Hot For Teacher (38 page)

Number Five: The Maserati GranTurismo

February 30, 2014 (Six months ago)

Tricia is what I considered the
Maserati GranTurismo
—the mother of all beasts. Complete with a six-speed sequential transaxle and shock absorbers, this girl was freaky fast. Well, at least the freaky part.

She had definitely come prepared, and wore a black pleather corset under her sweater. Her blond hair was slicked back into a ponytail, and her lips were stained dark red. I suppose I should’ve been a little more observant of the situation when a set of handcuffs fell from her backpack, but I was still a bit naïve when it came to this lifestyle.

What started out as a simple debate research study date ended up with a red tennis ball and gimp mask. Shit, I don’t even want to know what she did to my dick that night, but thank God there were no piercings or tattoos involved.

There was no long-term damage to my body, but my psyche is still trying to recover.

She had my clothes off in record time, and my wrists were tied to the bedposts. From my research on subs and doms, she had the whole thing a little mixed up. Then again, I wouldn’t exactly call myself an expert. This was definitely a first.

It was all a bit emotionally scarring, so I’d prefer not to rehash the details. But of all the girls on my list, Tricia was the one that I felt absolutely no remorse for never contacting again after that night.

I feel like I need to apologize.

Weird, right?

But I want to find Arleen and tell her that I’m not normally in the habit of word vomiting all over people I barely know. That I can be a good listener too. That I’m not into one-sided friendships where it’s all about me.

With the mystery growing of who she is and why she’s here, I know she’s got a story. And yet I went on and on about all my shit, and never gave her a chance to spill hers.

I search for her at school. I check the library and cafeteria. After coming up empty-handed, I stay close to the doors, looking at every face that enters the building.

But the first period warning bell rings and I still haven’t seen her.

“Simon?”

I turn to my name.

Miss Shields.

I can feel my eyebrow arch as my body goes on an autopilot of suaveness: My shoulders relax. My stance shifts. And my hand goes up to my hair to sweep it backward.

“Hey,
Miss Shields
.” I say her name softly.

“May I speak to you for a moment?” She gives me a tight smile.

My jaw tightens as I smirk, lifting my thumb to graze my cheek. “After you.”

She’s in jeans today. Tight, dark blue jeans. Normally I would be ogling her fantastic ass as I walked behind her. But now, I barely spare it a glance.

“I’ve been meaning to speak with you about Saint Louis. The tournament is in one month, and we have to make all the final sleeping arrangements with the team in the hotel,” she says quietly.

Her words surprise me. Is she asking me what I
think
she’s asking me? “And what did you have in mind?”

She laughs and scratches her head. “We have three extra students this year that we didn’t have last year, which makes our count uneven.” She licks her lips a little nervously. “It looks like someone will need to room alone.”

She takes her hair down, and shivers start at my calves and swiftly make their way to my crotch. Sitting on her chair, she bends over to tousle her hair before flipping it back upright. Damn, I love it when she does that shit.

“Well, if you wanted to room alone, that’s fine. But I’m going to make sure that the room adjoins mine—you know, just to make sure there’s no funny business going on. I was a teenager once myself.”

Fuck! Did I hear her right?
Was she actually offering to put me in a room next to hers? With a door where we could go between them without being seen?

I knew it. This whole time it
wasn’t
just in my head. Miss Shields wants me.

But there’s something missing in my reaction to this news. I’m not as excited as I thought I’d be.

But I find myself nodding. “Yeah, I can definitely do that.”

“Good, it’s settled then.” She smiles. “I’ve been meaning to ask you…” A stack of papers sits on her desk and she points to it. “I have some packets and brochures from colleges here. I can write you a letter of recommendation. With your debate team experience and grades, you shouldn’t have a problem getting into any of them.”

I shake my head. “I’ll have it all figured out soon,” I promise, though I’m preoccupied with the thought of a single room. With a door to hers.

Shit! Was this really going to happen? Am I ready for this?

“Good. Let me know.”

I reach for the doorknob, but her voice stops me.

“Simon. You’ll need this pass to give to your first period teacher.” She slides the slip to the edge of her desk, her fingers brushing mine as I take it.

Holy shit. I can’t believe I’m finally going to get my hands on Miss Shields. I wonder if she wants me to call her Miss Shields when I’m fucking her, or if she’ll prefer Katie.

“Thanks,” I say, giving her a devilish smile, and leave the office.

I’m going to have to find Number Ten, and fast. I wasn’t expecting Miss Shields to submit so quickly.

I’m feeling a little stressed about the whole thing. I don’t have much time.

As I make my way up the steps to class, I’m in total shock. It was one thing to fantasize about something. It was another knowing it could quite possibly happen.

