Let's Split Up

Seven twenty-two a.m. Despite the early hour, the senior class of affluent Cedar High is anything but groggy. Hormones, energy drinks and a growing preoccupation with next week’s prom grip the room in adolescent hysteria.

Seated like a deity among dweebs is Dirk Masters, star quarterback. Morning sun illuminates his daily lap dance with the glorious Amber Cox.

“I’m better than those ho’s in the strip club,” she teases.

 “Yeah,” Dirk smirks, “but they’re a lot cheaper.”

A roomful of kids sits in the couple’s glow. Imagine for a moment the skinny ghosts and never-knowns, the acne-afflicted with their blackheads and braces. How do they feel?

 I’ll tell you how one of them feels. His name is Ernie Griswold, junior botanist and self-proclaimed plant prophet. Leaping out of his chair, he screams at the couple, “You’re sinning now!”

Amber bends way over and serves Ernie a money shot of her glorious ass. The class bursts into jeering laughter.

“On Judgment Day, you won’t be laughing. You’ll be pleading with the Great Green for your soul!”

He is assailed with a barrage of crumpled loose-leaf and curses as Greasy Creasey enters the room. 

“Greasy Creasey” is, in fact, Dr. Elanor Creasey, language arts teacher. Hiding behind jumbo eyeglasses and an oily gray mane, she mumbles Shakespeare while distributing A’s like so many Abercrombie and Fitch gift cards.    

“My lord, Ernie, you’re carrying on like madman. Will you please take a seat?”

“You will all be reduced to moss!” he swears, planting his flabby ass.

She proceeds to mutter Hamlet in a slit-your-wrist drone.

The classroom door creaks open. In glides cynical hipster, Sienna Dahl.      

“Well,” squeaks Creasey, “enter Sienna, tardy again. I have a good mind to fail you for all your tardies.”

“True,” the girl sneers, “but it just might cost you your job.”

Like a salted slug, Creasey shrivels before the class.

Prom night. Dirk and Amber recline in the back of the Hummer limo like a king and queen residing over court. A select few of Cedar’s most rich and beautiful teens are granted the privilege of riding with. They sip Grey Goose and snort ketamine. Laugh at Dirk’s quips. Try not to stare at Amber’s cleavage.      

 Masters clears his throat. “This year, our outstanding riches and exceptional looks got us everything we needed: high grades, kick ass drugs, and of course, phenomenal sex. And speaking of sex, I’d like to take this opportunity to thank my soul partner for never complaining when I paid more attention to the other girl during our threesomes. I love you, Sweetness.”

            Amber Cox sheds a single, glistening tear. They kiss. Everyone applauds and knocks back a double of Grey Goose as they arrive at Belgique, Cedar Park’s most luxurious catering hall.

Outside a mansion a few miles away, Sienna Dahl, in a pale pink tuxedo, scoops up Tiara Chihuahua and slides into her Jaguar. She has a special farewell gift for her classmates and teachers. She can’t control her wicked giggling.

           

The prom is tropically themed, so everywhere are fake palm trees and grinning chaperones in loud Hawaiian shirts. Smirking, Sienna struts through Belgique’s lobby and follows the music to the dance hall.

            Inside, the crowd is gathered around Dirk and Amber. They’re performing the wealthy white version of the Forbidden Dance. The straps slide down her sweat-slick shoulders.

Sienna surveys the room and pinpoints the punchbowl. A smile here, a high five there, she wades through a gaggle of geeks. Finally she is standing before the glimmering bowl. Strobes blink as she reaches inside her vest pocket.

“Hello Sienna.”

It is Mr. Malachowski, the P.E. teacher. He’s dribbling a basketball.

“Oh, hello.” She slowly removes her hand from her pocket.

“That’s a very interesting outfit you’re wearing.”

            She conjures a rude reply, but his attention is diverted. A ruckus on the dance floor. Ernie Griswold’s ranting can be heard above the music.

