Page 4 of Taming His Teacher

“Back to where?”

“To my apartment. I have to revise my lesson plans for next week and grade the boys’ homework. I promised I’d have it back to them on Monday but I forgot about summer brain. The ones I’ve looked at so far aren’t promising.”

All that is true, but it feels like an excuse and it is. I don’t want to discourage him entirely, but this needs to slow down. Way down. I need some space.

“Yeah, of course. See you around, Erin.”

I was hoping for some conversation, but he smiles sheepishly, rubs the front of his pants a couple of times before heading out, not bothering to offer to walk me home.

* * *

Shep

When I get back to my dorm, the green light is blinking on my phone. Voice mail. I’m one of half a dozen kids on campus who doesn’t have a cell phone. I don’t ask my parents for much because they’re strapped for cash as it is, but this is one of those things I can’t shrug away. It’s really noticeable. Even though I’d said I’d pay for it myself, my dad said no. I’d gone so far as to ask more than once.

“What, your pansy-ass friends upset they can’t get ahold of you at all hours to shine their shoes or suck them off or whatever it is you do for them to kiss your broke ass the way they do?”

Most parents would be proud if their kid managed to score a scholarship to the best boys’ school in the country. Most of them would be thrilled when that kid made the Headmaster’s List every semester, started on the varsity soccer and lacrosse teams, and moved up to varsity hockey their sophomore year after never having played before they set foot on campus. Most of them would be happy that their kid managed to fit in as well as I have. My mom is. My dad thinks I’m an asshole.

I stare at the blinking light. Is it going to be my mom calling to see if I can send some money because Caleb outgrew his shoes and my old ones are too worn out to last long and my dad wants him to suck it up and deal? My dad almost never calls, so I doubt it’s him. It’s not one of the guys; I just left them.

I have a fleeting wish that when I put in my password, it’ll be Erin Brewster’s voice on the other end, giving some silly excuse about having forgotten to give us part of our homework. I’d keep that voice mail for the rest of the year, play it over and over to listen to her soft, bright voice saying numbers in my ear. Watching her write numbers on the board does something to my insides. It’s not the act of watching her write, although I enjoy the view. No, because there is something distinctly wrong with me, even her handwriting sparks something in my gut.

It’s so…round. And neat. And cute. What the fuck is wrong with me? What kind of teenage boy gets off on his teacher’s penmanship? But I swear, if she were writing dirty words instead of graphing velocities, I would totally get a hard-on. I’m starting to, thinking about it.

Before any more of these sick, sick thoughts can invade my head, I grab the phone and punch in the code to get my message.

Dropping into my desk chair, I grab a pencil and thwack it against the side of my desk. It’s an annoying habit, but I’ve got a single this year so there’s no one to tick off. Not like when I roomed with Caldwell. He’d throw a paperback dictionary at my head when I’d piss him off.

“Hey, Zach. It’s your brother. Caleb.” Hearing my kid brother’s voice makes me smile. His iffy telephone skills aside—a) I’d know his voice anywhere; b) I’ve only got one brother—the kid’s pretty great. I miss him when I’m at school. I’d pack him in my duffel and keep him in my closet if I could. “You left your old soccer T-shirt here. Can I borrow it?”

I left it on purpose. My mom might be proud of me, but the way Caleb steals my Hawthorn gear whenever he gets the chance, you’d think I played Major League Baseball instead of going to prep school. He’ll talk anyone’s ear off about it. I guess the odds of either one of those happening for someone from our piece-of-shit, rundown coal town are about even.

“Don’t call too late, but if you get this—”

“Caleb! Who’re you calling?” Shit, my dad.

“Gotta go.”

“I hope that’s not Zach—”

The message cuts out. Right, it’s Saturday. My family calls once a week on Sunday nights, for ten minutes, because according to my dad, “Phone calls aren’t free. Nothing about that goddamn school of yours is free, Zach.”

It’s damn close. But whatever. When Caleb gets his two minutes on Sunday, I’ll tell him he can keep the shirt, and to check the bottom drawer for the too-short track pants I left in there. He’ll have to roll them up four times, but he’ll wear them anyway. I hope he won’t trip over them. He’d never forgive himself if they ripped.

I delete the message, not wanting to hear my dad’s voice again, and flip open my planner. It’s late, but I’m not tired. I’ve got some Latin translations to do, an AP Physics lab that’ll take most of the day tomorrow and a bunch of reading for Contemporary Issues in the Middle East I started on the bus to the game today. I should finish, but instead I start the problem set Erin, Miss Brewster, gave us. I’ll hear her voice and see her writing the answers out on the board, a preview of Monday’s coming attractions. It’ll bury that pissed-off edge to my dad’s voice until my mom makes him say hello tomorrow. Why does she bother?

Chapter 2

Erin

It’s a few weeks into the semester and everyone’s settled into the day-in and day-out rhythms of school. It’s comforting that every waking moment of my day is accounted for. I’d been the only kid I knew at Brown who had more structure at college instead of less. I grew up with nannies and then tutors, none of whom lasted long because they either slept with my father or didn’t. My formal education was spotty at best. But I’d tested well and instead of flailing in a more rigid environment like my father warned me I would, I’d flourished.

He’d tried to convince me not to go at all. Told me I didn’t need a degree. I could work for him; we’d be a great team. The thought of wandering around the earth for the rest of my life had curdled my stomach. Though my inclination is usually to go along—what does it matter? It’s too hard to push back and not worth the trouble—thatI had fought for. A socially sanctioned brand of security that wouldn’t seem too odd, the comfort of routine and expectations, not having to look outside the window to know where I was.

Back on the Hill, that’s turned out to be truer than I could’ve hoped. From six-thirty in the morning until eleven-thirty at night, every second is spoken for. It’s a nice balance for how stressful I find teaching.

It’ll get easier. I won’t always be the new girl. But in this place that’s wall-to-wall testosterone, I’ll always have to prove myself. The boys have been respectful, though, even if I look like a deer in headlights sometimes. For some reason, I get the idea it’s due in part to Zach Shepherd. Or, as the boys call him, Shep.

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