I don’t think I was misreading the vibe Miss Shields had been throwing out. Because it definitely seems like in less than a month I’m finally going to know what it’s like to
have
Miss Shields.

I’ve spent three years obsessing over Miss Shields. Now, in a couple measly weeks I would taste her, devour her, and treat her like the woman she is.

I’m so lost in my thought that my mind doesn’t process what I see when I get to the top of the stairs. But as I walk toward my classroom, I can see Arleen at the end of the corridor.

She seems to be in a heated discussion with two girls. But I can’t make out what they’re saying. My smile fades as I take in the encounter and feel an urgency to get to her kick in. I pick up my pace and before I know it, I’m scowling and jogging in their direction.

“You’re next,” one of the girls snips. She’s hovering over Arleen threateningly.

The two girls spot me before I can get to her and run in opposite directions. Arleen’s hair is a mess, and her backpack is on the floor. By the time I reach her, the girls are gone.

“What was that? Are you okay?”

She swallows, closing her eyes. When she opens them again, she’s scowling at me. “It’s fine, Simon. Go away.”

She sounds angry with me, and by the way she’s gathering her books and shoving them into her bag, I can’t help but wonder what the hell I did wrong.

My hands go up. “What?”

I’m dumfounded.

“Arleen, wait!” I call behind her, trying to catch up. “Who were those girls, and what were you talking about?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “Please. Just go.”

I stop in the hallway in front of my classroom and watch her scurry to the steps. It’s just getting weirder and weirder with this girl.

I have no idea what this is all about, but I’m going to need some answers when I see her again at the church ruins.

Number Four: The Ford Ranger

January 3, 2014 (Seven months ago)

The debate team made a quick trip to Garfield Heights for the day. A debate was being held for the semi-finals in order for our team to move on to the Regionals in March.

It was supposed to be an ordinary trip, nothing special. But I’d been up the night before researching the debate topic, and I found myself alone on the bus when I woke up from an impromptu nap. The rest of the team was inside a McDonald’s when I heard my name being whispered.

It was Bobbi, a.k.a. the
F-Series Ford Ranger.

Typically, we really only see the Ranger in bodybuilders or lesbians. They’re a rare occurrence, indeed, and if I wasn’t so shocked by her forwardness, I probably would’ve tried to get her off me. Yet there was something so unique about the situation that it compelled me to let her continue.

Practice is practice, after all.

She used brute force, letting her four-wheel drive keep up her pace. And like the Ranger, probably could’ve hauled a four-foot-wide piece of plywood on her back while straddling me. But with her big titties bouncing up and down, and the force of her thrusting, I kind of felt like she was using me as a post to grind against. There was no magic. No after-spooge cuddle. Only a pat on my back when she finished six minutes after she’d begun.

She didn’t even care whether or not she got me off.

Which, to be honest, I was thankful for. It had almost been painful.

I’m actually twiddling my thumbs. I look down and watch the absurdity of them, smoothing out the wrinkles in each one as I debate what I’m feeling. Whatever it is, I can’t remember a time I felt so unsettled. Then again, I don’t remember a time I was ever worried about a friend who might or might not be in trouble somehow.

Is that what she is
—
my friend?
I try to remember the last time I had one of those.

“You’re next,”
the one girl said. Were they going to kick the shit out of her?

This girl, Arleen, can’t be from the suburbs. The drama with girls around this town consists of embarrassing Facebook videos of Saturday night parties and whether or not their best friend tagged them in a meme of their favorite people.

Not physical harm
.

My questions continue to mount, and with my assumed answers, a gut feeling of concern tears at my chest.

Oh, God. I’m turning into a chick. Why am I suddenly so attached and emotional?
I dry heave at the thought.

It’s past nine o’clock now, the usual time she appears, and my stomach flips at every cricket and frog I think might be her footsteps.

“Been here long?”

I jump up at Arleen’s voice, not taking the time to ask myself how she could have approached without me hearing her. I have far too many different questions I want to ask.

But the second I see her, and how the moon casts shadows over her skin, my mind empties and I forget all the things I want to know. I swallow hard and try to act as casual as possible by pushing up my sleeves and shoving my hands in my pockets.

“Are you okay?” is all I manage to say.

A half-smile appears and disappears on her face. She scratches her temple and walks toward me. “Were you worried?”

I shrug, but give her a nervous smile. I’m not sure if it’s the thought of becoming friends with someone who is in some kind of danger or the warmth I felt when I heard her voice for the first time since this afternoon.

I’m not a pussy, I’m not a pussy, I’m not a pussy.

We sit against the tree on the ground, and neither of us says a word for several minutes. I try to keep my guard up and convince myself that it’s morbid curiosity I have for her story, and that I can’t possibly be interested in a girl like her. Even just thinking about making her Number Ten makes me uneasy. Though I don’t understand why.

