The next day, while Matt was preparing for school, a vehicle honked repeatedly outside. He drew aside the shades across his window which faced the street directly and felt his stomach twist. His neighbor, Patricia, had parked her sleek black Mercedes on the sidewalk and glided across the low green carpet of the lawn and to their front door.
Matt's heart pounded in his chest, his mouth went dry and he had to hold on to the window sill.
This was it. Patricia was had definitely caught him watching her the previous day and she was going to report to his mum. And what would his mother think of him from then on? A deviant and a pervert?
Matt had always felt the need to be as perfect a son as was humanly possible. After all, since when his dad left them to marry some chick from Costa Rica, his mother, Francine, only had him. They only had each other and Matt tried his best never to disappoint: he studied hard and was just an above average student; he never mixed with the wrong crowd and planned his life to the detail, like a spreadsheet.
He could see all that crumbling down, he could see the disappointment in Francine's eyes. He heard the front door open and Patricia's airy voice float around the house. Francine said something in reply and both women burst out laughing.
Matt shut the window and frowned, confused. It didn't sound like they were discussing anything serious. He heard the chink of glass and, again, laughter from both women. Perhaps Patricia hadn't seen him the previous day and he was being merely paranoid.
He waited a few moments with his ear pressed closed to the door. He was running late and already, Jamie had texted twice, asking what he was doing. Matt took a deep breath, opened the door and scampered down the stairs. He would have to go through the kitchen to reach the foyer, so he put on a sweet smile.
Francine was seated by the kitchen table with her back to him. Patricia was facing Francine, so she saw him immediately he dropped down the last stair.
Patricia was dressed in a long black dress with short sleeves which ended in gold flowery embroidery. Her short dark hair was shaped into a bob. She was sipping on a glass of red wine, and together with her blood red fingernails, her pale skin looked startling.
"Matthew," said Patricia. "There you are."
Francine turned, still chuckling from something Patricia had said. "Aren't you running late?"
Patricia smiled at him, she had unusually long incisors. She clinked her nails against the glass. The table hid the rest of her body from midriff down, but Matt remembered the juicy swell of her ass. He'd even dreamed about it, dreamt he'd run his tongue across those ass cheeks and buried his face between the thick pillowy flesh, and had woken up this morning with the sheets wet with cum.
Matt couldn't take his eyes off Patricia, he seemed like a deer transfixed in the glare of headlights.
"Uh... eh... Yes, I'm on my... uh... way now. Uh... Bye." He managed to tear his eyes off Patricia and gave Francine a quick smile.
"Matt, wait a minute. Pat here needs your help with something." Francine turned to Patricia. "What was that thing you said?"
Patricia waved it off. "Don't worry. I wouldn't want to bother Matthew."
"Don't you worry," said Francine. "Matt is a bit of a tech geek."
Patricia laughed then leaned forward. "Well, my laptop has been acting up these days, you see. Awfully slow. Turns off on its own and comes back on. Yesterday while going through my email the screen turns red for a couple of moments and when it comes back on it shows up a row of numbers. I'm thinking of getting a new one but I have a lot of my stuff in there, you know."
Matt nodded. "Could be a virus. Most likely a virus."
"You see?" said Francine.
"I thought as much," said Patricia. "I'll pay a visit to the tech shop later in the day."
After almost getting caught the previous day Matt wanted to stay as far away from Patricia as possible, but she was irresistible. She gave off vibes of equal measures of excitement and trouble.
"I could help you with that," said Matt. "I have an antivirus software I haven't used somewhere around. I'll look for it and hopefully get your computer back to normal."
Patricia put a dainty hand over her mouth. "Oh! That's so kind of you."
Matt felt color rush to his cheeks, then he bade Patricia and Francine goodbye.
Jamie lived five minutes away, but Matt made it in two. He jumped into Jamie's old truck--an inheritance from his grandfather-- breathing hard.
Jamie revved the asthmatic engine, pointed at the clock on the rickety dashboard and gave him a sour look. "What's up with you?" he asked.
