Folie à Deux (22 page)

It matters neither that I am a teacher, hired to educate young adults nor that the female audience is comprised, exclusively of teenagers. My need to be admired is elemental, my exclusive
identity. I don’t understand the body language cues I subconsciously emit but I don’t need to. I need to look good. I will never act on any advance that would come from this display anymore than any homosexual proposition would be accepted.

My need to teeter on the edge of this precipice is overwhelming daily. My sex appeal, the only value I covet. I can only ride with these emotions as they surface pursuing them in the same manner which I pursue everything, with full force.

I go to the gym five mornings a week before work because I have the feeling of being pumped for hours after. This engorgement with blood provides the appearance of even bigger muscles. I take supplements, vasodilators to unnaturally prolong the feeling. I have mastered my pose in front of the class, flexing a bicep or placing my hands behind my head. I play like I’m contemplating a deep thought but really I’m showing off the size of my shoulders and the definition in my traps. I can feel their eyes on me, not because what I’m saying is all that riveting but because my body is cultivated to be appreciated.

I operate, most comfortably, on multiple channels. One channel speaking French, discussing homework, or a verb while the other channel makes sure that what come out of my mouth is coming out sexy. Freshmen, Sophomores, Juniors, and Seniors alike all receive the same treatment. My principal, Barbara is treated likewise and I’m sure my favorable post-observation report is a result of the sexuality I exude in front of her.

I teach for eight years like this, coaching girls’ soccer and becoming known as one of the more liked and respected teachers in the building. I win awards for creating engaging lessons that become best practices in my school. I’m recognized as a “Golden Apple” award recipient for being a noteworthy teacher for one quarter. My marking period award is a precursor to
being selected as the “Teacher of the Year” by a panel of parents, administrators and colleagues before I am thirty years old. This culminations of events, decisions and work cannot overcome the eclectic collection of fears and anxieties that ultimately topple my whole life.

I don’t remember the first time I call her name. Undoubtedly, the first day of school in 2006, third period, French I. It must be somewhere at the beginning of the attendance list because her last name is near the beginning of the alphabet. I neither remember our first conversation nor the first question she answers. I cannot put an event to when she stands out as different from the rest. What I will remember without details, is how quickly and efficiently she endears herself to me. What stands out most is how vehemently I feel beholden to watch over her.

I don’t know how I become a haven for her either. It’s more muddled in my memory than any other event in my life that I beg for a beginning. Despite my search for the genesis it lives very inauspiciously. Early one March morning, after the sound of the first bell, Natalia storms into my room. She enters and walks in the direction of her seat, throws her books on the floor and with the rush of scattered papers comes the purge of tears and poisonous emotions.

Without thinking of perceived impropriety which admittedly, should be closer to the forefront of my mind, I close the door so she can retain some dignity. I don’t speak because no words can help undo this. I put my hand on her shoulder and let it rest, motionless letting her know that although tears are a very lonely
place, she is not spatially alone. I do not ask and she does not offer the reason for her dirge.

The bell rings again, letting us both know that students will be coming into my room and she has two minutes before first period begins. “Would you like me to write you a pass to guidance so you can collect yourself?” is all I can say.

“I don’t want to go to guidance. They don’t do anything,” she sobs.

“Well, Natalia, I don’t think you want to be in here when my class comes in and you don’t want to go to your first period class like this, do you?” I reason.

“I’ll be fine,” she says as she gathers her things and walks out.

I only make mental note that when she returns she will be upset perhaps, but I don’t think that this is anything serious. She is, in fact, silent in class, but comes to my room after school much more upbeat and wanting to discuss mundane things about her day.

“So I assume you are feeling better than this morning?” I ask

“I’m fine. My father is an asshole.” I look at her with disapproval but she just grins.

“But he is,” she begs.

“Well, you’re entitled to your opinion and I don’t know the specifics but he’s your dad. And please don’t talk like that ok?” I say, my best attempt to be non-judgmental.

“Can I tell you what happened?” she asks.

I’m sitting at my desk grading tests before I have to teach my college class. With three hours before I have to leave, I initially regret not closing my door. As the words, “Too late now,” run through my head, she tells me a story that sounds like others I have heard about broken families. There is fear in her voice as she talks about her father, including fear for her mother’s safety.
Nothing she says is secretive and doesn’t request my discretion but when she walks into my room the next morning she seems to have a swagger absent the day before. She wears a smirk, suggesting something of a bond created by my listening and asking questions about her family.

After this dilemma, Natalia comes to my room more frequently outside of her class period. She comes in before basketball practice and in the few minutes she has once softball starts. She is a good student with an above average work ethic who still talks about her dad but also her other classes and occasionally asks me questions about my life.

The liberties she takes I neither correct nor draw the distinct line as when other students press. She sits behind my desk and uses my computer. When she goes into my drawer for a pen or a paper clip, instead of seeing a student violating my privacy I see a girl looking for acceptance. I rationalize my silent permission as allowing her the trust to be herself but overlook the reality of not delineating what behavior I accept.

Weeks later, our conversation meanders toward food. She asks, “What is your favorite cereal?”

