Act 5 – The Teacher

If you want to be my pet, don’t bring a red apple. Just drop trou, and give me your candy apple.

~ Tealia Buecher

Oxblood. A shade of red mixed with maroon. Some people say it’s a color to pay homage to the menstrual cycle, but to me it’s one of the most beautiful shades of crimson. It’s simply beautiful.

It’s the color I’m wearing now as I sit in the classroom, with one particular student who I teach after class hours, “As you can see, English is not the only subject we can use for you to learn the language. Speech is all about speaking, regardless of the item being talked about. Are you finding our sessions helpful in the pursuit of your goals? Or would you like us to stretch your personal syllabus to accommodate just a few more?” I ask, and the response I get is an expression of deep thought, or maybe she’s a very good actress who knows when to look serious.

“Well. I don’t really know other subjects to add to my syllabus. But what I’m after is to learn how to speak properly and not sound like shít. Like I want to know difference between pull out and pull off so people at work will not fúcking laugh at me.”

Okay, full of personality this one is, “Is their treatment of you brought about by stress, or intimidation?” I raise a brow to punctuate the bold question.

“They think I’m Satan’s daughter which I don’t have problem about because I think I am…” she states blandly like it’s a truth, but then she recovers and laughs slightly at what she mentioned, “…you’re a very good teacher, Ms. Tealia. Why did you leave Denmark? You are beautiful woman. I’m not lesbian but I find you really attractive girl.”

She doesn’t realize it but the conversation we’re having now is already part and parcel of her training. I think she’s a fast learner, “You are not so bad yourself, Morrigan. You’re actually the most beautiful Polish woman I know. I left Denmark because I got tired of it. You know, when you grow older you start thinking about other places far from where you grew up. It’s almost natural that we find greener pastures to milk new cows,” I hope she understands why I skewed my metaphor with an innuendo. It’s one of many ways to learn English. Studies have shown that learning, when combined with sex, makes the learning curve that much shorter.

She laughs at my statement which could either be two things: one, she gets the joke, and two, she doesn’t get it and thought it’d be polite to guffaw just to hide her shortcoming.

“You are very funny, Ms. Tealia. Yes I like it in America because of greener pasture and there are many men to milk like cows,” Good. She’s learning. I think I have found my approach with this one. I’ll be using sex with her as a teaching instrument. She looks at her watch and frowns, “Fúck. I need to work in an hour because my boss told me he will pay for my classes but I’m not excused from work. He is a fúcking animal you know? But he is a cow and I milk him so it’s fine,” she winks, and I think I understand what she is trying to communicate.

I stand and lean over the desk to shake her hand. She extends her reach from where she is sitting while her other hand is busy thumbing her cell, “It’s nice meeting you, Morrigan. So that ends day two. Same time, same place tomorrow?” I ask her and she curses at whatever it is she’s reading on her phone, “Is everything okay?” I ask, concerned about her predicament.

“O, nothing. Just my boss Nathan, he is … what’s the word I use? Itchy?” she giggles and I mirror her emotion, genuinely pleased that she’s finding it easier to choose her words.

“Itchy where?” I ask with a smile plastered on my face, realizing that she and I are actually comfortable with each other and, despite being professionals, talk like old girl friends.

She wolf whistles and points to her crotch and I giggle again, “I better go Ms. Tealia. You have a nice day, no?”

“You too.”

I smile even wider as she waves her goodbye and disappears behind the door. I look to the clock behind me sitting on top of the white board and realize that it’s not only four in the afternoon, but it’s also very cliché for a classroom to have a clock sitting right smack on top and in the middle. I’m reminded of all those stupid movies about teachers portraying them as old maids and it makes my blood boil. Another thing that heats my blood is that Morrigan is supposed to be joined by another student who’s a no-show.

With an exasperated sigh, I roll my papers into scrolls and slot them into my chunky tote bag. Hmm, might as well go to the bookstore and pick out a book from the New Arrivals. I hear there’s a new Neil Gaiman book I can buy.

