Helen

The afternoon sun was streaming through the classroom window, bathing Helen’s golden hair in a soft light. She was sitting three desks ahead of me, oblivious. Oblivious that her world was crumbling onto a video hosting site, and oblivious that I was the one holding the digital wrecking ball.

I had always wanted Helen. Every guy in school did. She was untouchable—perfect grades, quiet confidence, and her father, Mr. Davies, was the world history teacher, a figure of irritating authority.

My mother, however, had always loved irritation.

When I caught them—Mr. Davies and my mom, in our living room, two weeks ago—my first instinct was betrayal. My second was vengeance. Vengeance that only the unique horror of public humiliation could satisfy. I filmed the entire thing, edited it down to the juiciest parts, and uploaded it to Pornhub, titling it: "Teacher Fucks Classmate's Mom."

It took two days for the views to spike. It took three days for Helen to find it.

She didn't wait for the bell. She found me leaning against my locker, staring blankly ahead, nursing the sick, victorious feeling in my gut.

"You," she hissed, grabbing my shoulder hard, dragging me into the deserted hallway near the gym. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face pale, but her fury was a palpable heat. "You sick bastard. How could you?"

I pushed off the locker, feigning casualness. "How could I what, Helen? Be more specific."

"Don't play dumb! The video!" she spat, her voice tight with suppressed tears. "I recognize the lighting, I recognize the awful wallpaper in your hallway. I know you filmed them. I know you posted it."

I shrugged, letting a slow, cruel smile spread across my face. "Ah, that video. Yeah, it’s got a lot of views. Turns out your dad is quite popular."

"Take it down, right now. Please," she pleaded, the fury dissolving instantly into raw panic. "If Principal Thompson sees it, if the board sees it... my dad will lose everything. His job, his house, my mother will leave him."

I folded my arms, enjoying the sight of the ice princess melting before me. "You’re asking me nicely. I’m flattered, Helen. But 'nice' doesn't delete high-traffic content."

"What do you want?" she whispered, the question hanging heavy between us. "Money? I can get money. You want me to tell the school what an asshole you are? I'll do it. Just take it down."

I stepped closer, until the space between us vibrated with tension. I could smell the faint, clean scent of her shampoo.

"No, Helen. I don't want money. I don't want an apology. I want something else entirely." My gaze raked over her, slow and deliberate, lingering on the curve of her throat, the barely visible outline of her bra beneath her white cotton shirt. "I’ve wanted you since freshman year. Since that first day when you sat down and acted like you were too good to breathe the same air as the rest of us."

Her breath hitched. She understood immediately. The color fled her face again.

"You're disgusting," she choked out.