“Can you tell me about it? What happened at school today?”

Her breathing shifts, and out of the corner of my eye I see her shaking her head.

“No.” She sighs. “Let’s not talk about school,” she adds quietly.

“Okay. Then let’s start with something easier. Where are you from?” I turn to face her, and her head dips lazily toward me against the bark of the tree trunk.

She smiles and looks down toward the ground. “Kentucky.”

“And why did you move here? Did your dad get a job transfer or something?”

She shakes her head, and gently tugs at her lip. “Nah, nothing like that.”

I wait for her to continue, but it seems as if she has no intentions of answering my question. “Is everyone in Kentucky this vague, or is this just an Arleen thing?”

The small amount of light in our corner of the room exposes her white teeth as she smiles widely.

“I got a smile!” I nudge her arm. “Come on, Arleen,” I say with a grin, “talk to me.”

Her smile turns down. “Simon, look. I’m not really a big talker—”

“Wait. I’m going to interrupt you right there. I know for a fact you’re a talker, because you shut me down in debate the other night.”

She smiles again, a little less than before. “Right. I mean, I’m not a big talker about this stuff. Personal stuff.”

“Are you afraid I’ll tell someone?”

She doesn’t respond, but makes quick eye-contact and looks back down again.

“All right. That’s fair,” I say, trying to reassure her. “I’m not much of a talker about personal stuff, either.” And I realize that I’m not. It’s been years since I had anyone I spoke to about anything that wasn’t building a debate rebuttal or coming up with a witty one-liner to get into someone’s pants. “So then let’s make a new rule.”

She lifts her chin and focuses on me.

“The first rule is that we don’t talk about school. The second…” I look back to her, and she’s waiting impatiently for my words. “The second is that anything we say never leaves this place.”

She tugs at her lip, thinking about my proposition, then combs her fingers through her long hair. “How do I know I can trust you?”

I reply instantly. “You don’t. Just like I don’t know if
I
can trust
you
. But we’re both here for a reason, and it seems you’re not here for my boyish good looks.” I raise my eyebrow, and she cracks another smile.

“But it seems you have a lot of friends,” she whispers, keeping her head down, her smile fading.

I don’t want to admit that I don’t. Instead, I merely say, “No, Arleen. What you’ve heard at school is not really the person I am.” I shake my head, wondering what she’s heard, and feeling like one of my go-to speeches actually holds some sincerity. “I have nobody.” A lump gathers in my throat at my confession, and I feel like a jackass.

It’s the first time I’ve ever admitted to being weak.

She giggles. “What is it about the night that always makes the truth bubble to the surface?” Her elbow nudges mine, and I look to her eyes again. She smiles and rests her head on my shoulder. “I haven’t had a friend in a long time, either.”

Her hand finds mine, and we sit in silence.

There’s a small part of me that thinks she could be Number Ten because I can feel her walls crumbling. But then there’s another part of me that just enjoys being with her. No games, no tricks, and no speeches.

And I was thinking about Arleen not as a number, or a car, but as a person.

One I was finding myself liking a whole hell of a lot.

***

Two weeks pass. Arleen doesn’t acknowledge me in the halls at school, but every time I see her I stare until she’s walked past me.

I don’t get it.

Was there some rule that she’d made that I never heard? Is she embarrassed about being friends with me?

Because every night Arleen meets me at the ruins. Every night we go there without many words exchanged—just two people enjoying each other’s company.

My entire life has been turned upside down: I’ve canceled dates. I don’t text other girls anymore. I don’t spend my nights thinking about Miss Shields. And I’m not sure when it happened, but my desire to get to debate has shifted from wanting to go for my coach to being there for Arleen.

Will Arleen be there today? Will she speak to me? Why won’t she look at me? What secrets is she hiding?

My parents left for Fiji yesterday, and I barely noticed. Mom was courteous enough to leave me a note, but I was so eager to meet Arleen that I cut our last dinner together short and raced out the door.

I don’t even think I told them where I was going.

It’s getting rather irritating. I had liked my spreadsheets and my conquests. My endless fantasies about my teacher. Even my emotionally absent parents fit into my version of normal.

And now I’m fucked.

I think about Arleen night and day.

Other than eating and sleeping, nothing is the same. I’m completely outside of myself and I’m losing my grip.

I’ve decided enough is enough. I’m going to find out all I can tonight, and if she won’t tell me, I’m kissing this friendship goodbye and pursuing her as Number Ten.

Because, I tell myself,
that
is all I really wanted from her—to be the next notch on my belt. She was a means to an end.

I’m pretty sure I thought that at one point, right?