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One day, just one time, I want to act out so he’ll take me into his office for a little discipline, or keep me after school for detention. The problem is I can barely get my mouth open long enough to repeat the words he says without drooling, let alone cause a scene which could get me into the good kind of trouble.
I roll back over and gyrate against the nearly transparent sheet, my hips grinding into the mattress as I imagine him bending me over his desk and teaching me about the birds and the bees, or whatever i
t’s called in his native Russia. My mind pictures that thick accent of his as he tells me to act like a proper young woman, and not a little Lolita, as if I could be a flirtatious, trouble-making, Lollipop sucking tart.
Oh Daddy, I could be a lot of things for you…if you’d just show me.
And I want him to show me his country one day, all the knowledge about the world he holds inside, and his past. The man is a complete mystery to us all, just like Winston Churchill once referred to his motherland of Russia as ‘a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma; but perhaps there is a key.’
That’s the million-dollar question. What’s the key? How do I get his attention? And how can a young, innocent girl like me give him what he wants?
Impossible, just like the climax that I clearly won’t be reaching tonight, yet again.
I want to reach out to him, that’s what I really want. To put my tiny hand in his and let him be my father figure, and to let those big rough hands of his which wrap tightly around his lectern, wrap their way around my body.
“Daddy,” I whisper quietly enough that my mom and her ‘guest’ in the other room can’t hear. I push my pelvis farther down into the mattress and move my midsection in figure eights, but with no result. “Please, Daddy…” my voice trails off.
Every night I say please, partly because I want that first explosion of my life, that experience, and also because I want to please him one day. A day which will likely never come.
I’m a good student. I get good grades in every other class in school but his. I’ve never so much as been given anything lower than a B+ in any other class until now.
I don’t understand how I’m on the borderline of passing and failing, nor do I understand these feelings he’s giving me. These paternal thoughts wrapped in pleasure, his big body slamming into me as my hands slide down the chalkboard as I look for anything to grab ahold of as every thought in my mind spirals out of control.
And tomorrow is going to be that spiral I fear, yet embrace at the same time. If I fail tomorrow’s final exam, I have to make up this class in summer school, or repeat all of next year. The scholarship I worked so hard to get will be lost, and I’ll become another soul lost to our little town, destined to never leave, to never see all those places I see on Instagram, to never amount to much of anything.
But what if failing gives me another chance to finally muster up the courage to tell him what I really fear? To show him what I want him to do to me, where I want those big, thick fingers of his to trace along my body.
My mom knows I need to pass so I can get out of her hair, hopefully make some money one day so she can retire from her life of questionable disability checks she receives from her ‘accident’ at the factory, the burden of taking the bus to the nearest big city once a year to verify she’s still unable to work, to stressful for her to bear.
She claims the rickety old bus with it’s worn out shocks hurts her back. That doesn’t really make much sense considering how much time she spends on it.
And just like that I roll back over onto my back, grab my vocabulary list and start studying again. I need to pass this exam tomorrow and there’s no way not to do that without studying. There’s no way any luck can be involved because the final exam is meant to show off everything you know, not allowing you to hide anything.
Because the final exam isn’t written or multiple choice.
It’s oral.
And it’s in just over twelve hours.
2
Alexander
I can smell her before I hear the light tapping on the door.
Her scent is indescribable, and what it does to me, as her teacher, is inexcusable.
“Come in,” I bellow, and she puts her shoulder into the door, opening it as quietly as her knock.
There are five hundred and fifty-seven students who need to pass final oral exams this week, yet none of the other five hundred and fifty-six matter. Only her.
I shuffle the papers in front of me, pretending to prepare the questions I have prepared as the young woman from the exam oversight committee stands next to me.
The idea that someone has to be in the room to avoid lawsuits is a joke to me. In Russia, paying a bribe to your teachers is a way of life, whether you have the right grades or not. Here, it’s looked down upon just as I look down on this tiny little thing as I rise from my seat, making sure the stack of books stays in front of my waist, hiding my massive need for her.
“Ms. Andrews,” I nod, confirming I verify her presence as the student scheduled for this time slot. The oversight committee member makes a mark on her name and nods at me to begin.
Oh, I’m ready to begin all right. I’ve been watching this girl the entire semester out of the corner of my eye, doing everything I can to avoid eye contact which would have surely sent me into immediate climax right in front of an entire room of rowdy high school students, my dream angel not included.