"Nothing," said Matt. He took a few moments to catch his breath as Jamie drove across their neighborhood to their school, Stafford High.
Matt breathed a sigh of relief, relieved that Patricia hadn't seen him after all. She seemed like the talkative neighbor he'd always known, though he remembered that her eyes had twinkled strangely as he left. Perhaps it was just the wine.
Like any school, the students of Stafford High were divided into strata and further divided into cliques.
There were the posh kids who lived in the richest part of the neighborhood, you could recognize them with the way they strutted into school in their convertibles, looked down at everyone else from the top of their noses and seemed to get away with every wrongdoing.
There were the studious kids, the nerds who had practically no social life apart from the book clubs and science clubs and drama clubs, you could recognize them by the way they effortlessly excelled in class, quoted obscure poets and could recite, in chronological order, the presidents of America. They also went around huddled around each other like a school of fish or small mammals during winter.
There were the athletes, the stars of the school whose names decorated the trophy cabinets in the rec room, you could recognize them with their talk which was always about some lofty aspirations. They all had dreams of becoming sport stars in a few years.
Then there were the cheerleaders, mostly blond, lithe, blue-eyed beauties. The serial heartbreakers. Jamie had once joked that probably every boy in the school was crushing on, or had once crushed on a cheerleader.
No one ever mentioned this division, but everyone towed the line unconsciously. Students gravitated towards each other without thinking about it, whether it was in the cafeteria sitting arrangement or class photographs or sleepovers. And in few cases, some students belonged to more than a group.
Matt was an athlete, but of a lesser kind, relative to the unspoken rule of the school. The two sports in Stafford High were football and soccer. Football got all the praise and trophies, and over the years it had become the priority.
The football players were also the unofficial face of the school. And they all seemed like they were mass produced in the same factory. They were the stereotypical jocks. All above 6 feet. And they all sprayed an abundance of the same cologne.
Soccer, on the other hand was not as popular among the students. Throughout the history of the school the soccer team had won only one trophy--a second-place finish in the junior league, and eventually interest for the sport fizzled out amongst the students.
But recently a group of parents had called for more diversity in the students' extra-curricular activity, so Principal McKennie grudgingly had the old soccer pitch laid with grass and painted. He hired a washed-out former soccer player, Coach Klimon, who chain-smoked and shouted a lot, but now seemed to be holding the team together.
Now Matt and his team were on the cusp of entering the Interstate League. That kind of publicity could change everything: their status in school and even their futures when scouts come knocking.
Immediately after the last class of the day, Matt and his team trooped out onto the field for a training session. All their gears seemed to be reeking of cigarette. Even Phillip, one of the goalies, sniffed his gloves and mock wretched.
"Alright, listen up," boomed Coach Klimon. The team squatted and gathered, in a circle, around the coach. Matt looked towards the bleachers. It was empty as always apart from a teacher sitting high up and down below, some three students. There were no cheerleaders; there were never cheerleaders for soccer practice. But the cheerleaders were always present when the guys who played the other football were around. They followed each other like bees in a swarm.
"We've got a goal," Coach Klimon was saying. "You've gotta get at it, work towards it like it's the only thing you live for." He raised a fist to his protruding gut. "You've gotta want it like nothing else. We've gotta win the playoffs, after that, the real work begins."
Matt wondered how Coach Klimon came to be so washed-out. Word was he had been a successful footballer in Europe back in the days, but had fallen from grace after a scandal. No one knew what exactly the scandal was, of course there were rumors that he had done drugs or had assaulted a girlfriend, but no one was sure.
Matt had seen the coach in shorts one day and was surprised to see his calves still well formed. The man could also handle a ball sweetly, despite his belly and frequent smoking.
"Alright," said Coach Klimon. "Let's go." He raised the whistle swinging on his chest and blew hard, piercing Matt's ear as the boys divided into two teams and scattered across the field.
Play started some minutes past four pm. Matt was of slight frame and the shortest in the team. He played in the midfield, a position which required all of his concentration. He reckoned he was pretty decent but could improve.
"Hey, Matt," Coach Klimon shouted. "Keep your head up, your eyes around."
