Page 7 of Taming His Teacher

She shakes her head, looks down at the ground and crosses her arms over her chest. “I don’t want to tell you. It’s embarrassing.”

It’s like she’s protecting herself, like I might turn her words back on her and hurt her with them. I wouldn’t and I want her to know.

“You know I won’t tell, Erin.” Her name’s slipped off my tongue without thinking and my face gets hot. I’ve just made it very clear I don’t always think of her as just a teacher. But she doesn’t scold me. Instead, she blushes, unless I’m imaging that by the lampposts strung along the path.

“Fine. I used to pretend I had a brother. That he’d gone away but that he was going to come back for me. That I wasn’t alone.” Her expression’s gone from embarrassed to sad and lost. Maybe she’s still waiting. She seems to remember herself then, smoothing her hands down the sides of her pants before she picks up the pace and says in a canned light kind of way, “His name was Felix. He was quite dashing.”

I want to stop and hug her, hold her close until she’s not lonely anymore. But I can’t. Ican’t. I shove my hands in my pockets so I won’t reach for her. I try to think of something to say, something that won’t make her more self-conscious but let her know I heard her, that I’ll keep my promise. My chest squeezes tight around the words. “I’m sure he was.”

* * *

Erin

It’s the mid-semester art show and study hours at the studio have been more crowded than usual. It’s meant less time spent checking in with Zach Shepherd. Shep. Not that he needs me to check in. He works independently, not bugging the boys who’re slogging away but happy to take a look at a drawing or a painting if someone is struggling.

He gazes at the oil paintings and sloppy palettes with longing. Why is he taking Drawing if he likes to paint so much? I know from faculty chatter he’s on full scholarship and most of his academic and athletic supplies get paid for through a special fund. Maybe it doesn’t cover art supplies? If you know what to look for, you can tell his family doesn’t have money, although he’s better at hiding it than most.

I traipse around Turner, holding my cup of punch. It’s Friday night. There’s a better turnout than you might expect for an art show, but the boys are generous with one another. Everyone’s clad in dress code, and some parents have shown up, a few from far away, including Gerreaux’s parents all the way from France. Speaking of…

“Miss Brewster!”

“Monsieur Gerreaux, nice work. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” He’s beaming with pride and for good reason. I’d overheard his instructor saying he should enter his project in the state competition. I bet he’ll place, too. The photographs as a set are stunning. He’s set them up so your eye is drawn to the tiniest differences in each print. As your gaze follows along, you’re left feeling like you’re being led through a dark forest at someone else’s mercy and shown precisely what they want you to see. It’s frustrating and thrilling at the same time. Or at least it is for me. I don’t know what anyone else sees. So often I’m left feeling like I don’t live in the same world as everyone else. “Miss Brewster, these are my parents.”

I’m greeted with a murmured “Bonsoir, mademoiselle,” from both of them and though I extend a hand for a shake, they kiss me on the cheeks. My reply of “bonsoir” is met by a stream of rapid French. Gerreaux mercifully interrupts to explain that I don’t speak French. Much, anyway.

“Jean-Philippe has told us you gave him the inspiration for his project,” says Madame Gerreaux.

“Oh, no. Just a nudge. That’s all they need most of the time. Your son is very talented.” I chat with them for a few minutes until Jean-Philippe tugs them away to look at one of his roommate’s sculptures.

I wend my way through the crowd, stopping to look at each project. I loved coming down here when I’d visit my grandfather. It was my own personal museum. Now I’m here, pride swelling in my chest as I walk among the works they’ve put their angsty, testosterone-fueled hearts into. I’m biased, having seen how much (in some cases literal) blood, sweat and tears have been poured into these pieces, but I think they’re amazing.

I’ve saved a particular corner of the building for last, knowing what and who I’ll find there. When I’ve had my fill of the rest of the show and done my best art show chatter—The composition! The dimensionality! Reminiscent of Donatello or whatever other Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle comes to mind!—I make my way to the alcove where Shep and a couple of boys from his class have hung their work. I’ve averted my eyes for the past few days though I know what’s going to be there. I’ve seen all of Shep’s drawings from class, so there won’t be any surprises, but it’ll be fun to see them on actual display.

I tease myself before turning the corner and an anticipatory smile creeps over my face. I’m such a dork. A silly, inappropriate dork to get so excited about seeing my secretly favorite student’s high school art project. Be that as it may, my breath still catches and I come up short when I swing into the nook.

* * *

Shep

I’ve been waiting for this all night. For her. For every “congratulations” I’ve received, for every hand of someone’s eager parent I’ve shook, and for every time a teacher has asked me something about one of my drawings, I’ve kept an eye out for Erin.

The show is closing in fifteen minutes. I’d almost given up but in some back corner of my brain, wildly optimistic hope held out that she’s like a kid saving the best for last, and maybe I’m her best. I’m such an arrogant douche bag. But when the purple herringboned shoe peeks around the corner, I’m on high alert. If I’d stayed in Shamokin, I don’t know that I would’ve ever learned what the fuck herringbone is, but here I’ve acquired more knowledge about preppy attire than I’ll ever need to know. Tweed, popped collars, Nantucket red. Even if I didn’t know what that pattern was called, I’d know those shoes anywhere. I stare at them at least once a week because they’re her favorites, and I stare at her feet so I won’t stare at her face. Or other things. But she’s here and I can’t wait to see the look on her face.

Her ready smile melts, her chin wrinkles and her eyebrows fall, shadowing her brilliant brown eyes. Confused is not what I was going for. She stands there looking like she might drop the cup of punch she’s holding. It’s tipping and I don’t want her to spill on her shoes and ruin them. I reach out and right the flimsy plastic, not able to help the contact with her soft skin when I do.

Her eyes fly wide to mine and her wrist that had been drooping snaps up in a reflex. The cup I’d been trying to steady gets crushed between us as she turns, spilling bright red liquid down my white dress shirt and blue-and-red-striped tie.Shit.Guess I’ll be throwing a load of wash in tonight and hoping it doesn’t stain. I have one extra shirt, and it’s nice to have a cushion in case I can’t get laundry done on a Sunday. But if this gets ruinedI’m screwed.

“Oh, god, Shep. I’m so sorry!”

Shep? She’s never called me Shep before. It’s always Mr. Shepherd. I’d let her spill a rainbow of punch on me, have to do laundry every day, if I could hear her call me that again.

She’s grabbed a handful of napkins from a pillar nearby and is sopping up the washed-out blood color that’s seeping through my undershirt to my skin. Jesus Christ. I’ve stopped breathing, and I’m standing stock still as that goddamn pillar. If she doesn’t stop touching me…

I grab her wrist and clear my throat. “It’s okay. Miss Brewster, it’s okay.”

Even though I’d like to shove her up against the nearest wall, drag her hands over her head and kiss her silly, another teacher, Mr. Connelly, has walked into the alcove.

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