Lance

The bell blares its final warning for students to be seated.

Hopping onto the edge of my desk, I face a room full of animated juniors. It never ceases to amaze me that the human population doesn’t die off at age seventeen. At that point in our lives, we think with our genitals, smell like shit from either perspiration or too much cheap cologne, and have virtually no idea what we’re doing. Yet, we make it. Somehow.

With no regard for his classmates or my classroom, the captain of the football team elbows a girl a third of his size out of his way and takes her seat.

He may be the one who doesn’t make it.

“Brandon!” I shout over the ruckus in the room. “To the office.”

The students quiet, settling into their desks. They look from me to Brandon.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he asks, scrambling to his feet. “What’s up your ass?”

My foot if you don’t get out of here.

“Class,” I say, my eyes still pinned to Brandon. “What’s the first rule of history?”

“It repeats itself,” they respond in unison.

“It repeats itself. That’s right.” I mosey toward the door and yank it open. “Last week, you accidentally bumped Mr. Greyson and knocked him into the wall. Do you remember that?”

His jaw sets.

“There was plenty of room for you to walk around but you found it acceptable to plow through him instead. I removed you.”

His eyes narrow.

“You just took Ms. Cambria’s books off her desk and kicked her out of her spot. The first rule of history applies: you will be leaving us once again. Only this time, the second rule of history applies too.”

“The second rule?” Stacy asks from the front row.

“You never get the war you want.” Flipping my gaze back to Brandon, I nod toward the hallway. “Get out.”

“But—”

“You want to flex your muscles? Do it in the principal’s office.”

“But—”

“What?” I ask, lifting a brow. “That’s not the fight you’re after? Suddenly it’s not fair for someone with more power to exert control?”

“Fuck this,” he snaps, storming by me.

“I refuse to believe you’re the dumb jock you try so hard to make us all believe.”

This catches his attention. He stills, his fingers re-gripping the edge of his books, as he stops on the second landing leading to the office. I step into the hallway and partially shut the door behind me.

“Pushing people around and using language any idiot can use isn’t doing you any favors, Brandon,” I say, just loud enough for him to hear.

He doesn’t look back, but doesn’t move forward either. I take this as a win.

“You might get away with that at home and in your other classes, but you won’t in mine. I expect you to work to your ability and behave the same. Is that clear?”

There’s no answer, and I don’t expect one. He heads down the steps with a little less flare than before.

I head back inside my classroom. “Cause and effect, boys and girls,” I say, hopping back onto my desk. “Act like a fool, get treated like one.”

“You sound like my dad,” Kyler laughs.

“Your dad must be a genius. But is he as good looking as me?”

“That would be a no,” Stacy giggles.

The entire room bursts into laughter and I kick myself for walking right into that one. “Okay. Settle down. I want you to write a paper …” Standing and walking around my desk to the dry erase board as their moans ring out behind me, I write out the topic in black marker. “Write a minimum of one thousand words about a historical event of your choice and what caused it and its effects on the world.”

“Can I write about Kim—”

“No.” Looking at Stacy over my shoulder, I shake my head.

“But—”

“No.”

“But she—”

“All events must have taken place before you were born.” I look at the fairly young faces of my students. “That should eliminate a lot of popular topics,” I say pointedly at Stacy.

“Fine,” she grumbles.

They busy themselves writing down the assignment, whispering amongst each other about potential subjects. Everyone, that is, but Ollie.

Ollie’s head is down on his desk, his arms stretched out and dangling over the edge. The mop of hair that used to be kept cut short is a wild array that somewhat resembles a broom.

Last spring, he was one of my best students. Bright as fuck. Engaging. A charisma that reminded me of my cousin Peck. As the year went on, his clothes became wrinkled. His face more blemished. The edges of his papers more frayed.

“We have a game tonight, Mr. Gibson,” Lottie says from her chair. “Can we work on this today in class? Please?”

“How are your extracurricular activities any fault of mine?” I scoff playfully, snapping the cap back on the marker. Glancing down at the stack of papers needing grading, I decide to give in ... eventually. After all, I can’t let them think I’m easy. They aren’t the right demographic for that.