“Ms. Buecher?” he calls and then he knocks. No wonder he failed his Hospitality class, “Sorry I had football practice,” I look at him with slits for eyes, walking back behind my chair as thoughts of going to the mall evaporated into a white puff of smoke, “I need to pass this term so I can graduate this year,” he explains while pulling the same chair where Morrigan last sat, right smack in the middle facing me. Maybe in a different timeline this boy and I are also sitting facing each other. I’m the good cop bad cop character and he’s the homicidal maniac. Then I would push the suspended incandescent bulb on top of his head for it to swing back and forth as I chastise him for the sins he committed against the law. But no, that’s not who we are right now. It’d be cool though.

I do a very composed exhale followed by a genial smile, “I want you to pick up from where we left off,” I tell him and he gives me a perplexed look. What a student like him doesn’t realize is that the lesson has already started. If he is really listening from last time, then he will know where we trailed last.

“Um … Anatomy was it?” he asks me while gritting his teeth. My subconscious does an eye-roll but my outward appearance looks like Ms. Congeniality, “Um…” he scratches the back of his head and rolls his bottom lip into his mouth, “…okay, Anatomy. Yeah,” he gives me his boyish smile and I smile too, “Yes Ma’am. We uh … we talked about the physiology of the body and how it works…” I listen as he sifts through the discussion we had the last time he was here.

Jace Thompson is not your typical jock. He actually has brains but doesn’t often use them. It’s like there’s an off switch somewhere embedded in his skull which deactivates every single neuron in his brain. Though surprisingly there are times when that switch turns up and he spouts the most genius things.

Typical jocks in this school are mostly blue-eyed blond giants packed with muscle and brawn, which actually is a flawed description because brawn and muscle mean the same. Anyway, Jace is different. His eyes are a shade of brown on the darker side. His body is lean and sculpted with just the right amount of muscle which is ideal for mobility. A handsome face with pronounced features that would probably qualify him to be on America’s Next Top Model since Tyra is now into recruiting male models. Though the show is pretty much over so Jace would just have to do an audition next time. His dark brown hair is clipped short but stained with highlights. And last but definitely not something that will go unnoticed is that beautiful jaw line that puts a strong stamp to his musculature.

“…and I think we talked about hormones and how women go haywire and shít—” he pulls his tongue at the last bit, understanding that even if I’m busy daydreaming, my attention is still trained on him, “I’m sorry, Ms. Buecher,” he apologizes, scratches the back of his head, and continues talking about hormones and how attraction works between men and women. And as he tells me all about chemistry and desirability, I can’t help but notice how my appeal for this particular boy is as decadent and sinful as sin itself, “Ms. Buecher. You think I can graduate this year? I’ve been a senior for three years now,” I think growing old and doing the same things every year is taking a toll on him. The school isn’t complaining because he’s a valuable player to the football team, winning state championships every time he’s out on the field. Members of the faculty have given up on him, and me, being new to this school well over a year ago, is assigned to take on the responsibility of making sure that one Jace Thompson graduates this year, just so he could move on with his life.

“I’ll make sure you graduate,” I announce with a smile, proclaiming my intent to make sure that he wears his toga by the end of this year’s term, “What are your plans for the future?” I quiz him, with the intent to engage him in conversation to practice his speech. He always flunks that subject and I don’t understand why. Maybe it’s because he’s a man of action and not of words.

“I don’t think I’m good enough to do smart-work, Ms. Buecher. I’m better off doing construction or plumbing work I think,” Such decrepit soul. Surely there are professions he can dabble in.

“Ever thought of being a football coach?” I pose the question close to his heart. He doesn’t know this but I took it upon myself to observe him during my spare time. And he is actually passionate about leading his team and talking them into setting goals and winning the prize. Sometimes students need someone to show them where to take their steps to make sure they’re trekking the right path. I cross my arms and lean over the desk, “You don’t have to climb the corporate ladder or fix somebody else’s pipes,” I state with enthusiasm, “You can just run the field and keeping running while coaching others to do the same,” I smile, realizing how fond I am of this boy. It’s hard to be a teacher and not feel a certain kind of connection for a student you are working close with. It’s natural to form a bond with these teenagers. It’s part of the job. Though for some weird reason I am compelled to explore my affinity with Jace on a much deeper level. And that brazen thought scares the shít out of me.

