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“Okay, so here are the restrooms, as I’m sure you remember,” she says, pointing to the right.
“Aw, man. I thought teachers had private restrooms,” I say.
“Ha. No. Well, you do. Your office is downstairs next to the athletic director’s office, by the football field. Y’all have your own showers and everything.”
“Cool,” I say without thinking.
She mutters. “Yep. Super cool for you. Anyway, here’s your classroom. Go ahead and log on to your computer, and I’ll show you the program we use for grading assignments. What software are you using for lesson plans? What we use is probably older than what you’ve started on.”
This room is exactly as I remember it. In fact, I think the whiteboard, the desks, the computer—nothing has been upgraded in fifteen years.
“Nice,” I say, resting my hands on my hips as a thousand memories from this room come flooding back. Specifically, passing my English final and turning in my last paper improved my grade enough to stay on the team and maintain a reasonable expectation of a partial athletic scholarship.
It all brings everything back to Mary.
My gaze lands on her again and the slightly confused, slightly impatient look she’s giving me. I recall the same look from when she had to tutor me. I would give her my cute, bullshit answers to practice test questions that would usually make my friends and teachers laugh. For Mary, none of it was a joke.
The fact that she didn’t laugh intrigued me. Those same blue eyes study me now. Her sweet, heart-shaped face is still the same in those big black-framed glasses and kooky earrings. She still has those pretty lips and long lashes that I remember. Unruly, frizzy hair that I wanted to touch but didn’t dare.
Her pretty face never changed a bit, but the rest of her is rounder, fuller, and drop-dead gorgeous.
Gone is the wistful thought that Mary is the one who got away. Someone lit a match and burned all that sweet high school shit to the ground. All that remains is pure, unadulterated passion. Need. Hunger.
I’m going to drag her off to a supply closet in a minute and absolutely wreck her.
No, I’m not. Football tryouts begin at 3 p.m. sharp. It’s now 2:15, and we have to get through this quick orientation, and then I need to find my office and grab some shit before meeting the players on the field.
“Beau? Lesson plans? What are you using?”
“Oh! Sorry. I was, uh….”
“Experiencing a momentary torpor?”
“Torpor?”
“A dormant state.”
I want to stand here and listen to her talk for hours, watching her lips move. And then go home and jerk off fifteen times in a row. What was she asking about?
“I don’t have lesson plans. Is there software for that?”
She blows out a breath. “Hoo boy. Yeah. Okay. Let’s just get you logged on. And maybe take off that jacket; you look miserably hot. There’s no reason to dress up today, anyway. The joke’s gone on long enough, don’t you think?”
Who knows what she means byjoke, but I slip out of the jacket and hang it over the back of my desk chair, then sit down in front of the computer, logging on with the username that Principal Patty gave me.
I absorb precisely zero things for the next several minutes while Mary leans over my shoulder, guiding me through all the software the school uses to grade tests and assignments. Her chest turns toward me whenever she points her forefinger close to the screen, and her boob brushes my arm. This close, a hint of citrusy perfume hits me, as well as her natural scent. Maybe a science teacher would know if pheromones are discernible with the human nose, but I feel like there’s something in the air, on her skin, that’s absolutely driving me wild for her. I have this inexplicable urge to taste her armpits right now as if that makes any sense for a human who walks upright. Her pits, her pussy, her underboob area. Anywhere and everywhere that scent is coming from.
I am a roiling, churning mess of a man right now.
Mary leans in close again, pointing out how to find the forms to fill out for detentions and tardies, and I nearly lose control of my senses.
Get a hold of yourself.
I turn my head slightly to the right, and my eyes are level with that sweet divot between her collarbones. A tiny drop of sweat has pooled there, and god help me, I lean in.
And inhale.
Mary reels back, but not too far. An inch or two.
