Page 35 of Taming His Teacher

I understand how jarring this is for her. It is for me, and I’ve had time to prepare. I knew she was still here. Despite not having seen her or talked to her since our ill-fated graduation-day good-bye, she looks exactly how I’d expect. Except thinner. She didn’t need to be thinner. The thought makes my eyes tighten around the corners. She doesn’t look like she’s taking care of herself, or being taken care of, and my eyes dart to her hands. The arm clutching the papers draws them tight to her chest so she doesn’t fumble them and I see it. That goddamn diamond glinting in the sun.

Bile surges in my stomach and I realize how badly I’d been hoping she’d have quit him. I read the bulletin faithfully, trying to decipher clues about her life from the faculty notes. I wonder if she’s done the same. I’ve written in more than I would have. Truth be told, I wouldn’t have at all. But the thought that she might flip to the back where the most recent classes have their own columns of accomplishments and announcements, looking for any scrap of news from me, made me dutifully write in four times a year so if she were looking, she’d find something. The only love note I’ve ever been allowed to write her.

Hoping that she’d be able to read between the lines:

“Zach (Shep) Shepherd will be graduating a year early with a major in mathematics and a minor in art from Northwestern.”

You inspired me, Erin, and made me want to be true to myself.

“He is currently applying to teaching positions at private schools in the Boston area.”

I’m coming home to you.

She stands there, frozen on the stairs. Should I have written her? It wouldn’t have been hard. I know where she lives; her address and her email are the same. But though I’ve pined for her, thought about her every day, it strikes me that maybe she hasn’t given me a second thought since I walked out of her classroom almost three years ago.

* * *

Erin

I’d hoped, dreamed, prayed this was what he meant, that this is the code he was hoping I’d crack with his notes to the alumni magazine. I’d been selfish and conceited enough to fantasize that his updates—like clockwork, unlike any of his classmates—weren’t for anyone else, but love letters hidden in plain sight. A particularly subtle epistolary romance. With every issue arriving in my faculty mailbox, I’d secret the thick colorful pages into my bathroom. I’d fill up my too-small tub and climb in, torturing myself before I sunk into the hot water and let myself crack it open, hoping against hope there’d be yet another few sentences, the only window I’ve had into his life.

There they would be, innocuous enough I suppose, but I’d picture him, brows pinched, fingers hovering over the keyboard:I want to tell you everything but I’m allowed to say nothing.So dribs and drabs were all I’d gotten:

“Zach (Shep) Shepherd made the varsity lacrosse team as a true freshman and has declared an early mathematics major. What time he can find outside of classes and practice, he spends in the art studio.”

It had been enough, those sad missives. I’d tried to keep my end of the bargain, but when all you have to report isYes, I’m still in my forced marriage to my borderline abusive husband who still cheats on me and drinks too much, but good news! My classes are going well and only one student in the past three years has gotten below a four on an AP exam I’ve prepped them for, it starts to be a little silly.

I could have written him; he wouldn’t have been difficult to find. But at first, I’d wanted to commit to my life with Will. By the time it became clear I had no life with Will, it was too late. What would I say anyway? Nothing good.

But he’s standing here, on campus, in a blazer, khakis and tie. It’s almost like he never left except he looks just old enough you can tell he’s not a student. His hair’s longer, brushing the back of his collar, and he’s walking alongside Uncle Rett.Oh, Headmaster Wilson, you have some explaining to do.But why would he mention to me that Shep was going to be here?

Shep’s stopped in his tracks. He looks at me, his brows creasing the way they do—did—when he thinks I’m putting myself at risk. I realize it’s because my hands are full and I’m about to fall down the stairs. So I heft my books into one arm and when I clutch them to my chest, his eyes go dark.

My ring. He’s looking at my ring. I want to drop the books and run to him, pull him behind a bush, kiss his mouth, run my hands down his button-downed chest.It’s for show. ’Til the end of the year and then we’re going our separate ways. We started the paperwork. It’s over, I promise, please.

But I can’t because the whole campus is milling about between classes, Uncle Rett’s standing right there and I don’t even know if Shep wants me anymore. If he ever did. He’s probably got a girlfriend. Of course he does. He’s handsome, smart, and a good man. Why would he wait for me?

So when I raise my hand when I get to the bottom of the steps, it’s in a cautious hello I hope conveys everything I wish I could say. His mouth opens like he might try to say something to me across the quad, but instead he shuts it, raises a hand as awkward as mine before shoving it in his pocket and turning back to Uncle Rett, who’s no doubt asking him a question. I’ve got one, too.

What are you doing here, Shep?

* * *

Shep

It’s official. I will be starting as a mathematics fellow at Hawthorn Hill in the fall. My interview had felt like a thrown-together formality, which it had been. My grades at Northwestern are tops, and I can fill some coaching holes left open by retiring teachers. Not to mention they love to hire alums, do it all the time. We must make up a third of the faculty and staff. What better way to show how priceless a Hawthorn Hill education is than to have graduates clamor for ill-paying teaching positions?

And ill-paying they are. I don’t have a ton of loans because I’d gotten both merit- and need-based scholarships, not to mention one of those named athletic scholarships where I’d had to kowtow to the overly enthusiastic donor at a fancy lunch once a year. When I’d said at the last one I’d be graduating in the spring, the look on my benefactor’s face… I thought I might get a call the next day telling me they were taking it back and I’d need to write a check for ten grand before they’d hand over my diploma. But I hadn’t. It had been fine.

It’ll be tight, not a lot of cash to throw around, but more than I’ve ever had. Of course, my father will be livid. I can hear it, word for word: “I spend all this fucking money on your goddamn education and you’re going to be a fucking teacher? You could’ve been a goddamn teacher if you’d stuck around here and gone to community college. This is what you’re going to do with your life? You’re such a fucking waste.”

I’ll stand there, take the abuse he heaps on me. He’ll yell for a good twenty minutes. When he’s finished, I’ll heft my duffel onto my shoulder one last time and walk out the door, ruffling Caleb’s floppy hair on my way out, telling him, “If the old man fucks with you, you call me.”

Dad’s never hit any of us, but he’s gotten close. With every passing year of more stress, less work, balancing ever closer on a dangerous edge, it wouldn’t surprise me if he snapped. My mom will kiss my cheek on the way out and whisper, “He loves you, Zach, and he’s so proud.”

Sure.

Or maybe I’ll call. Yeah, a phone call would be better. I hope it’ll be my mom or my brother who answers when I call to tell them I’ll be back on the Hill come fall, but that’s a fucking selfish attitude. Make the people I’ve been trying my whole life to protect break this news to the person I’ve been trying to shield them from? No. I’ll call in the afternoon when my brother will be at school, my mom should be at work if they haven’t laid her off yet, and when my dad’s home from his shift at the feed mill but hasn’t drunk himself into a stupor or fallen asleep from exhaustion.

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