Fumbling Around the Captain's Quarters

(Trigger warning: references to sex and self-harm.)

Everything that came out of her stained mouth was said as if it would completely change someone’s left. The epiphanies Dr. Oxford spewed had fallen on deaf ears two years ago–ears that were no less stubborn during Shannon’s senior year of high school. Shannon had her knees up, middle finger through a hole in her jeans, tugging until her finger went purple. Eventually, the string broke. Well, on to the next. 

“Do you want to know what I think, Shannon? I think you’re orchestrating these patterns. You’re a smart young woman. Good grades, good choices, no mistakes.”

Shannon would not fall into Oxford’s trap of questions. The old hag wanted to monologue. Who was Shannon to stop her from getting her kicks?

“That’s probably confusing to hear, is it not? After all, you are in here because you’ve made–excuse me–repeated a mistake. And that’s why I believe it not to be a mistake. You, dear, are immune to mistakes. None of your missteps have been accidents, if you ask me. You knew exactly what you were doing. You want to get caught.” Dr. Oxford put her yellow notepad down, changing nothing. 

Shannon was used to this trick. To any other idiot teenager on the counseling couch, Oxford’s abandoning her notes would prove that the old woman was genuinely interested in the student's plight. The idiot student in there for punching, spitting, or name-calling would think to themselves: hey, maybe–since she put down her notes–she genuinely wants to know what’s going on in my head. 

Oxford was correct regarding Shannon Lin not being an idiot. For all her hatred of the floral-dress wearing witch across from her, Shannon knew that Dr. Oxford was also not an idiot. In fact, she was quite intelligent–obviously. What Shannon knew was that if a twenty-five-year-old, hungover, maybe hotter Esmeralda Oxford could memorize enough psychological facts to get a grade good enough to graduate with a doctorate in psychology, she could sure as shit memorize whatever melodramatic, angry, angsty nonsense that would come out of Shannon’s mouth. So Shannon Lin gave her nothing. 

“Come on, Shannon. This is like a serial killer returning to the scene of the crime.”

“It’s not my fault this goddamn school can’t stop doing Shakespeare shows. Woah, how unique!” Shannon, unfortunately, could not resist any chance to provide on-the-record commentary against the school and how it is a public school in an elitist enough tax zone to wear the costume of a private school. Shannon continued picking at her jeans just to prove she was wearing them. She also hated the absurd comparisons to criminals. 

People Shannon knew, liked, hated, and did not care about had done far worse, far more disgusting things at far younger ages than Shannon. Even her first time. Shannon was only under scrutiny for making a mistake–or, apparently, a calculated bad choice–in the high school theater. 

“The theater department is very serious. If you ask me, Shannon, you’re quite good when you try. You had a significant role last year and didn’t last out at all. Why was that?”

“I didn’t have a boyfriend. Or…something like a boyfriend.”

“Nor did Bayside High put on a Shakespeare show. What is it? Does iambic pentameter get you going?” Oxford leaned back as if she had just delivered the killing blow. Shannon smirked. Two issues with Doc’s comments:

First, Shannon hated how Oxford said “Bayside High” as if she was not an employee of “Bayside High.” She said it like she also hated it. She never said “here” or “our school” like she was a gun for hire. Oxford pretended she wanted to be in this room no more than Shannon. Like hell. Dishing out life advice probably gets the decrepit bitch going.

Second, Shannon did not appreciate the abysmal attempt to relate or insult her with the sexual connotation. Sure, it was the underlying theme of the session. Shannon had, indeed, performed oral sex backstage and gotten caught on two occasions. The first was during Much Ado About Nothing, her sophomore year, and the next was–allegedly–during The Tempest. In all fairness, the oral was real; the lie was full-on sex. Either way, no, Don Pedro’s understudy was by no means capable of getting anyone going. Oxford jabbed the question like she jabs every few questions where she cuts deep, suggesting things normal teachers would never suggest–that Shannon was, heaven forbid, horny. Oxford always spoke as if some brilliant professor from a prestigious university would walk in the room, give her a round of applause, and a fresh book deal for her unique approach to being a high school guidance counselor. 

“Did you seriously just ask me that?”

“It’s a reasonable question. Hey, if you want, I’d recommend some John Donne. Steamy sonnets from that guy, let me tell you.”

“I didn’t have sex with him.” Shannon had just noticed the time. The sun would set soon.