            “You’re sinning!” he roars, so loudly the zits on his forehead begin to burst. “Stop that wicked rubbing!”

Malachowski gravitates toward the conflict.      

Grasping the opportunity, Sienna retrieves the vial of liquid ecstasy from her vest pocket, dumps it into the punchbowl and slips away.

Mr. M finally calms Ernie. But just as they are leaving the dance floor, the chubby preacher screams, “wicked flesh falls like leaves!” and dashes off. He busts through the doors of Belgique and out into the night. Malachowski lets the boy go.

Dirk and Amber hit the punch bowl. He ladles two tumblers and they step outside.

The couple strolls a lush rose garden. They smell each rose, see each trembling leaf in the breeze. “It’s so peaceful,” Amber sighs. “I feel so in touch with it all.”

A lakeside gazebo. They sit gazing at the horizon. Dirk sparks a joint and smokes in appreciative silence. “Gotta take a leak,” he says. Amber watches the red cherry of the joint recede into darkness. Then she peels off her sweaty dress and wades into the lake.  

Back in the woods, Dirk approaches a tree, unzips his fly.

A pair of pruning shears gleams in the moonlight.

They slice through the air with precision and speed. Despite his athleticism, Masters is defenseless. First a finger, then a thumb. Then a full hand falls to the ground. Blood sprays a nearby fern. Ears, nose, a hunk of scalp – all in a matter of seconds. Dirk collapses against the blood-soaked tree. He is dazed, dying, as the shears make one final cut.

Dirk Masters is pruned of his manhood. 

Back at the lake, Amber giggles and massages her breasts with the warm water.

A figure appears on the shore.

 “Wanna go for a swim?” she sings.

It wades in.

“Hey, what are you doing with that bag of fertilizer?”

A green-gloved hand suddenly grips the girl’s hair. The other stuffs huge fistfuls of manure into her mouth. Repeatedly. Jamming the brown clumps into her throat. Amber flails. Her glorious body, once brimming with horny vigor, collapses into the moonlit waters.

   

Back at Belgique, Sienna reclines on a red armchair and surveys the festivities. The skinny ghosts and never-knowns writhe on the dance floor. The chaperones stand by smiling dumbly.

“They’ll never be the same again,” she whispers to Tiara. 

Along comes Mr. M, googly-eyed and grinning, massaging his basketball as if it is a sexual organ. “Sienna, baby! How come you’re not out on the floor?”

            His presence shatters the moment. Tiara, suddenly spooked, leaps out of the girl’s lap and dashes across the room.

            “Damn it!” she snaps. “Now look what you’ve done!”

Malachowski blabbers a lame apology as she chases the dog out to the lobby. Then Belgique’s huge double doors swing open. Tiara scampers through the legs of a shirtless male student and vanishes.     

Sienna walks along, past the rose garden, all the while calling out for her beloved lap dog. Up ahead, the gazebo. She sits for a moment to gather her thoughts.

The bushes rustle.

“Tiara?” she calls.

A hulking figure steps out of the darkness.

 “I feel terrible about your dog,” says Malachowski, his pupils like quarters. “I’ll help you find her.”

            Sienna is relieved. Somewhat. “No thanks. I’ll be just fine on my own.”

            “It’s dark out here. You could get hurt.”

            “I can take care of myself. Please go back to the prom and do your chaperone thing.”

            “But Sienna. Well, it’s hard to say. I know I’m a lot older than you. But I want to be your friend. I work out for two hours every day. Have you ever seen my abs?” Malachowski begins to remove his shirt.

            “No need for that,” she says. “Why don’t we talk after we find my dog.”

            “Okay.”

            “Let’s split up. You head north along the lakeside, I’ll go south. We’ll meet back here in an hour.”

            “And then we’ll talk,” says Mr. M.

            “And then we’ll talk.”

             

She is glad to be rid of the fiend. On the other hand, it’s not cool to be alone in the woods. Sienna decides to search for fifteen more minutes. If there is no sign of Tiara by then, she’ll turn around and head back to Belgique. 

