They don’t let you teach Nabokov to high school students and there’s probably a pretty good reason for it. High school boys aren’t known as overly sensitive creatures, making the girls so starved for romantic attention that they regularly misdirect their fantasies toward any male over the age of 21 who seems both accessible and familiar. They don’t need the encouragement of a neo-classic writer. Sometimes a tweed sport coat and a pair of reading glasses are all the sophistication they require.
I’m nobody’s Svengali, but in the ten years I’ve been teaching at Joseph Heller High, I’ve had my share of dreamy-eyed students – unfortunately of both genders – and I never let it arouse anything more than my amusement.
Until Kylee.
Kylee was one of my more outstanding students…in more ways than one. Straight As, accepted equally by the geeks, freaks, pops and jocks, Kylee seemed destined to succeed in anything she put her mind to, as long as she could slip into the mindset of someone else. I’d seen her clean the floor with her opposition in the debate finals, then turn shy when I tried to compliment her on it afterward.
“Thank you Mr. Hanson,” she managed, looking at the third button of my shirt, her cheeks as crimson as a Louisiana crawfish. She seemed so uncomfortable that I didn’t say anything else, though I found myself wanting to touch her and tell her it was ok.
Kylee always seemed to be uncomfortable in her body. At 18, when all the boys her age were lusting after anorexic waifs, Kylee had filled out to a Modigliani dream of soft, unblemished alabaster curves. Her small rimmed glasses framed a pair of bright, gleaming eyes that I used to look into as I was lecturing on Steinbeck and Hemingway and other authors that no one in class gave a rat’s ass about and I’d find myself lost, the train of my thought lumbering on at breakneck speed until it had derailed in a smoking cacophony of lust and debauchery. Unlike so many of the girls who batted their eyes at me from the front row, Kylee had something going on in there. You could tell a person lived and breathed and thought in there.
And that’s what made her so dangerous to me.
I found myself hating to see the school year draw to a close. As a senior, Kylee would be graduating and the odds were I’d never see her again except in my fantasies.
These were the morose thoughts running through my mind on the day we posted the final grades. All seniors’ grades had to be in early so the administration would know if each would be able to graduate with his or her class. For the seniors, the year was officially over.
Kylee surprised me by waiting by my car as I left the school campus. Her cheeks flushed when she saw me.
“Mr. Hanson.”
“Kylee.”
She was looking at my shoes, then stole a look at my eyes only to drop her gaze once again to my feet.
“Are you ok with your grade?” I asked. Her large breasts were rising and falling with her breathing and I knew that if this kept up my slacks would begin to show signs of arousal similar to those that were pressing through Kylee’s bra and straining against her blouse.
“The grade? Yes. The grade. Was fine. It was fine.”
“I got the impression that your heart wasn’t in the final.”
She smiled. “I gambled,” she said. “I knew my chemistry final would kill me if I didn’t study, so I maxxed out my studying on that.”
“Well, an A minus in English Lit won’t keep you out of any Ivy League schools,” I told her. “And if it does, have them call me. I’ll set them straight.”
She giggled. It was something I’d never heard Kylee do and the sound was like an alarm to my libido. Then her face got serious again.
“Mr. H.,” she started again, as if she had rehearsed something to say, but the words were failing her now. She took a deep breath and reached into the notebook she carried under one arm, producing a small, invitation-sized envelope. She held the envelope out to me. It trembled slightly.
“For me?” I asked.
She nodded as I took it from her hand.
“I’m having a little party, you know, for graduation.” She was looking at my third button again. “I’d really like to see you come.”
Her eyes opened in horror and she looked directly into my face. I could almost feel the heat from her scarlet cheeks.
“I mean, I’d really like for you to…to be there.”
“Are you sure your friends won’t feel a little inhibited with an old man there?”
She shrugged and I watched her breasts bounce a little in the movement. “Fuck ‘em,” she said.
Now it was my turn to blush in open-eyed amazement. Kylee looked up just as a smile spread across my face. She laughed with me and for a brief moment I saw the confident woman move to the forefront. She cast a quick glance behind her and across the campus and when she turned back to me a long strand of honey brown hair fell across one eye. I swear to God, it took my breath away.
“Will you?” she almost whispered.
I realized my mouth was dry. “Will…I…?”
“Come,” she said, holding onto the last consonant and making it sound like a hum. Her free hand came up to pull the loose hair back behind her ear.
“I think I just did,” I said and immediately regretted it. The smile went away from her face and she looked at the ground again.
“I’m sorry,” I started, “That was really a tasteless joke and I…”
She silenced me by placing two fingers against my lips.
“No,” she said. “Let me believe I really did.”
She looked down again, but this time it wasn’t my feet she was looking at.
“Oh God,” she said, “I really have to go now.”
She walked away quickly, but looked over her shoulder twice to smile back at me.
I put the invitation in my pocket, got in my car and started it up.
I tried to pretend it was just another night. I grilled a New York strip for dinner and had it with a tossed salad and a nice Merlot. It was one of those moderately priced bottles that I was really saving for a special occasion, but I decided “what the hell.” I needed something to take my mind off the afternoon and the way Kylee’s breasts looked, rising and falling with every breath she took. Her invitation sat taunting me on my dinner table. Her voice in my head.
“I’d really like to see you come.”
I finished off my glass of wine, tilting my head back and taking it like a shot.
I let the water run in the shower until it was tepid. All those stories you’ve heard about cold showers – don’t believe them. All they do is make you realize that men have nipples too. I was soaked, shivering and horny when I wrapped the towel around me and went back to the kitchen for more wine.
Kylee’s invitation was waving to me from the table. I walked over and picked it up. Her penmanship was impeccable. To RSVP, she’d left her email address. It was a service that also had an instant messaging feature. I decided to gamble.
I pulled on a pair of boxers and sat down at the computer, opening my instant messenger and adding her email name to the list. Sure enough, she was not only registered, but she was online.
“Hello,” I typed to her, trying to figure out why my heart was beating like an 18-year-old again.
There was a long pause, then a musical sound accompanying her response. “Who is this?” she typed.
Shit! My screen name gave no clue as to who I was. I was lucky she had responded at all. “It’s Mitch,” I typed.
Again a long pause. “I don’t know any Mitch.” She typed back.
Another fuckup. She only knew me as Mr. Hanson. “Mitch Hanson,” I typed. “Your favorite teacher.”
There was another long pause. Longer this time. I was afraid I’d broached some forbidden barrier. “Kylee?” I typed.
Her response threw me. “OMFG,” she typed.
“I’m sorry. Was this a bad idea?”
“NO!” came the swift response. Then on its heels, “OMFG.”
Now it was my turn to be at a loss for words. I knew what OMFG meant, but I wasn’t sure how she felt when she was using it. Her next response cleared that up.
“This is so fuckin cool,” she typed. Then, quickly, “Oops. Sorry.”
“It’s ok,” I typed back. “Though as your English teach I feel obligated to point out that you need either a G or an apostrophe at the end of ‘fuckin.’”
“LOL,” she typed. “Thank you, sir.”
“Not at all,” I typed. “It’s my job.”
“Not anymore. I’ve outgrown you.”
“Think so? Then you don’t want me at your party?”
“OMFG! Are you RSVPing? Is that even a word?” she typed.
“We’ll let it go for now,” I took a big sip of wine. “About that party…”
“If you’re doing this to tell me you’re not coming I’ll close this window right now.”
“Kylee, do you really think your friends and family will be able to have a good time with an old man there?”
“YOU’RE NOT OLD!” she typed.
