

Bomb Pop
By Erin O'Riordan

I backed into the teachers' lounge and set my stack of papers on the conference table.

"Hey, Miss Malone." At the far end, Thom Reno sat turning a single Popsicle stick over and over in his hands.

I felt a rush of blood to my cheeks. "Oh, hi . . . Mr. Reno."

"Looks like you have quite a bit of work to do."

I thought of moving my pile of papers closer to where Thom sat, but that would have been inviting trouble. To make matters worse, he looked especially good that day. Unshaven, his dark beard was at that perfect growth before it gets too messy. He wore black corduroys, the ones that really flattered his butt when he stuck a hard pack of cigarettes in the back pocket. His rumpled, gray-striped sweater clung to his shoulders the way I, in off moments, wished I could.

"Handwriting exercises," I said, thumbing through the stack.

Thom smiled. "I should probably leave you to it. I'm not getting any work done."

I should have caught myself, but the words slipped out. "What are you doing?"

He laughed. "The kindergartners and I made Popsicle stick angels yesterday. Mason, in the morning class—you know the kid I mean?"

I shook my head. "The second-graders and I are pretty isolated."

"Yeah, guess so. Anyway, this kid Mason sees me come from the art supplies cabinet with the box of Popsicle sticks, and he starts to cry. So, I look him in the eyes and ask, 'Mason, why are you crying?' He says, 'Mr. Reno, somebody ate all our Popsicles!'"

We laughed. I loved the way Thom laughed; it made me think forbidden thoughts, like Thom bending me over the conference room table and fucking me from behind, laughing from sheer pleasure as I came, again and again.

"It's the little moments that get me through the day," Thom said. He took his lone Popsicle stick and left.

I smiled. I guess I'd lost my taste for Popsicles about the same time I'd gained an interest in boys. Now that I thought about it, though, boys and Popsicles were similar. Long, juicy, lickable and suckable, with those suggestively rounded heads . . . why hadn't I realized what a perfect metaphor the Popsicle was?

It would have been easy, so easy, to close my eyes and allow myself to be lost in a phallic fantasia of fruity flavors and icy satisfaction. Of course, Thom Reno would be the star of my private ice show.

I shivered and crossed my legs. It was late November. Frozen delights were a fantasy best left to a hot summer night. Not to mention, dwelling on such thoughts during school hours was unprofessional and unproductive, any time of the year.

* * * * *

At home that evening, however, there were no such restrictions on my conduct or my fantasies. I looked into the freezer for something to eat, and my gaze landed on a half-gallon of raspberry-pear sorbet. Raspberry sorbet sent my mind back to my youth, to those 100-plus-degree days when the girls and I played soccer with change in the pockets of our cutoff jeans, waiting for the ice cream truck to cruise by. The object of our sweaty, pre-adolescent affection was the red, white, and blue Bomb Pop.

I picked up the sorbet, grabbed a spoon, and settled into the couch, kicking off my shoes and spooning a mouthful of the frozen dessert to my lips. If I closed my eyes and ignored its no-artificial-colors, I could almost bring to mind the unapologetically artificial cherry taste of the bright red head of a Bomb Pop.

I swallowed, sunk the spoon into the sorbet, and set the carton on the end table. I pictured my adult self in cutoffs and a white halter-top, something I would never wear in real life. I wore my long, blonde hair pulled back in twin pigtails. I sat on the sizzling-hot wooden bench at the baseball diamond behind the school, swinging my bare feet and humming happily to myself.

I bent to pick a long blade of grass, and as I came up, Thom's shadow fell across my swinging legs.

"Hello, Mr. Reno," I said formally.

He shook his head and grinned. "Call me Thom," he said. "School's out for the summer, Gretchen." He wore a gray-on-gray-stripe polo shirt with the collar turned up.

I scanned him from head to toe. He had on faded khaki shorts, with a hard pack of cigarettes in the front pocket. The cigarettes were not the only things causing his shorts to bulge, though.

"Are you afraid?" he asked me.

"Afraid of what?"

"Afraid to imagine what happens next."

"No matter what happens next, things between us have to remain professional," I said.

In my imagination, Thom nodded in agreement, though in another compartment of my mind, I had to laugh at myself. I was such a teacher; even my sexual fantasies were professional and proper.

Which was not to say I couldn't enjoy them.