What I Think My Eighth Grade History Teacher Said About Me After I Reported Him by Lu Chekowsky

            ​r. nial bradshaw CC



​
​What I Think My Eighth Grade History Teacher Said About Me After I Reported Him


She’s ugly as hell and I can’t stop thinking about her. Nothing pretty about that face at all. Hair’s not yellow like I like. It’s mouse brown, matted in the back where she doesn’t pull that brush through. Her thighs are dimpled, which is more sad than disgusting, honestly. She’s thirteen. Those shorts she wears, the pink velour? They pull up into her camel toe where her thighs rub red. She won’t be a debutante. Where she from, anyway? Last name’s a jumble of consonants, who cares how to say it. I watch those shorts climb up in there, one side higher than the other. A game I play, which can get up there first. She’s real fat. Please, let’s not dance around it. Don’t tell me she can’t feel the air on the bottom of those ass cheeks hanging out, meaty as a T-bone. All that jiggling. She’s busting out of those tiny clothes, and I know she hates me, but I can’t imagine why. What are they feeding her anyway? I’ve seen her fat mama. It’s all in the genes, I guess. She eats every crumb off her Styrofoam lunch plate too. Licks the oil off her pizza while the other girls put a napkin on top to soak it up, which everyone knows is the right way to eat pizza when you’re a girl. She gets picked last at kickball at basketball at four-square; not like those gymnastics girls I coach. For over twenty years, as everybody knows. I even trained an Olympian. A goddamned gold medalist. I know my shit. Those girls roll when I say roll. Jump when I say jump. I love when they have their small faces pressed into those sweaty mats. The best part? I get to watch their nipples grow, like little flowers blooming from Winter into Spring. Listen, I’ve seen my fair share of blood on the crotches of pink leotards. When I spot them on the balance beam I smell it, like skinned knees. A rip, then a scab. Nothing shocks me, I guess, except this. That little bitch. Let me say it as clearly as I can. That shirt she was wearing? Those shorts? Leaning down to talk at the side of my desk to talk about God knows what? What did she think I was going to do? She had a map of the whole wide world stretched tight across her chunky stomach and those little mosquito tits. I can’t wait to see you jump when I touch Siberia. Like, she basically made me say it. That was just me talking about geography which everyone knows is part of Social Studies. I was obviously talking longitude, latitude. I was talking the history of The Cold War. I was talking Sputnik. I was talking motherfucking Baryshnikov. That was just me, giving extra credit. That was a joke, and no one can tell me it wasn’t funny. Anyone with eyes can see she isn’t worth touching.
​

​

I am a writer who is currently working on a memoir about my life as a fat woman in the advertising business, called, FAT GHOST. I live in Beacon, NY with my husband and cat, Neko (Case). More of my writing and publications can be seen at luchekowsky.com if you're so inclined. I've been lucky enough to be published in the likes of Hobart, Pigeon Pages and The Maine Review.

---