Page 3 of Hunter's Hidden Camera
Their sex today was relatively normal, pretty “vanilla.” I guess you have to go back to basics every once in a while.
Nash and Alessandra start getting dressed.
“Pancakes?” he asks.
“Yes,” she says. “IHOP.”
When they’re both fully clothed, they stand facing each other, kissing. Nash places a couple of fingers in between her thighs. She releases a sudden breath and throws her head back like she’s on a rocket to the moon.
Nash starts laughing. Alessandra giggles. They leave the room, go down the stairs, and walk out the front door. I hear it slam shut.
I’m staring at my brother’s used condom. Anybody else would be horrified, maybe even traumatized. But I? I’m not. And I absolutely hate myself for it.
3
Stall
Because I got trapped underneath my brother’s bed, after I got out I didn’t have time to go on my morning run. I just took a quick shower, got dressed, and gathered my things for school.
My hair still damp, I walk toward my gray Prius, which is parked against the curb in front of my house.
“Good morning, Hunter.”
I turn to my right and see my English teacher, Mr. Hilton. He lives next door to me, and he’s in his car, about to back out of the driveway, speaking to me through his rolled-down window.
Mr. Hilton is a great teacher, super smart and very passionate about what he does. He also happens to be stunningly handsome and remarkably fit, which is why so many girls at school are in love (in lust?) with him, smiling and giggling whenever he walks by. At the beginning of every semester, there also always seems to be a fight for who gets to sit in the front row of his classes. You can get a better view of his tight pants and slim shirtsfrom up there. I think some of the girls even believe Mr. Hilton might be attainable. After all, he’s married to a former student who’s much younger than he is.
Like everyone else, I think Mr. Hilton is attractive, but I don’t have a thing for him. I mean, he’s in his early thirties, so I think it’s a bit creepy to think of him in any way other than “he’s my English teacher.”
I stop walking. “Hey, Mr. Hilton.”
“You ready for today’s test?”
“I guess.”
“You guess?” he chuckles. “You know it counts a lot toward your final grade, right?”
In AP English (Advanced Placement English), we’ve been reading an old Russian play calledThe Seagullby Anton Chekhov. There are some interesting scenes and characters in it (the mother, Arkadina, is an absolute bitch), but I prefer stuff that’s contemporary. A bunch of Russian people sitting around and talking in the 1800s has nothing to do with my life.
“I know,” I say. “I’ve read the play carefully, so we’ll see how it goes.”
“Fair enough,” says Mr. Hilton.
I start to move towards my Prius again, but Mr. Hilton stops me once more: “Hey, Hunter, by the way, are you good at math?”
I shake my head. “Not really. Why?”
“Never mind. See you in class.” And with that, Mr. Hilton finally pulls out of his driveway and zooms down the street.
I don’t care how handsome or cool Mr. Hilton is. I hate living next to a teacher.
Since I’ve managed to arrive at school about thirty minutes early, I have a little bit of time to get some work done, so I slip into the restroom. I lock myself in the last stall, hang my backpack on the hook, get out my laptop, and sit on the toilet seat. (Weird, I know.)
But before I can even log in, the restroom door opens, and I hear someone come in and take a piss at one of the urinals. He then moves to the sink to wash up. His cell phone goes off. His ringtone is some Lady Gaga song. He picks up.
“Hello?” he says. Then: “I can’t today . . . I can’t today, Mom. I have rehearsal . . . For drama class . . . Yes, it’s important . . . Mom . . . Okay, okay, okay, I’ll be at the store after school . . .Oo, mahal kita.Bye.”
I recognize the voice. It’s Andrew, the gay half-Asian guy. He’s pretty masculine (and in really great shape), but sometimes on campus he’ll suddenly “gay it up” and exclaim, “Hello! I’m gaysian!” And I always laugh a little to myself.
