Nastaskankaphobia

I’ll admit, I tend to make things up and so I can for the most part understand why people have a hard time believing me. But there’s one thing I haven’t made up, Nastaskankaphobia. It’s a phobia I suffer from, which is why I can’t attend public school and need to take online classes, that’s what I told my mother when I developed it over that last few weeks of summer break before my freshmen year of high school. She just laughed and told me to stop making things up. I’m not! I had told her, crossing my arms over my scrawny chest. Needless to say, she tossed me to the wolves of public school.

 

“But Mr. Fretters,” I say, sitting straight in the uncomfortable chair and trying to be on my best behavior. “I simply have to switch lockers.”

“And why is that?” He asks, touching the tips of his fingers together and leaning towards me.

I lean in like I’m sharing an important secret, “I have Nastaskanaphobia.”

“Nastaskankaphobia…” He repeats, in a way that tells me he thinks I’m making it up. “And just what is Nastaskankaphobia?”

“The fear of nasty skanks, which is not to be confused with its cousin Nastaskanaprostiphobia. That’s the fear of nasty skanky prostitutes.” I say it all very matter-of-factly.

“There is no such thing.” Mr. Fretters huffs, annoyed, “And even there was, what does it have to do with you switching lockers?”

“Stephanie Burrows -the locker next to mine is hers- is a skank. But it’s only a matter of time before she is a nasty skank. And then I wouldn’t be able to use my own locker, and if I couldn’t use my locker my grades would start to slip because I wouldn’t be able to get my textbooks from the dark recesses of my locker and without my books I couldn’t study and if I couldn’t study I would fail my tests, and if I fail my tests I’d fail, and if I failed it’d look bad on the school, like the teachers suck at teaching or something.” My hands fold neatly in my lap, I offer up my ‘Good-boy’ pose.

Mr. Fretters pulls out a folder, judging by the thickness, it can only be mine or Jordan Everret, the worst kid in my grade, in the whole school maybe.

“Mr. Ignatius,” He opens the folder, “You must understand why I have a hard time believing you.” He flips through a couple pages, “In eighth grade, you claimed your aunt was dying of cancer, which is why you couldn’t do your schoolwork, you were too busy grieving. In seventh grade you said your sister had been shot in the arm and that’s why you weren’t at school for four days. We later found out, you don’t even have a sister. In sixth grade you told us you had been in a biking accident and couldn’t write. In fifth grade you-“

“Alright, alright,” I interrupted, “So maybe I’ve made some of those things up. But this time I’m not making anything up!”

“Of course not.” An eye roll.

“Hey, sarcasm is not appreciated.” I say crossing my arms, my ‘Good-Boy’ façade falling away. “All I’m asking is for you to be a little sensitive.” I lean in, my hands on his desk, “I could sue you.”

Mr. Fretters rolled his eyes again, “If it will shut you up I’ll move your damn locker. Ok?”

“Ok!” I agreed with a nod, I always get my way with Mr. Fretters.

“Your new locker will be 307-“

“WHAT? No! That’s where the nastiest of the skanks congregate!”

“Well, that’s the only locker I’m willing to give you.”

“You sir,” I point my finger in his face, “Are a prick!”

“Watch your language.” He says mildly.

“Sorry.” My arms cross my chest. “Maybe she won’t be that bad of a skank…”

“That’s the spirit.”

And even though Mr. Fretters in married, with a kid, I want to kiss him. On. The. Mouth. I know it’s wrong, and gross and terrible, but I do. And so I do. It’s brief and afterwards I give a yip of, “I am so sorry!” and bolt, from his office, from the lobby, from the school. I’ve always been a runner, it’s what I was made to do.  So I run until my limbs ache, and then I’m at the ocean.  Wave kissing my feet, I strip down to my shorts and step in. The warmish water snagging at my ankles. I can’t believe what I’ve just done. I kissed. My. Principal! How much more disgusting can I get? God I’m gross…But I kinda liked it. His lips were soft and warm. His breath tasted like coffee. I swim as far out as I can without getting caught in the current then swim back. I just won’t go back to school I decide, now floating on my back.  But if I do…Mr. Fretters will be mine…