            The path is narrow, hemmed in by overgrown shrubs. A vagrant branch snags her pink tux. She stops, curses, and suddenly notices Tiara sitting three yards up the trail.

“Baby,” she whispers, “come to Mama.”

The dog dashes off.

Wind whines as Sienna approaches a clearing. Up ahead, the silhouette of a small cabin. Tiara is there, sniffing around the open door. She darts inside. Sienna follows.

Fog-yellow moonlight falls on a crowded bookshelf, a teacher’s desk, a row of desk-chairs. A blackboard occupies one wall. At first, the girl presumes she has stumbled upon an abandoned schoolhouse. Then the realization grips her.

This space is identical to her classroom at Cedar.

She sees them propped in the front row, at last attentive and well-behaved. Dirk: limbless and castrated. Amber: dirty-naked and smeared with chicken manure. But it is the third victim who most arouses her sympathies. Chubby arms chained around a birch stump. Eyeballs gone. Replaced by roses.

“Enter Sienna Dahl. Tardy again.”

Teacher’s chair slowly swivels round: the outdated eyeglasses are replaced by Eurotrash specs, the graying hair swept up into a control tower.

“Creasey….”

“No. Not anymore.” The vamp stands, her plump anatomy sausaged into black latex. “The name is Thornbush.”

“Why? Why did you kill them?”

“It’s simple, really. All those years in the grips of you little bastards. Sucking up to you every day. This is my revenge.”

“You could have gotten a job at another school.”

“Yes, I suppose. But life’s not that simple, sweetie. I worried about health insurance, retirement. I was what you’d call a ‘rider.’ That is, until I adopted this uniform.” Creasey caresses her latex breasts. “Now…now I’m a driver.”

“Ernie never did anything to you.”

“Ah, Griswold. He was supposed to be my pansy for all this. My Lee Nerdy Oswald. But when I saw him in the woods hugging that old stump, I just couldn’t help myself. His eyes are currently on ice. They’re green, you know. Isn’t that ironic?” 

The teacher struts out from behind the desk, high heels clicking tile floors. In her green-gloved hand, a thorny, rose-stem whip. It flashes, scathing Sienna’s cheek.

Creasey pounces. 

They hit the floor. Creasey on top, snorting stale breath, rubs the whip’s thorny handle across Sienna’s neck. The girl flails. Her right hand grips something. A book – hardcover. She corner-cracks Creasey behind the ear. The stun knocks the specs from her mug. Sienna fires off another shot with the tome. Another. Hot blood on her fingers, her wrist.     

Six sharp blows, and Creasey collapses atop our heroine. An arm tweaks, a leg. Her head jerks. Then her muscles go limp.

Sienna thrusts off the heavy carcass and sits up.

As she draws a painful breath, the thorny garrote again ensnares her neck, cutting air. She attempts to loosen it but the madwoman is leveraged against her back.

Then there’s a sudden swoosh. An orange globe bullets the air. Sienna hears the wind soar above her.

Squish. 

The basketball impacts Thornbush’s skull at 42mph, snapping her neck like a wet breadstick. She holds for a moment, head hanging limply, before collapsing.

“I thought we were supposed to meet back at the gazebo,” says Mr. M, scooping up his bloodied basketball.

Sienna holds her neck, wincing.

The P.E. teacher runs to her, pulls her up off the floor. They embrace. Tiara appears, yipping happily, jumping at their feet. Safe at last, Sienna breaks down in Malachowski’s arms.

“I’ll always protect you,” he whispers.

Head buried in his rayon chest, Sienna tries to erase the ghastly images from her mind. But she knows she must confront the horror one last time if she is to overcome it. Slowly, she regards each victim, mouthing a final, tearful goodbye. Then comes the moment to do what she fears most. Her breaths shorten. It takes all of Sienna’s will to direct her gaze to the blood-puddled floor….

Her cry rips the sleeping woods.

Thornbush is gone.