“I’ll dedicate my first goal to you tonight,” Lottie offers, smiling a mega-watt grin.

Sighing for effect, I slip into my chair and kick my feet up onto my desk. “You need to do better than that.”

“We won’t try to negotiate a lower word count,” Kyler offers.

I pretend to consider this.

“I won’t tell Ms. Malarkey you stole a cupcake from her office.” Stacy raises a brow, her lips pursed together. “I saw it on your desk.”

“She gave that to me, thank you very much.” My voice is smug, as is the look on my face. “She gave me two, actually.”

“You two have a thing going on? She’s single, you know. And freaking pretty,” Stacy shrugs. “Just saying.”

I begin to object, to point out Mariah just told me she wasn’t single. Before the words can escape my lips, I stop.

“I’m just saying,” I say, pulling my feet to the floor, confusion wracking my brain, “which staff members are single is none of your business.”

“Since you’re too old for me, at least for another couple of years, you should consider—”

“Enough,” I say over top of her.

The room breaks out into a fit of giggles and I give up.

“Fine. You win.” My hands thrown up in the air in defeat. “Work on your papers now. But if any of you start talking, I’ll lecture. I can talk all day about the Revolutionary War, kids.”

Much to my surprise, they pull out their notepads. I refrain from pacing around the room and making sure they’re writing what they’re supposed to because I’m certain they aren’t and I don’t have it in me to argue with them today. I’m just happy they didn’t press their luck because my brain is stuck solidly on Mariah’s dating life and not a war that took place in the seventeen hundreds.

With a final glance at Ollie’s napping frame, I move to grab a paper off the pile. My arm hits the discarded cupcake wrapper.

A soft, half-laugh finds it way past my lips as I grab the wrapper and toss it into the trash. Mariah is too easy to mess with, too easy to rile up. Her predecessor in the library was a senile old woman who never used the office. The first day Mariah walked in and caught me in a conversation that straddled the line of acceptable in a high school building, she ripped my ass. I, in turn, wanted hers. Beneath me. My hands cupping each round globe of her ass cheeks.

“Shit,” I mutter, adjusting my cock as discreetly as I can and forcing all thoughts of a naked Mariah Malarkey out of my mind.

The bell rings, assisting my efforts for once. “Have a good night, everyone. Stay out of trouble.” The kids leap to their feet, grabbing book bags and making plans for the weekend; it’s a scene of complete chaos. “Ollie, can you stay for a minute?”

He gathers his things and waits for the room to clear out. Once it’s just the two of us, I sink back against my desk. “How are things?” I ask.

His shoulders rise and fall. “Good. Fine. Why?”

There’s a hesitation in his voice that causes me to hesitate too. If I push, he’ll close up. It’s the code of teenagers.

“I have a younger sister and two younger brothers. It’s a thing when you’re the oldest kid in a big family—you notice things. And I’ve noticed you sleeping a lot in class lately.” Ignoring the rest of what I’ve observed, I tread a little deeper. “Things okay at home?”

“Yeah. It’s all good.” He shuffles his feet, his t-shirt hanging loose around his middle. “I appreciate you checking on me, Mr. Gibson, but I’m just tired. I can’t miss the bus.”

“Sure. Yes, go ahead.” There’s something that gnaws at me as I watch him leave. The sensation grows with each step he takes towards the door. He’s almost passed me before I speak again. “Hey, Ollie?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Just going to toss this out there—if you ever need help with something, don’t hesitate to reach out, okay?”

Shuffling his sneaker against the linoleum, he nods his head. “Sure. Thanks, Mr. Gibson.”

With a little wave, I watch him join the masses in the hallway and disappear from sight. Then, just as quickly as the hallway filled with students, it empties.

Taking my time, I grade a few papers on the history of Latin America. Placing Brandon’s essay on top, I make a few remarks that the laziness used to put together this project won’t cut it. This kid is capable of so much more. His parents don’t push him. His other teachers let him get away with half-assed work. Everyone seems to walk on eggshells around this kid just because he can play football and a few big schools are rumored to be looking at him.

