Page 2 of Education with Dad's Best Friend
She stares at me with widened eyes, and I can see the blood draining from her face. “I don’t know. I’m not sure,” she whispers.
She looks terrified by just the mention of the subject as if it’s a monster—poor girl. I feel protective of her. “Are you scared of it?”
She nods vigorously.
“Why? It doesn’t bite,” I say with a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood.
“I know, but…but,” she stutters. “I guess I don’ like the sound of it.”
“The sound of it?”
“Yeah, the word Al-gebra, sounds like a terrorist organization to me.”
I take a minute to get what she means. “You mean, it sounds like Al-Qaeda?”
“Uh-huh.”
I chuckle. What a funny girl. But I’ve been a teacher long enough to know it isn’t the only reason she’s afraid of math. There must be other reasons, too.
“Let’s fight the terrorists,” I suggest. “What are you afraid of the most? What topic?”
She frowns as she tilts her head. “Negative numbers. They don’t make sense to me.”
“I see.” Elsie is not alone in that. Many students have trouble with negative numbers.
I open my briefcase, take out some pencils and paper, spread them on the coffee table, and start teaching. I draw a line on the paper and show Elsie the termspositiveandnegativeare no more than directions on the line.
She nods uncertainly at first, but after some examples, she smiles.
I make up some exercise problems for her to practice. While she’s working on them, my eyes fall on her flimsy nightgown again, and my lust stirs. I close my eyes to take a deep breath, but then I become aware of her sweet, strawberry scent. It must be her shampoo or body wash, and it intensifies my need to taste her.
I’m battling with my raging hormones when I hear a knock on the door. Elsie stands up to crack it open.
A man’s voice speaks. “Is your mom home?”
“No, she isn’t.”
“Can I come in?”
“No, sorry,” Elsie says and closes the door.
“Who was that?” I ask Elsie when she returns to the table.
She shrugs. “Mom’s client.”
“Client?” An uneasy feeling rises in my chest as I guess the meaning of the word. “Does your mom have a home business or something?”
“Yeah,” she says, dropping her gaze.
“What is it?” I ask, hoping she’ll elaborate. I probably shouldn’t pry, but my concern for the girl compels me to probe.
“A massage business,” she says.
“Oh.” That’s better. Maybe my worries aren’t necessary. I look around the room for a massage table but see none. “Is she a trained masseuse?”
“No, she just does it.”
“Is she good?”
