Doodling

"Mr. Savoie, day after tomorrow's Thanksgiving," I cheerfully said, returning to our kitchen. "We going to your house?"

He mumbled out some excuse and lit yet another cigarette. As much as I despised my father, at least Bert, Jr. never smoked.

"Is it because Cheryl might be there?" I asked.

My mother looked at Alton, a surprised look on her face. Apparently, Alton had failed to mention anything about a Cheryl Savoie when he was sweet-talking my mother.

Alton looked at me with as much hatred as he could, then said they were in the middle of a divorce. My mother looked at me, pleased with Alton's explanation.

"Really? Hmm, let's give Cheryl a call and ask her about that. Bet she'll be surprised to hear she's in the middle of a divorce," I cheerfully said.

I pulled my cell out of my pocket. I never saw the punch coming. Fat, bloated and drunk, Alton Savoie beat the living shit out of me. Thank God for those limited maternal instincts my mother still possessed. She clubbed Alton over the head with the bottle of tequila. When the police came, I demanded charges be pressed against Alton Savoie.

So, I ate Thanksgiving dinner at the University Medical Center. The good news is, Alton Savoie would be getting that divorce after all. Obviously, Cheryl Savoie didn't take her wedding vows as seriously as my mother had taken hers.

The bad news was Adrien's Supermarket fired my mother when Cheryl Savoie showed up on Saturday morning and attacked my mother. Personally, I thought Cheryl should have been thanking my mother for taking Alton Savoie off of her hands. The man had not held a job for longer than three months in his life.

The Super Target hired my mother. Christmas was only a few weeks away and they needed experienced cashiers.

School started again on Monday. I didn't go back to school until Tuesday; Monday, I had just been in too much pain to even dress myself, so stayed at home. Addison again captured my heart when she gasped and softly touched my face, asking me what had happened.

When Sandra went to touch my face, I jerked away. My face hurt. There was a splint across my broken nose. Both my eyes were black, swollen nearly shut. The last thing I needed was Sandra putting her hands on me.

"God, Bert, you in an accident?" Francine, or Francesca Thompson asked as I put my books into my locker.

"No, Francie, he did that on purpose," Francesca or Francine answered her sister.

"Oh, shut up Francie," the first one snapped. "Come on, Burt, what happened?"

"My mother's new boyfriend didn't like it when I told my mother he was married," I admitted.

The Christmas season brought on a flurry of orders for Tees By Bert tee shirts. Quite a few students wanted a tee shirt for their moms, their dads, and their older sister's baby boy. I think the coolest one I managed to do was a Spirograph creation of a motorcycle for Dan Thompson, Francine and Francesca's father.

Sandra asked me what I wanted for Christmas. I told her I wanted nothing, I expected nothing, and would be very upset if she got me anything.

That wasn't the answer she wanted to hear. She pouted and I sighed.

"Please, Sandra, please listen," I said, trying to be as gentle as possible. "We are not boyfriend and girlfriend. We are not a couple. We are not doing the Christmas thing."

"But if I want give you something, you can't stop me," Sandra declared.

For that brief moment, I almost understood why Big Bert and Bert, Jr. could hit women. I also understood why my mother liked Sandra so much; Sandra was my mother's clone. They were both perpetual victims.

"No. I can't," I agreed and Sandra actually crowed in triumph. "And you can't make me accept it, no matter what it is."

"But I want get you something," Sandra whined, tears coming to her eyes.

"So, where you planning to go to college?" I asked.

"Huh?" Sandra asked.

That did the trick, though. She quit whining, stopped with the threatened waterworks. And, as I had deduced, based on her grades thus far, Sandra had no collegiate ambitions. As it was, this was her second time as a senior. By the time we graduated at the end of this school year, providing she did actually graduate, Sandra would be twenty years old.

"You going to U. L. L, right?" she asked.

The University of Louisiana at Lafayette was just down the street. I often used their library for research papers and other assignments. It was a beautiful campus and it was a fine school.

The biggest drawback was that U. L. L. was right down the street. Attending U. L. L. would not get me out of my mother's trailer. For three to four years, however long it took for me to get a degree, I would be witness to my mother's foolishness, her continuous bad decisions, and her string of unemployed, abusive boyfriends.

Her latest winner had wasted no time in slapping my mother and demanding that she give him money. My run-in with Alton had taught me well; I used the element of surprise to take care of Doug. When he brought his hand back to slap my mother again, I stepped up behind Doug, grabbed the hand, and put the heel of my other hand into his elbow. I almost threw up as we all heard the bone crack.