Fuck that.

I’m all for following your dreams, but I’m also for following logic. Logic says you aren’t going to make it in professional ball, so you better have something to fall back on. Like a work ethic. A useful mind. Good habits.

While I’m straightening the stack of papers, movement in the hallway catches my eye. I’d know that ass anywhere.

My briefcase is on the floor and I grab it on the way out. After switching off the light, I head down the corridor littered with gum wrappers and wadded up paper. My steps increase so I can jet by the teacher’s lounge as Principal Kelly’s voice rings through the partially opened door. By the time I hit the double doors leading to the parking lot, I’m nearly jogging.

Then I stop.

I don’t time this perfectly every day. Not that I don’t try, it’s just Mariah is erratic. Sometimes she leaves at the bell, sometimes she’s here well past dark.

“Well, imagine seeing you out here,” I say, closing the distance between us. She stutter-steps, not looking back, as I approach. “How was your day?”

The wind ripples through the empty parking lot. Her long, dark hair that I’m one-hundred percent sure would look perfect wrapped around my hand as I pull her head back and plant kisses down the side of her neck before burying myself in her sweet little body, billows in the air.

“It was a good day,” she says, stepping up on the curb. “How was yours?”

“After the sugar high from the cupcakes?” I grin. “Those were great, by the way.”

“Those weren’t for you.”

“Eh. I think maybe they were.”

“Oh, really?” she laughs. “How do you figure?”

Our steps stop at the same time. We stand at the front of our cars, parked side-by-side by no accident. Her cheekbones are high, framing the pink-hued cheeks that have been kissed by the cool breeze.

“You know I use your office as my personal phone booth. When you leave little treats laying around, it certainly feels like you’re training me. Like Pavlov’s dog. I use your office—I get a treat.” Holding my hands to the side, I shrug. “I can’t help it you’ve trained me to come see you every day.”

Her eyes roll as she uses her key chain to unlock her car with the press of a button. “I’m going to get a lock installed.”

“You are not or you would’ve done it way before now.”

Her lips part, as if she’s about to argue, but nothing comes out. She opens the back door and tosses her bag into the seat.

“I heard a nasty rumor about you today,” I say, leaning on the side of my car.

“This should be interesting.”

“Seems a girl in one of my classes thinks you’re single.”

Her laugh is light as she leans against her car. We face each other, our stances mirrored. “I’m glad the student body is spending their energy concerned about my dating life.”

“It was an offhanded comment,” I admit.

“And we wonder why their grades are plummeting.”

“Is it true?”

“Yes, their grades are plummeting,” she winks.

Tucking my hands in my pockets, my goal is to appear casual. “Not what I meant.”

“Um …” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m not sure why that matters.”

“It doesn’t,” I say. “But is it true?”

“Kind of?” she laughs. “I hate labels.”

“If I were the guy you were seeing, I’d hate to think you were ‘kind of’ single.”

Shoving off the car, she laughs again. “Oh, I bet you would. You make that completely clear with your girls, don’t you? You’re like, ‘Now, remember. I’ll be sleeping with Gloria tomorrow so you are absolutely single.’”

“That’s not what I mean,” I say, standing straight too. Although she’s right. But this isn’t me. This is her. It’s different. “I mean, doesn’t the guy you’re seeing find offense in that?”

Her arms cross in front of her and it’s clear she’s not about to answer my questions. I voluntarily change the subject.

“Do you ever make red velvet cupcakes?” I ask. I don’t even know what the hell those are, but I heard my brother’s girlfriend talk about them the other day at Sunday dinner.

“I have,” she says, obviously confused. “I make them sometimes for the Senior Center.”

“The nursing home over by the church?”

“Yeah. Long story, but I knew a girl who worked there. She would tell stories about some of the residents and how they didn’t have family and it broke my heart. So I bake for them sometimes.” A small smile slips across her face. “There’s this old man there. They call him The Mayor, but I’m not sure he ever was the mayor,” she laughs. “Anyway, Red Velvet is his favorite. I make sure there’s some in every batch I deliver.”

