Class on Tuesdays

This story was first published in the Mighty Pen Project‘s online anthology and archive in July 2026.

Class on Tuesdays

Your eyes open. White sheets on a white bed in a white room. Late morning sun streaming through gauze curtains. Slashes of gold illuminating your white pillow. No, not your white pillow. Mark’s. Or Marky. Or Marky-Mark. Hard to remember his name. He called you Kelly, after Ozzy Osborne’s daughter, because you were spunky. That’s not your name.

You lie still, absorbing the morning. You need water, a shower. Aspirin. Your green cargo pants are crumpled on the carpet. Your underwear, too. Olive drab Under Armour shirt flung near the closet. Sports bra somewhere. You never sleep naked.

Pee, you need to pee. Peel back the covers. The mattress indent beside you betrays the truth. What happened? The Smirnoff Ice tasted yummy. Went down easy. How many did you have? Marky paid. You never drink like that.

You make it to the toilet. Not what happened in the wee hours.

A parking structure, dim lighting, relief in a corner.

After the bar – was it a club? – and your study abroad friends wink-wink, nudge-nudge for you to accept Marky’s offer to keep the party going. Halloween, baby. You can afford to let your hair down. Officer Candidates School, that six-week boot camp for Marine Corps officers, freshly behind you. Confident you’ll pin those golden butterbars onto your Dress Blue Alphas in less than twelve months. Your journey finally starting.

Warm water, then hot. Scalding steam you can barely breathe in. Scrub your skin with Marky’s soap. Scrub it again. Let the wet run down your face. Crouch into a ball, hold your knees. Water batters your body.

“Kelly?” A British accent muffles through the door. It cracks open. Marky.

Stand. Cover your nipples, crotch. Even in the steam.

“Do you want brekkie?”

Nod.

Marky’s brown eyes rove. Shift your body.

“Shy?” he asks. “You weren’t shy last night.”

Last night.

Bright lights. Pullups on London scaffolding. Chopsticks. Dawn in a black minicab. Stairs.

Blips in your memory.

Marky stares. “Your bottom is… absolutely perfect.”

Blush under the water even while your stomach tightens. You can’t return his cheeky grin.

Marky disappears.

Water off, fresh towel. White. Leave your short hair to air dry.

Retrieve your dirty clothes. Pants sticky with the sludge of alcohol. Do you flip your underwear inside out? Don’t remember removing them.

Wouldn’t you know?

Goosebumps rise.

Dress yourself slowly. Feel unclean. Wander barefoot into the living room.

“Good morning, you. Orange juice?” Marky’s beautiful voice stirs butterflies.

Show off your newfound British lexicon. “Ta.”

He pours you a glass. “Shall we sit in the garden?” You follow his lead.

Metal loungers in the bright sunlight. A small table covered in mosaic. The back of the townhouse – Rowhouse? Terrace? – open to the light. You settle into the right seat.

Sip juice. The citrus slams into your veins, senses heightened this morning. On guard.

Your headache subsides. Body still feels sore. Lean your head back and close your eyes in the warmth.

Sit in silence for some time.

“Kelly, aren’t your friends going to wonder where you are?” Marky says.

You don’t correct the name. Too late, now.

Look at him. “I told them I was staying with my mom. She’s visiting.” Feel guilty for this truth.

“But your mum…”

“…thinks I stayed with my roommates,” you finish. Feel guilty twice.

No, you’re a big girl. 21. Nearly a Marine already. You can make your own damn decisions.

And handle the consequences.

“Plus, I don’t have class on Tuesdays.”

“I see.” Marky excuses himself. “I’ll be right back.”

You watch his lithe frame rise, dressed cleanly in dark denim and a checked shirt. Confident. Stunning.

Resume resting. Marky’s phone conversation wafts through the open door. You’ve been told you have excellent hearing.

“Nah, mate. I’m not coming in today,” Marky says. “I’ve got something going on.”

Not coming in today. What does he do? Banking in The City? Finance? Marky doesn’t seem like a solicitor or barrister. Raised by lawyers, you would know.

A breeze stirs the warm air. Refreshing. Must be nearly noon.

Listen to Marky approach. Pause. Light touch. “I should get you to Notting Hill Gate station soon. You should see your mum.”

“Yes,” you reply.

“Would you like toast? With jam?” Marky asks. “Before you go?”

Nod.

He leaves.

Food will settle your stomach. You can’t puke, not in front of him. You can handle yourself.

You can handle yourself like you handled yourself this summer with three Sergeant Instructors on your ass. Like you handled yourself for the past three years in your Naval Reserve Officers Training Corps battalion. Like you handled yourself in Varsity track and field, marching band, Science Club, the three-act play, National Honor Society. Determination and hard work has always paid off.

Marky returns. “Toast.”

He sits, takes a nibble of his.

“Eat. You’ll feel better.” So he has noticed your condition. Partly.

The warm toast smells of salted butter. Strawberry jam smears the top.

Marky swallows. “I’m not sure I’ll see you again, you know, because…” he starts, “but I can’t let you leave without saying, again, that your bottom is breathtaking.”

Your tummy tenses. You can’t meet Marky’s gaze.

“Honestly.” He’s sincere. You hear it in his tone.

Bite into the toast to avoid talking.

Red, sticky jam assaults your mouth, your teeth. You hold back the retch. The ache spreads across your face.

You can’t swallow. The jam is too sweet.