My mother wanted to avoid the police, until I pointed out, that without a police report, without pictures showing her bruises, Doug could get a sleazy lawyer. Doug could claim that her little boy threw a hissy fit over her having a boyfriend and attacked Doug for no reason. Without proof, my mother could kiss her money bye-bye.

All of this ran through my mind as I sat, regarding Sandra. I reached for the packet the University of North Carolina at Wilmington had sent to me.

"Nope. Applied to U. N. C. and I've already been accepted," I said.

"U. N; where's that?" Sandra asked.

"University of North Carolina at Wilmington?" I asked, showing her the envelope. "It's in Wilmington, North Carolina."

And with that, Sandra again ran out of my trailer. Again, I packed up her books and drove them to her aunt and uncle's home.

This time, her aunt actually smiled. She informed me that Sandra was in her room and invited me in. I politely declined, handing the woman Sandra's text books.

Knowing full well that Sandra would get me something, some cheap trinket that would supposedly hold some sentimental value I drove to my favorite store. The arts and crafts store sold me a small unfinished wooden chest. I sanded the three inch by five inch by two inch box and attached lid down, then applied a coat of primer. To me, the lavender paint looked gaudy. The rhinestones looked even gaudier. In other words, the chest practically screamed 'Sandra King.'

The loose rhinestones had come in a large bag. The spaces where the lesser count bags would go were bare and an employee said they'd been picked clean. So, I had a two thousand count bag of various sized rhinestones, minus the thirty or forty faux gems I'd managed to sprinkle onto the tawdry little box and lid.

So, Sandra King also got a lavender tee shirt with a rhinestone unicorn and a royal purple long sleeved tee shirt with a very large rhinestone butterfly on the front, and several smaller butterflies along the sleeves and on the back. I used Super Glue; those rhinestones would be together long after the shirts fell apart.

Inside the hideous box, I put a dinky silver chain and silver cross. The chain and cross cost me eight dollars at Wal-Mart; it was the most expensive part of the package.

Sandra King's gift to me was a five pound peppermint scented candle. Five pounds of overly scented wax. Thankfully, the smelly monstrosity was in a jar with a glass lid that sealed it tightly. And the price tag on the bottom told me Sandra, or Sandra's aunt had spent twenty four dollars and ninety five cents for the ugly, stinky behemoth.

"And when the candle's all gone? You got a jar and lid, you know, where you can keep stuff," Sandra said excitedly.

Just as I had believed, Sandra just about lost her mind over the gaudy box, the trashy tee shirts, and the silver chain and cross. As she hugged me, she pushed those huge boobs into me and my cock reacted.

"Your mom home?" Sandra whispered, stroking my cock through my jeans.

"Yes ma'am. Sleeping it off," I said, pointing down the hall toward my mother's bedroom.

"Think if we're real quiet?" Sandra whispered.

"Think if we're real quiet, we're doing it wrong," I said and Sandra giggled.

Thankfully, my mother picked that moment to wobble tiredly into the living room. I'm not opposed to sex; I like sex. But sex with Sandra seems to give Sandra the impression that sex makes us boyfriend and girlfriend, seems to signify that we're in a relationship. Hell, without the sex, she already believes we're in a relationship; why exacerbate the problem?

"Hey! Merry Christmas," my mother greeted Sandra.

"Merry Christmas, Mrs. Lott," Sandra enthused. "Look! Look what Bertie got me!"

(Bertie? BERTIE?!? Again, I could almost see why Big Bert and Bert, Jr. used their fists to set their women right.)

"Oh! Hey, that's nice!" my mother agreed.

See? Sandra is a clone of my mother. Big boobs, little brains, no sophistication or ambition.

"Show your mom what I got you," Sandra ordered.

The two clones agreed that the candle was just perfect. And, both agreed that when the wax was gone, the jar would be perfect for keeping those little keepsakes that I will never ever in a million years ever possess. I guess Bert, Jr. taught me all too well that anything I ever become attached to, he, or someone will find a way to take it away from me.

The day after Christmas, my mother tiredly went to work. Most employees dread the day after Christmas; that's when everyone returns that tacky, tasteless, inappropriate, useless gifts family and friends give to one another. As I was still tutoring Sandra in Biology, as well as Algebra and now American History, I couldn't very well return the rancid candle. Every time she came in, she'd look for it. If she didn't see the candle, she'd demand to know where it was. So I was stuck with the damned thing.