“You are really something Ms. B,” he says and I blush, which is scary because I don’t want to look like the Oxblood dress I am wearing, “I read somewhere that a red dress makes a woman more attractive. I think it’s true,” he tells me and instantly something hard pulls below my stomach, clenching with a need to respond sexually. But I hold it in, knowing that actions speak louder than words, and that action can send me to the grinder and out of teaching, “You dating anyone Ms. B?” I recognize that his questions should be off-putting, like a repellant that is supposed to make me recoil with disgust. But for some reason I’m transfixed, engaging his banter like we are not teacher and student. He notices me shifting in my chair and decides to pull back on the questions, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I smile, “I’m not dating anyone,” I smile even more suggestively. It’s hard to be logical in situations like this. On the one hand his interest makes me feel good as a woman, on the other I need to remain civil without abandoning a student’s interest. The last thing I want to happen is for Jace to feel distant. Just because he made a remark that was personal doesn’t mean that I should respond with a pained expression. I’m fine working with teenagers that are as hormonal as Jace. I understand them. They are growing into their roles and what they want to be. I’m just here to offer my support.

“That’s great,” he says and I cock my head to the side, my eyes squinting on impulse, “I mean,” he scratches the back of his head again and grits his teeth. It’s almost like an involuntary action to shyness which I find really cute, “Um. Sorry. I just find you really attractive Ms. Buecher. It’s one of the reasons why I’m taking your tutoring classes,” Oh? What fresh news. Is this why he is keen to learn compared to all those years he had male tutors? “You look like Snow White but from Denmark,” he comments and I can’t help but think of a poisonous red apple, and how much I want to bite into its succulence right now as I stare at probably one of the handsomest-looking guys I ever laid eyes upon. He smiles his boyish smile and I can’t help but mirror it with a twinkle in my eye. The sensual ache I was feeling at the pit of my stomach is now shooting upwards, giving me butterflies that seem to flutter nonstop, “I’m learning a lot, Ms. B. I promise to make you proud someday,” he tells me as he shuffles with his books, pushing them into his knapsack, “I have to get back to football practice. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he flashes me his pearly whites and I melt in my seat.

“Yeah,” I respond, “Yes,” I correct myself, “We’ll pick this up tomorrow,” I wave him outside the door, thinking to myself if I can teach him things other than what he can learn from books.

It’s a bright sunny day and I’m sitting in the bleachers, watching as Jace throws the ball so far out into the field that one will actually think he is superhuman, “You know, Ms. Tealia. I think that boy is really cute. You want to fúck him don’t you?” Morrigan asks and I’m shocked. I look to her with my mouth hanging open and eyes bulging out. I want to maim her mouth with my flowery handkerchief but decided against it because that’s not what teachers do. Although it’s really tempting right about now, “I don’t think it’s that bad to have sex with student as long as there is consent,” she explains, not understanding the educational system and how terrible the consequences are for me should I peruse her suggestion, “I believe if two people like each other then there should be no rule you know? Rules are bullshit and made to be broken. Look at me. I fúck my boss and I got raise for sucking his díck every day. It’s okay for me to bang him also because it’s like I’m getting paid anyway and at same time my plumbing is working you know?”

Oh my. I can’t help but smile at the comment she made about plumbing. The first thing that comes to mind, or rather the first person who comes to mind when I hear plumbing is Jace. I just hope that he makes the right decision to pursue his passions and not let society dictate what is believed to be the ‘norm’ like getting a nine to five job that pays for the insurances but doesn’t really make life worth living. Oh wait a minute. That’s me, “Ms. Tealia. Why don’t you ask him out no? If there is a wheelbarrow there is a way,” she tells me and I feign laughter with a smile.

“Don’t you mean if there’s a will, there’s a way?” I smirk at her and she sucks her cheeks in.

At the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of an object flying straight at me. It lands on my lap and I look to where it came from but don’t have a clue because there are too many students frolicking about. I hold up what looks like a single rose with a note attached to it and it reads To the woman with skin as white as snow, lips red as blood, and hair as black as night. Know that you are beautiful. I glance around with my heart skipping inside my chest. It’s Jace. Of course.