“Then why does everyone say you did?”

“Really? You’re really asking me this? Maybe it was different in the sixties–” Shannon knew full well that Esmeralda Oxford had come of age in the eighties. She was barely fifty. Shannon just wanted to bite. Oxford did not even flinch. Damn. Someone must have called her a whore or something last period. 

“–but when a boy says something,” Shannon continued, “especially about…sex or whatever, it’s treated like gospel. Or am I wrong, ma’am?” Shannon put her shoes on the ground. Shoes she had painted herself. She reached into her hoodie and scratched a pimple on her shoulder, hoping to come out with a bloody nail to maybe trick ol’ Esme into thinking that she was a cutter. 

“You’re not wrong in the slightest, Shannon. That said, you were caught–quote–fumbling around the captain’s quarters. On top of that, you can’t deny your precedent. Although, I must give you credit, giving head to the main villain is a huge step up from an understudy.” Oxford crossed her legs. She looked late to a fancy game of polo. 

“You don’t have to do that.”

“It’s true. I got shit for doing stuff with a benchwarmer when all my friends were with goalies, centers, and quarterbacks.”

“Sure. I didn’t have sex with him. I’m…I haven’t had sex with anyone. It makes me nervous.” Shannon no longer knew for sure if she was trying to trick Oxford. 

“When’s the longest you’ve had a boyfriend for?”

“Few months. I thought this one would last until next semester, but…obviously, no more. That’s what I really don’t get, Dr. Oxford. Wouldn’t his telling everyone I...you know…wouldn’t that get him the same level of…of…”

“Clout?”

“Heh. Sure. And–yeah–that also would’ve been true.” On the topic of truth, Shannon realized she had given Oxford too much.

“It would’ve been an exact repeat of sophomore year–”

“You know what, Oxford, this is bullshit. Bullshit. Some guy lies about me having sex with him, and I get in trouble. Do you even know what my mom said last time?”

“You wouldn’t tell me, Shannon.”

“Fine. Whatever. But still. I’m seventeen. I’m practically an adult. If I’m in trouble, get me in trouble. If I’m gonna get expelled or suspended or whatever, have it be for giving head on school grounds. I refuse to be analyzed for something I didn’t do. But sure, if Gavin McAlvin–dumb fucking name–if Gavin said I did x, y, and z, then let’s make sure he…oh, wait. Nothing’s happening to him.”

“That’s not true. I’m speaking with him tomorrow.”

“For a high-five and a drink.”

“You’re two years older than him.”

“And? Don Pedro was two years older than me, and I was the one who still got in trouble.”

“Are you trying to replicate the power he–Don–had over you?”

“Christ Almighty. If I’m in trouble, I’m in trouble. Sure, maybe I’m self-destructive. Yipee. You figured it out. Again, if I’m kicked out for…sexual stuff on school grounds, sure, fine. I’ll sign my first, middle, and last with a fucking fountain pen. Quill and ink. I don’t care. But I shouldn’t have to go through this whole guidance counselor shit because some fifteen-year-old wanted his snot-nosed friends to think he lost his virginity to a senior? Woah, so cool. I know you don’t want a hand in that, Esmeralda.” 

Shannon had not yet decided which name to call Oxford. None seemed to bite. Esmeralda “ma’am,” “Doc,” “etc,” Oxford looked back at her notes.

“Do you think this has anything to do with your sister going to college?”

“Lillian? Really? Everyone loved her here. So, yes, I thought I’d fast-track my rise to Prom Queen by getting with some guy in November. Brilliant. And–And–And, on top of that, she’d been with the same guy for all of college. I’m not an idiot; you said that yourself. I know that putting out instantaneously on school grounds isn’t a way to get a long-term boyfriend. There’s no point in having a high school boyfriend. They’re all just gonna leave anyway; that’s sort of the whole point of high school.”

Oxford smirked. Shannon finally got blood on her finger. Oxford checked the time and got up, heading over to her desk. She turned over her shoulder. Shannon knew her pretentious little crescendo was coming. A shame, really, as Shannon could not wait to rant about how this school succeeded in making her hate her hometown enough to go to a good college. Oxford licked her lips. 

“Does that have any connection to your father leaving?”

“My mom left him.”

“Robbing you of a consistent father and brother, if I understand?”

“I was a baby. Not like I can make a pros and cons list. What’s the deal? Rescind all my applications? Get expelled? Just give it to me; I don’t care. I just can’t stand this.”