Because my mother had told Sandra her schedule, Sandra knew my mother was not home. I was still enjoying my bowl of Cap'n Crunch when Sandra arrived. As soon as I slurped the last of the milk, Sandra was dragging me to my room.

And the first thing she did was light the stupid candle. The curtains on my window do not keep any light out, so unless you were looking directly at the candle, you couldn't tell it was burning. But Sandra thought it added an element of romance to our frenzied fucking.

As I had done the previous time, I used my mouth and fingers on her. Thankfully, Sandra does not have a lot of pubic hair to get in the way. After I fingered and licked her to an orgasm, I made her roll onto her hands and knees.

Sandra's ass was nice and full and round. The deep cleft hid her cute little pink anus and I bent over.

"Hey, wait, what! What you doing?" Sandra squawked as I pulled her buttocks apart.

She squawked some more as I tongued her sweaty anus. But she didn't stop me.

Of course she claimed we didn't need the condom but I rolled it on anyway. Then, as I pushed my cock into her pussy, I also jammed my middle finger up her ass. That elicited a squeal out of her but again, she didn't stop me.

By the time I managed an ejaculation, I had three fingers in her ass. She was grunting and whimpering and pushing back against me as hard as she could.

In post-coital bliss, Sandra said, while she liked my finger in her butt and really thought my tongue up her butt was kind of weird, it feels kind of funny, I would never ever in a gazillion years ever put my dick up there. I was pretty sure, if I pushed it, I would be able to convince, coerce, order Sandra to give me her ass.

New Year's Eve, my mother was with her latest boyfriend, a rail-thin weasel whose hands seemed incapable of staying away from my mother's boobs. At least Hank didn't smoke. Cigarettes, that is.

I was dragged by Sandra to a party thrown by one of our classmates. The party was dismal. Babette favored rap music, played very loud with very heavy bass. This made conversation nearly impossible. Hell, it made thinking nearly impossible. But most of my peers don't tend to lean too heavily toward thinking anyway. Thinking's too hard.

Sandra wore that hideous purple tee shirt I'd given to her for Christmas. I don't know how she could stand to wear it; those rhinestones dug into my arm or my chest whenever she hung onto me, which was almost non-stop. It was as if she could sense that I was a flight risk.

Seating was at a premium; Sandra and I had to cram onto the couch together, along with four other people. At most, that couch was designed to hold three, four people at most.

Babette also did not provide any snacks, no finger foods. When I asked Babette about this, she sneered and gave me directions to the convenience store down the street.

I don't know where Babette's parents were, but I am sure they hadn't intended for Babette and Babette's guests to raid their liquor cabinet. Sandra immediately ran over to the throng and got herself a far too strong rum and coke. Scott Joliet also helped himself to a rum and coke. Addison joined me on the couch.

"Not drinking?" I asked, nodding to where her boyfriend and my girlfriend were already getting loud and stupid.

"My mom's an alcoholic," Addison screamed over the thuds and squeals of Babette's music. "I'm pretty sure my dad is to; just hasn't admitted it. So, I don't drink. You?"

"Seen what alcohol and bad choices can do to someone's life. No thank you," I screamed in reply.

It was only eight thirty and Sandra was stumbling, giggling, stupid drunk. Scott was one step, one drink behind her. Several others were also severely impaired.

By ten o'clock, both Scott and Sandra were unconscious. I helped Sandra stumble and stagger to a bedroom. The furniture was pretty nice, a set of highly polished heavy wood furniture. I would assume that this was Babette's parents' room.

Addison begged me to help Scott. So, I half-carried, half pulled him to the same room.

I didn't dislike Scott. I just didn't like him either. He was into cars and I don't care one bit about Camaros versus Mustangs or Dodge Chargers. A car is a mode of transportation; who cares if that one has more horsepower than this other one? Only people that want to sit for several sweaty hours making continual left turns need concern themselves with horsepower, torque ratio, velocity, t cetera. So, we don't have that in common.

And I don't give a shit about football. Well, come to think of it, the way Scott played for our high school's football team, he doesn't care about football either. We won two games the whole season. And both wins were as big a shock to us as they were to the opponents.

But Scott had Addison. I am crazy about Addison. So, Scott had to go.

I unhooked Sandra's bra and pushed that ugly purple tee shirt with rhinestone butterflies up, exposing her large breasts. Next I worked her pants down, exposing her juicy ass. I put Scott's hand on Sandra's boob. Pulling his pants down was a little harder, but I finally managed it. Then I left them.