There’s something different about her, a gentleness I don’t see often. She’s usually raring to go with me, a sharp tongue ready and waiting.

“Lance?”

“Sorry,” I say, clearing my throat. “That sounds like a nice thing to do.”

“It gives me purpose.” She no sooner than finishes the sentence before she sticks a finger my way. “Don’t even.”

“Don’t even what?” I laugh.

“Don’t make fun of me for saying that.”

“I …” Cocking my head to the side, I reconsider. “We all need a purpose. We just get them from different places. You get yours from cake … well, I kind of get mine from your cake too.”

Rolling her eyes, she pops open the driver’s door. “Big plans tonight?” she asks, changing the subject.

I want to back up to a few moments ago. To the moment where she looked a little vulnerable, like she was almost ready to tell me something real about herself, but I let it go. No sense in playing in a sandbox when I have no intention of staying there.

“I’m going to give some excellent aural in a minute,” I tease, “then possibly some oral, depending on how it goes.”

“I can’t with you,” she laughs.

“You can. There’s a standing invitation. Have I not made that clear?”

Her laughter grows. “You have. Thank you.”

“And …” I coax.

“And …” She mocks. “And what?”

“And you are taking me up on that when?”

“Good night, Mr. Gibson.”

It’s totally unprofessional of me to watch the hemline of her dress ride up her thigh as she gets into the seat. It’s even more unprofessional to look at her and wink when she catches me in action, but hell—that’s nothing compared to the vision of her naked in the backseat of the car that I’m imagining right now.

“You’re a cad.” The engine fires but her door stays open.

“You love it.”

“I have no idea why you’d think that.”

“You’ve trained me, remember?”

“I’ll have to work on reprogramming you.” Before I can respond, she pulls out of the parking lot with a coy little smile.

With the wind at my back, and her flowery perfume still lingering in the air, I watch her pull away. There’s a weird-ass feeling I get around her that I kind of both hate and love. It’s a complete raging hard-on coupled with a comfort level I’ve never had with a woman in-person before. Probably because she’s the first woman who’s given me blue balls on a regular basis that I’ve not fucked.

That’s the part I hate: I haven’t fucked her.

Then again, that’s kind of the part I love: I haven’t fucked her.

So weird.

A vibration in my pocket shakes me out of my thoughts, and I pull my phone out to see a message from my dating app. My stomach churns.

Glancing up as the taillights of Mariah’s car takes the corner towards Goodman’s Gas Station, I almost feel … guilty.

Stop it. Fucking is freeing. Clear. Uncomplicated. Don’t be dumb.

Her message pings again.

Nerdy Nurse: I’m a little flu-ish tonight. Happy to chat later but can’t meet up.

Me: I think you’re suffering from a lack of Vitamin Me.

Laughing as I type out the line, the acid in my gut evaporates and everything feels normal again.

Nerdy Nurse: Every. Time.

Me: You’d think you’d expect it by now. We’ve been exchanging these messages for how long?

Nerdy Nurse: You sent your first dick pic two months ago.

Me: It wasn’t my dick.

Nerdy Nurse: Those weren’t my legs either.

Me: Such a letdown.

Climbing into my car, I get situated as her text bubble bounces on the bottom of the app.

Nerdy Nurse: Is that a deal breaker?

Me: We have a deal?

Nerdy Nurse: Two months and we haven’t managed to meet up yet …

Me: That’s why I like nurses. You’re busy. You can’t be too attached. ;)

Nerdy Nurse: We’re also well-versed in needles and serums. ;)

A quick glance up has me looking into the window of Principal Kelly’s car. She gives me a dainty wave full of unspoken innuendo. I return her a two-finger salute before dropping my attention back on my conversation.

Me: You’re right. I need to reconsider this arrangement.

Nerdy Nurse: If that wasn’t your dick, I’m in the same boat.

Me: You only wanted me for what I was packing?

Nerdy Nurse: It’s a dating app. Did you think I wanted to marry you?

Me: Most women do, yes.

Nerdy Nurse: Patient coming in. Try not to miss me.

Me: K.

Nerdy Nurse: Bye, Potassium.

/Nerdy Nurse offline