“Cookie Crisp,” I share.

We talk about ice cream, pizza, desserts, my mom’s apple pie and the brownies that bake in the microwave. The next morning she walks into my room with a disposable soup bowl from the cafeteria and a carton of milk. She pulls out a Ziploc baggie with Cookie Crisp, places the bag in the bowl, hands me the milk, a metal spoon and says, “Enjoy.”

I feel inexplicably touched, unable to decide if it’s because she listened or thought about me outside of school. I sit at my desk, eyes fixed on her, speechless. I know it’s erroneous to feel this, but I’m helpless to prevent it. I know she has a crush but
I detach myself and focus on the thought behind the gesture. Unfortunately, I do not know how deceiving my emotions can be and choose to trust them.

The evening of the cereal gift, while my wife, Dana is at work and I’m folding laundry I hear my phone beep in the other room. I don’t like my cell phone the same way I’ve never liked any phones. I don’t check it often so I forget about the message until after dinner. Once my three children are in bed I see a text from a number neither in my contact list nor that I recognize.

The message reads, “I better get my spoon back before my mom notices it’s missing.”

The feeling in my stomach is a rush of panic that prompts me to hide my phone. I slam it shut and grasp it with both hands as if I am encapsulating something dangerous. I immediately fear anyone else seeing this message because I know it’s Natalia. I’ve never gotten a text from a student but I know it’s wrong. I should report this to the administration immediately. At worst I should delete the text and tell her that it’s inappropriate.

Instead, I take none of these actions, I feel a distinct satisfaction. It feels sordidly good so I reply. I make a joke about holding her spoon hostage until she brings more Cookie Crisp. The exchange feels safe and natural, far from dirty. It is the first step in a pattern of crossing lines that should never be crossed. Boundaries are broken slowly but then so rapidly it’s like falling down a hill where grabbing for purchase is pointless and painful.

As spring arrives Natalia has more time to spend after school and our conversations continue to revolve around the benign. There are times we teeter on a more profound discussion but I divert her for all the same reasons I allow no one close to me. The day before my birthday she asks me for the key to my classroom
explaining, “I have a surprise that I can only give you the morning of your birthday.”

As a rational man, turning thirty years old, who has taught for eight years, I would never give my only key to a student. Not only does it scream of impropriety but breeches the appearance of security for my professional and personal belongings.

This choice would certainly be frowned upon, if not censured by school administrators. Absent those conscious thoughts I hand her the key with my only warning, “I don’t have another key so you cannot lose this.”

Somehow, unbelievably that seems to be the only caution that fits the moment. I would scoff at the idea of another student having my key but I see something in her that I have not sought to find in anyone else.

I see a lost child. Someone suffering from a past injury at the hands of an adult, possibly a parent. It’s not anything drastic that would make someone feel sorry for her yet subtle and barely detectable. I sense this subconsciously and feel for her.

When I walk into my room the next morning the lights are off. I flip the switch and before the fluorescence fully illuminates the room, I am doused in Silly String. The stream lasts forever as I stand in the doorway, eyes closed covered by what feels like wet spaghetti listening to multiple unknown voices giggle. Natalia and two friends ornately decorated my room with streamers and homemade signs. They adorned plain white T-shirts each to comprise a different part of the phrase, “The Big 3-0.”

The thought and effort that she put into this acknowledgment are, once again touching. With each step, with each time we speak about topics more personal it seems a stronger bond is forming. I hope that she doesn’t feel the same because I know it’s growing in indecency and I’m unsure how to slow down.

In one conversation after school, we chat about music. I ask, “You know the band Nine Inch Nails, right?”

She does not. I ask about other bands at the core of my musical library. She has no knowledge of Radiohead, Nirvana, or Depeche Mode. When she tells me that she has never heard of The Cure I demand her iPod to create a playlist. The title jokingly reads, “Songs you need to know if you are going to be my friend.” Although I think the name is used in jest, I affirm that she is more than just my student. Without verifying that I reciprocate her feelings I admit that her knowledge of these songs makes us friends.

Subliminally I convey that this friendship can blossom into something greater. I have difficulty navigating my feelings toward Natalia as our contact increases. I’m constantly torn between the guilt of this unique interaction and the pleasure I derive from our conversations. The thought of losing her in my life seems tantamount to losing me.

The final draft has forty-five songs after paring down from twice that. Mixed with alternative and post-punk classics I hide a couple of songs whose lyrics could be interpreted as an indication of my growing feelings. Head Over Feet — Alanis Morrisette, With or Without You — U2, Heaven Beside You — Alice in Chains and Something I Can Never Have — Nine Inch
Nails. None are out of place but contain just enough suggestion to stimulate curiosity.

I hand her the iPod at the end of the school day and say, as an afterthought, “Oh, by the way, I forgot to give this to you before. Enjoy.”

I’m shocked when Natalia finds me the next day to tell me which songs she liked and which she’s heard before. “There is no way that you listened to that whole thing and remembered all the songs unless you stayed up all night?” I say as soon as she is done rattling off titles.