Twenty minutes later, I asked Addison to go check on Scott and Sandra. They were in the same position that I'd left them in. Addison started screaming and flailing at Sandra and Scott. They both woke up and struggled to defend themselves.

Sandra screamed when she realized she was half-naked and was in bed with Scott Joliet, not her boyfriend.

When Sandra looked up and saw me standing in the doorway, she started wailing. I didn't say anything; I didn't have to. I just closed the door and left Scott and Sandra to defend themselves against Addison.

When I came into the trailer I shared with my mother, it smelled like a reggae festival. My mother looked guilty and Hank smiled and claimed he had glaucoma; the marijuana was for medicinal purposes.

"Glaucoma, huh?" I asked, holding up my index and pinky finger. "How many fingers I got up?"

I knew when 2018 arrived; the barrage of fireworks was intense. And being jolted awake, I could also now hear that I had a message.

There were four messages, in fact. Three from Sandra, wailing her undying love for me, swearing she didn't know what had happened, and begging me to forgive her and it would never ever happen again. The fourth was from Scott, apologizing, swearing we were still best bros and it didn't mean anything, he was just drunk.

There was also a text from Sandra, asking for a ride home. I replied that maybe Scott could give her a ride home.

The next day, I called Addison, to 'commiserate' with her. After all, I no longer had a girlfriend, and she no longer had a boyfriend, right?

'O, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to conceive' or something like that. Addison did have a boyfriend. Dylan Soileau, Babette's older brother. An African-American twenty one year old student of U. L. L.

Just fucking great. I no longer had a girlfriend, no longer had a 'best bro' even if we had never really been 'best bros.' Well, 2018 certainly started off pretty shitty.

The trend of crap continued. My mother's boyfriend, Hank wanted to talk. I really didn't want to listen, but that didn't deter Hank.

As I chomped my way through a bowl of Cap'n Crunch, Hank assured me that his love for my mother was 'undying, that kind of forever love that he used believe was only in the movies kind of love.'

"I mean, yeah, I know I'm nine years younger than her, but dude, you go to believe me, I mean it, I'm here, I'm in it for the long haul, know what I'm saying?" Hank professed, punctuating each declaration with a jab to the table with a bony finger.

"At what point do I give a shit?" I wanted to ask. "Supposedly my mother is a grown woman. She wants to associate with a stoned idiot, that's her business."

Instead, I made the appropriate noises about not hurting her. Hank placed his bony hand over his heart and swore he'd rather rip his own heart out before he would ever even dream of hurting my mother.

As we sat at the kitchen table, I had to block Sandra's number; she was calling non-stop. Not leaving messages, just calling until my generic message picked up, then calling right back. Then she figured out she'd been blocked and I had to block her Aunt Connie's phone number too. Either Uncle Tim didn't have a phone, or he had the sense to tell his niece that his phone was his phone; go away and bother someone else.

"Hey Hank, want prove your loyalty to me?" I asked when there was a frantic hammering at the door. "Go tell her I'm not here."

The little weasel did do it. Sandra argued that my car was right there; she knew I was there. Hank displayed an imagination I would have never credited him with possessing. Maybe marijuana does spark creativity.

"Hey, what can I say? Some little honey come by, man! That pickup she was driving was something, hear? Had them dualies on it? Big ass pipes? Truck like that? I'd gone off with her too, hear?" Hank said. "Tell him ya'll dropped by when he gets back. If he gets back, okay?"

"Tell him I'm real sorry and I love him, okay?" Sandra sniffed.

"Man! You sure 'bout this?" Hank asked me when he came back into the kitchen. "Man! That girl's a cutie, hear?"

"Uh huh, I'm sure. She's psychotic," I said.

"Yeah, most of the cute ones are," Hank agreed.

"Oh, I'm sure the ugly ones are too; but since no one pays any attention to them, no one ever notices," I said, putting my bowl and spoon into the dishwasher.

"Man! You are right on the money, huh?" Hank agreed, laughing.

Returning to school, Sandra's rhinestone unicorn tee shirt was an instant hit. Twenty five for long sleeves and twenty for short sleeves; pick your color, pick your design.

Remember I told you it had become a trend; girls wearing their boyfriend's Tees By Bert tee shirt? Percy Jacoby showed up to the first school day of 2018 wearing one of Jonah Lawrence's guitar tee shirts. And Jonah and Percy walked in, Jonah's hand in Percy's back pocket, Percy's hand in Jonah's back pocket.