“I must tell you, Shannon, getting caught twice during plays by the same writer is a first for me. It’ll be tough to forget.”

“Okay…?”

“I have no power over you getting kicked out. Or Gavin, for that matter. I have to believe what you told me, that there was no…full-on intimacy. That actually matters. Bayside High would be responsible for caring for the child if it were to be conceived on campus.”

Shannon laughed. Oxford smiled. 

“I’ll see what Gavin says. If I can crack him, I’m sure you’ll be fine. You can be extra fine if you do something for me.” Oxford glanced at her watch. She leaned against her desk, looking at Shannon through her chocolate hair. Her bangs were silver, something she embraced, and Shannon attacked. 

“The last time I agreed to a deal like that, I got in serious trouble.” Shannon fired at Oxford, padding her inevitable sentencing with some self-awareness. 

Esme laughed. Shannon smiled.

“Listen, I couldn’t help but notice your sneakers and how they were rudely on my table our entire session.” 

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine. They’re beautiful. Did you do them yourself?”

“Get to it, Esme.”

Esme grinned, getting to it. “They’re beautiful. Artistic expression is important.”

“Please,” Shannon scoffed, “it’s borderline graffiti.”

“Well, as a former graffiti-er, I consider street art…art. Even if it’s on shoes. You have a lot of outlets. You act, you’re in the orchestra, you play sports, you’re one of the only seniors in both Advanced Two-D and Three-D.”

“Tashawna’s way better than me.”

“Doesn’t matter. Find a way to express how you feel artistically.”

“Oh, Lord.”

“It could be a diary. I don’t care. I don’t even want to see it. Maybe you feel betrayed. Maybe you feel some sick satisfaction. Maybe you’re angry. Maybe you feel nothing. You’re a senior. Everything is equally relaxed and sedated as it is overwhelming and terrifying. Find a way to express this. I’ll meet with you tomorrow morning, and I want to hear about it. It might help, it might not.”

“Will it affect my sentencing?”

“Well, if you don’t do it, parole is off the table.”

“Damn. What if my artistic expression is doing nothing?”

“Don’t be a smartass. I deal with a thousand smartasses a day. I don’t just counsel here, you know?” Apparently, she was a hired gun. Huh. “You little rich kids are nothing compared to Northshore High. Draw a picture tonight. There’s no need to make this worse. I hope you take the path that leads to having a good life and laugh with better friends about how big of an asshole Gavin was. Be smart.”

Oxford sat at her desk, adjusting a ceramic mug that looked like it was made by a child. She started packing a burgundy briefcase engraved with two golden letters–only one of which was “O.” Shannon was frozen. She had been since the discovery of being a smartass raindrop in a smartass ocean. She chuckled, following Dr. Esmeralda Oxford’s little wave for her to leave. Shannon complied. 

After a silent dinner with only her mother, Shannon snuck out to stare at the pitch-black Pacific Ocean. San Francisco was bright enough around her to write in her notebook. She drew her and Gavin in the top halves of their costume. It made her laugh. This spot on the pier, her spot on the pier, was probably thousands of other people’s “spot” on the pier. Shannon came here to turn her brain off. They did as well. Now, rather than turning her brain off, Shannon had to follow Oxford's instructions and compose a symphony. 

In orchestra, she played the cello with pure memorization. She was incapable of improvisation or invention. So, Shannon started with the lyrics. She wrote about home and how she would go to college and be the only one who could be justified in her love and hate for it. Shannon made the lines rhyme retroactively, frantically grasping at synonyms for “bay” and “lights.” 

Her cello was left at home not only because it was heavy but because Shannon would drown herself if she became one of those people playing an instrument on the beach. Still, she knew what some notes sounded like. She would be unable to identify which was an “A flat” or “C,” but she knew how to describe them to herself. 

“The one that sounds like groaning,” “the high weird one,” “the moaning one.” She knew what they meant. When it became late enough for the moon to be directly overhead, Shannon headed home. She went over her song, humming and singing. Her neck itched. 

On her front steps, Shannon stopped, knee bent. She had spent all night writing a song that already existed and was, of all things, quite the popular one in the late nineteen seventies. 

Shannon blew air out of her nose and unlocked the door. Esme would probably find her inadvertent plagiarism funny. Well, that’s assuming the dinosaur believed her.