Page 10 of Forging Legacy

She’s probably memorized every factoid about me online, and that always weirds me out.

I’m saved by Fern clapping her hands and shouting, “Okay, everyone, let’s get down to reducing equations.” She smiles and shakes her head. “That’s sort of funny if you understand math concepts.” She’s adorable, making nerd jokes. Nobody laughs, of course, because it’s ass-early on a Friday, and we’re all here because we suck at math.

I try to sink low in my seat and stare at her, which is expected of students and teachers. Except I’m not looking at the right things. I’m not watching the numbers and letters she writes on the board—I’m staring at that lush ass and remembering how it felt to dig my fingers into her soft skin. When she lifts her arm to write on the board, I’m staring at her silhouette, wanting to palm her tits again, maybe while she whispers into my ear about finding square roots.

Fern was the absolute perfect distraction for me from all the pressures in my life, and now … I’m distracted by my distraction.

I’m so fucked. I wonder if I’d still be this into her if she wasn’t my teacher. Would I go for a brainiac gal? I’ve never really sought anyone out for more than casual fun. I’m not entirely sure what I’m hoping for with Fern. Just a fantasy? A fucking amazing memory to use when I jerk off in the morning? A repeat, so I can carry around the knowledge that I boned my teacher?

She tosses the dry-erase marker on the shelf with a clatter and smiles at the board. “Does anyone else have a question about the substitution method?”

She looks around expectantly. Nobody moves or talks. I glance at my watch and see we’re only about halfway through the session. I don’t want her to have to stand up there while a room full of assholes makes her squirm. But I wasn’t paying enough attention to what she was saying to come through and ask a question of my own.

Apparently, I don’t need to worry about Fern, though, because she raises one eyebrow and crosses her arms, popping one hip out in a move I’m sure is unconscious but definitely communicates that she knows absolutely everything there is to know about whatever method she just mentioned. “Not one of you wants to know about using the distributive property? Hint: this will definitely be on the exam…”

Still, nobody talks. Fern circles the room once, and I can tell she’s playing with us. She knows none of us have any idea what’s going on, but everyone is paying attention now, leaning in as she talks. “Could it be that none of you remember what the distributive property actually is?” Fern laughs and returns to the board. “Let’s break it down.”

A half-hour later, everyone files out of the room. I can still feel the buzz in the air that comes when a bunch of people are all figuring something out together. Fern really is good at teaching this shit. I shove my notebook in my bag and try to slip out the back. I know if I look at her, I will betray something with my facial expression.

So, I’m not really paying attention when I leave the building, heading toward my apartment to grab some food before my afternoon classes. I pull out my phone to order takeout and see a series of texts fromhim.

Can’t avoid me forever, son.

I can picture my biological father, Nick, in my mind, glassy eyes looking dead inside. His muscles bulge like he’s still hitting the gym for hours a day despite getting himself declared physically disabled and incapable of working — or paying a single cent of child support to my mother.

I hate that I reached out to him, that I brought this on. My hands shake as I scroll through the messages. The first time I reached out was to let him know I was changing my name. I had to file a notice in the newspaper. He was going to see it anyway. I figured we’d clear the air and move on, maybe get a beer sometime.

He immediately began demanding I send him money to make up for years of him being denied the right to be my father or something. I realized pretty quickly that I hadn’t been catastrophizing any of those memories. This guy is a real piece of shit.

Saw your name on a potential roster for the Olympics, kid. Be a shame if someone leaked dirt on your mother. Did I hear that she was accused of sexual misconduct?

I school my face to remain expressionless. The thought of my mother assaulting anyone is ludicrous, especially when she’s been so active in trying to change soccer governance and fight for pay equity in the sport.

I lean against a wall for stability, trying to calm down amidst the crowd of students as they are leaving classes, parting around me like I’m a rock in a riverbed.

You better start taking my calls, kid. Or I’ll start making calls to other people.

A ball of hot nausea bounces through my stomach. I’m surprised to feel wetness on my cheeks when I press my knuckles against my face. For a minute, I worry it’s blood from my father ripping open old wounds. But apparently, I’m just crying.

I wipe my face on my sleeve, attempting to block out the world, when I hear a soft voice call my name.

"Wyatt? Are you okay?"

I open my eyes to see Fern standing before me, her brow furrowed with concern. I try to force a smile, but it feels more like a grimace. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just needed some air."

She takes a step closer, her hand hesitantly reaching out to touch my arm. "You don't look fine. What happened?"

I shake my head, not wanting to burden her with my problems. "It's nothing. Just some family stuff."

Fern's gaze is steady, her voice gentle but firm. She bites her plump lip, and I shudder. "Wyatt, I can see that you're upset. You can talk to me."

“Can I?” I take a deep breath, weighing the options. Something about Fern's presence, the warmth in her eyes, makes me want to trust her.

"I heard from my father," I say, my voice tight. "He's not ... he's not a good man. He said some things and made some threats. It just brought up a lot of bad memories."

Fern's hand tightens on my arm, her touch grounding me. "I'm so sorry, Wyatt. Do you want me to call anybody for you?"

I shake my head, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “I’m fine. Seriously. He’s just a blowhard. I’m going to head home.” She looks skeptical. “My roommates are there.”

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