“You didn’t tell me you are a magician, Ms. Teale. Poof and you have flower in your hand,” remarks Morgan, taking the long-stemmed rose from my grasp to inspect the folded letter stringed to it, “O how sweet. You should fúck the boy and make his dreams come true. You give him your ‘fairy tail’ no?” she tells me and for a moment I try to process what exactly it is that she means. Then it clicks in my head that she meant ‘tail’ instead of ‘tale’ as an innuendo. I guess she’s learning faster than I thought. Her boss must be very proud of her.

“You know what. I just might,” I reply to her loosely-phrased question as I fiddle with the flower, thinking if I can let my hair down with a student one last time, “Hmm.”

It’s the day after I got the rose from Jace. It’s 4PM, and Morrigan texted that she is helping her boss ‘blow off some steam’ which I believe is an innuendo. I like how she is progressing. My use of sex as a springboard and teaching instrument really helps her come into her own while at the same time adds to her collection of idiomatic phrases and analogies to use. She’s a very good student.

I break from my reverie however upon hearing someone knock at the door. It’s already open, but this time the person I was expecting ‘not’ to knock actually ‘did’ knock before entering the room.

He closes the door behind him and greets me with his signature smile which, while watching him yesterday out on the field all sweaty and tan, made me realize how mature he really looks like, compared to the other boys in his class, “Am I late?” he asks without realizing that there’s a clock on top of my head and that he’s right on the dot, “Football practice. The usual,” he traps his lower lip with his teeth then takes a white towel to push inside his shirt to wipe the sweat off his chest maybe. He isn’t fazed that I’m in the same room with him as he cleans himself up and rubs himself down.

I clear my throat and look away as he takes the towel to wipe his face and forehead. I feel uncomfortable, but in a weirdly good way. I’m a teacher and I know that pheromones are real even if we don’t see them. And the more heat he’s causing by rubbing himself down, the more those elements waft to my direction as if tickling me in places that are not meant to be aroused.

“Oh!” he startles and in effect jostled me too, “I have something for you,” he announces while fingering the zippers to his gym bag looking for something, “Here,” he hands me a round object wrapped in a brown bag. I take it and he smiles that boyish smile which I think the more I look at the more it becomes predatorial, which by the way isn’t a word in the dictionary but predatory and predatorily are.

“Thank you, Jace,” I murmur as I gaze at a red, succulent apple, realizing how symbolic the fruit is in World Literature, as well as its Biblical implications, “Why the apple?” I ask, not out of discourtesy but out of curiosity.

“Because you’re as beautiful as sin,” he replies and I stiffen in my seat as something deep goes hard inside my nether regions.

“How delightful,” I force a smile, momentarily dazed at the intimate suggestion of those words which rolled from his tongue.

“Shall we begin?”

“Begin what?” he shifts to take a more relaxed sitting position with his body open and legs far apart. He recognizes my discomfort so he straightens up and steels his spine, “Sorry. Pheromones,” he winks at me.

“Pheromones?” the one word I speak in the form of a question. The answer to which I already know as my breathing gets heavier by the minute. Against my better judgment, I close the book in front of me, leaving a bookmark to where today’s lesson was going to be, “You are how old again?” I quiz like it’s a test.

“I’m legal,” he answers, and I understand the message hidden between the metaphorical lines.

I push my heels to stand and walk in front of him, perching my backside by the edge of the table, “I think it’s best if I demonstrate today’s lesson without relying on text, seeing that a student such as you learn best from actions,” I arch a brow.

The corner of his lip curls with mischief while his eyes send a message that no teacher should ever accept, “What lesson would that be?” he rasps, his tone suddenly maturing with gruff like he is no longer the twenty-year-old boy he once was.

I crane my head to the side and clasp locks of hair out of the way to reveal the pulse of my neck, “A woman’s anatomy,” I proclaim, and I can see Jace swallow hard with his Adam’s apple visibly bobbing, “This lesson is best learned in private. Can you please pull down the blinds for me,” I tell him and before I can wink he