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Chapter One
Transmission 01: over the shirt, under the bra
September
Peckerbrook High—like every other high school—sucks. But Peckerbrook sucks for one or maybe two specific reasons in addition to all the other reasons high schools suck in general.
At Peckerbrook, every pupil is either "artistic" (as implied by its status as a Performing Arts Magnet School) or black. This isn't to say that there aren't blackpeople registered in the vaunted arts classes. But in a school that is sixty-five percent African-American (a "vibrant and culturally rich community" is what the brochure says), only five people of color are involved in its arts program, which includes hundreds of students.
Most of us white kids are bussed in from the wealthier communities in the northern sector of the county. The rest of us have mothers like mine—women living in the squalor of the outer city limits who see their children succeeding where they never could, insisting that their sons and daughters are the next Brandos or Streeps or Barbra frickin' Streisands.
The black kids laugh at us "performing" white folk, then deal drugs right in front of the school, selling little bags of weed and crack after the faculty has gone home for the day.
Once I had to wait for my mother to pick me up (she was late, as usual), and these four crack-slingers walked over and just started beating on my head. A Samaritan in a BMW pulled up moments later and chased them away with an umbrella and his middle-class white-man authority.
My first day in drama this tall, unaffected Amazon of a girl sits beside me as I cocoon myself in a corner of the theater.
"You don't need to worry," she assures me. "All the drama people are cool."I try smiling at her.
She is beautiful. She says her name is Tabitha. And unlike much of Atlanta, which consists of people who have transferred here from all points north, she has a true Southern accent—and breasts that round out the top of her shirt like an answer to prayer.
Class begins with a series of exercises where everybody lies on the floor and focuses on their breathing.
Breathe.
Listen to yourself breathe.
Then comes the "stress reduction" massage.
Tabitha scoots up next to me and asks if I'll "do" her.
"Do? Yeah . . . ok."
She lies in front of me and waits, eyes closed.
I touch her, allowing the palms of my hands to skim the linen of her shirt.
She asks if I am going to actually rub her back or just pretend.
"This part isn't supposed to be acting," she informs me.
"I know, I was just warming up," I say, trying to sound natural.
I begin at her neck, for real this time, kneading soft circles around the muscles and then down the spine and out to the shoulder blades, allowing my hands to pass over the contours of her body.
This goes on for some time before she begins moaning softly and I have to . . . readjust. With every moan I become more aroused and with every readjustment it seems she moans louder.
"Go under my shirt," she says.
I pull her shirt up to the middle of her back, just below the bra strap, and watch as goose bumps form. She is magnificent.
"Pull it up all the way."
"All the way?" I whisper.
"Yeah, all the way," she repeats, her head on her forearms, eyes still closed. She rises off the floor slightly so that I can get her t-shirt past her bra. I look around at the rest of the class to gauge how they are dealing with the striptease developing in their midst but no one seems to have the slightest idea.
"Does this feel good?" I ask, trying to keep my breathing in check.
"It doooes."
I swallow. "Good."
I continue rubbing, trying to be professional about it and all.
Then she pushes herself up onto her forearms, turns to face me. "Two things," she says. "I want you to take your index and middle fingers on both hands, bend them at the knuckle, then pinch and twist. It feels better when it hurts a little."
She lies down again and closes her eyes like before. I look at my hands and practice the twisting motion with my fingers before I go back to work on her."What was the second thing?"
"Oh, that's right," Tabitha purrs as I pinch her. "Unsnap my bra."
I want to make love to her.
"How do you do that?" Now I'm panicking.
"Just push the ends in toward each other and it'll snap free."
Finally the clasp loosens and separates. Her bra slips away and there I sit, straddling her bottom with a hard-on, her naked back begging me to touch it, to make love to it with my fingers. I can see her tan lines and how the sides of her breasts remain their natural flesh tone, completely uncorrupted by sun.
The more I rub the harder I get and I wonder if she can feel me through my pants. I want her to feel me. The tanned canvas of her back is mine for the taking and I imagine myself an artist of the highest vocation, sculpting her into immortality.
Her skin gathers between my fingers, and no matter how hard I pull or pinch, it always snaps back into place leaving a red welt, the only reminder of my concentrated ministrations. She moans with every twist, every pull. Her breasts protrude on either side of her prone body, pushed out slightly. There are no visible nipples or anything of that magnitude, but there is the definitive swell. It is the unmistakable sight of finality, fullness, completeness, the ultimate signifier of female perfection.
It occurs to me that I've never seen a real-life breast until that moment.
"Why'd you stop rubbing?"
I'm stuck, staring at her breast swells, my hands motionless on her back.
Futureproof
Excerpted from Futureproof: A Novel by N. Frank Daniels
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
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