by E. R. Whyte
Our senior class is small compared to many, roughly two hundred kids overall. We are a smaller, widespread and largely agricultural community, so the school is a combined one, with eighth through twelfth grades making their way through to graduation. I teach half of the seniors and another teacher has the other half. This student has a familiar face, but after over a month of teaching, I know he is not on my roll.
“Hello? I think you might be lost.” I joke, trying to keep it light. It’s not the first time someone has sneaked in my class, for whatever reason. Sometimes they’re trying to continue a conversation with a friend. Sometimes they’re trying to hang out with a girlfriend or avoid a different teacher. Sometimes they are legitimately lost. He’s not chatting with anyone, although it’s clear the others know him. There’s no girl hanging off him. His eyes don’t shift around like he’s nervous but instead watch me, unblinking.
It makes me nervous. This student… something about him says different. I’ve been paranoid since my chatty peep show client—the student—always wondering if he was that guy digging in his locker every morning outside my room, or the one that liked to park in the faculty lot since he had a parent on staff. Wondering if it’s the same person who called and scared the bejesus out of me.
This guy sits casually in a classroom desk too small for his large frame, long legs sprawled in front of him and giving me an impression of height. His dark hair curls at the nape of his neck and pale eyes study me intently, like he knows me. His features echo, discordant, in my memory again, but I can’t place him. I squint behind my glasses, trying to recall where I know him from.
He’s really… beautiful, in a masculine way. And I’m gawking. With difficulty, I place my gaze somewhere safer than the wintry pool of his eyes, and realize that he’s answering me, a hint of a laugh on those lips. “No, ma’am.” His voice comes out low and gravelly and entirely too manly for his status as a high school senior. Beyond that, it emerges with a resonance that courses along my nerve endings, raising goosebumps on my exposed forearms. My gaze drops to them involuntarily and then back to the student as he hands me a yellow slip of paper. “I’m right where I’m supposed to be.”
My eyes drop to the paper, futilely try to burn away the impression of those pale eyes. Winter skies and frozen lakes. The comparisons flash before me as I find his name on the paper. Gunner Ford.
The past hurtles back, and I remember a party. Seven minutes in heaven and a boy in a closet—a lean, gangly ninth grader with a nose too large for his face and eager hands that he nonetheless tried to be a gentleman with. Breath like mint and beer.
Sammy. Gunner and Miles used to come to my house to hang out with Sammy and bug the shit out of me. They’d hang out with Sammy and try to be cool, failing miserably. “Gunner,” I whisper, and look at his face, searching for my brother’s friend.
The nose that was once too big has become an unapologetic blade in the center of the face that grew to fit it, Romanesque like the cheekbones that carve contours on either side. His lips are full and despite my efforts to be professional, a memory of kissing them surfaces and I blush.
“Gunner. I remember you. Nice to see you again.” I turn back toward my podium and try to regather my professionalism. “Are you able to come see me on my planning period? It’s sixth period. We can figure out what we’ll need to do to get you caught up.” Gunner nods.
“Today we’re discussing Hamlet’s relationship with Ophelia. Does he love her? Did he once, and then stop? Why did he treat her as he did? Gunner, if you haven’t read Hamlet yet, just follow along as best you can.”
“I’m good,” he says easily. Gunner has a laid-back good ole boy vibe that I somehow know is a mischaracterization. This boy is anything but laid back. His confidence says that he’s anything but a follow-the-leader, aw-shucks good ole boy. He is a leader. I don’t remember this from our past encounters. But then… he was a kid four years ago.
I nod briefly and continue. “I’d suggest taking a few notes, as always,” I direct, stepping to the white board and grabbing a dry erase marker. I halfway turn and glance behind me to make sure the class is listening. “And I mean old-school notes, not ‘I’ll-just-snap-a-pic’ notes—” I trail off, my hand involuntarily going to my rear end when I notice the focus of one student’s intent gaze. I twist awkwardly to see if I’ve sat in something, but the seat of my perfectly demure knee-length skirt is clean. “Is there something wrong with your eyes, Mr. Ford?”
“Good working condition, ma’am,” he drawls in reply. The class finds this hilarious, and I feel my cheeks heat for the second time in as many minutes. Gunner’s eyes flicker to the class around him as they snicker, and I hate the flush that makes my every emotion so plain for the world to see. Gunner, acting the smug jackass, however—I can do something about him.
I take the three steps to his desk and lean down on it, my palms flat on its surface. It’s a pure power pose, and one I’ve seen men use countless times, but I’ve never resorted to such tactics in the few weeks I’ve been here, mainly because I’m fearful they’d backfire on me and I’d be in a worse position. There’s nothing that says power, after all, like a petite red-headed woman with freckles.
This boy, though... he’s too big. Too full of himself and the power his deceptively lazy form says he thinks he wields. Maybe it’s because of our past interaction. Maybe it’s because he sees himself as too much man, already. Maybe there’s something in his file that I need to check out. Part of me, deep inside, shivers. Whatever it is, he needs to be shut down, and fast.
He faces me squarely, unblinking as he works a toothpick between his teeth. Our faces are so close across the expanse of desk I can see deeper spears of navy in his irises as he stares up beneath hooded lids.
“Let’s get one thing straight, Ford,” I grit out. “I’m not sure why you switched into my class, but you can expect to work in here. Ogling is not on the menu. I’m not here for your amusement. I’m not here for your viewing pleasure. I’m—”
“No, ma’am. But if you want to give me seven minutes—” he replies, and my breath catches. Hoots and giggles fill the room, showing me what I’m working with as far as the rest of my students knowing our brief but scandalous history. God, what they’d do if they knew I stripped. I don’t smile.
“That’s inappropriate,” I say clearly. I twist my head and glare around the classroom, and the noise dies away to silence.
Gunner dips his head. “It was. I apologize.” I search his expression for a moment and see nothing but sincerity, so straighten and turn back to the board. I begin writing.
Obsession. Madness. Vengeance. Exploitation. Control. Identity. My pen strokes are thick and sloppy on the whiteboard, conveying my agitation more overtly than I’m happy with. It is clear that Gunner Ford intends to make my life difficult, but I wish I could better conceal my reactions to him.
Finally, when I’ve scrawled all I can think to write, and the class is dead quiet, I turn back around. Everyone is writing, which steadies my nerves somewhat. “Alright, I’ll apologize in advance, guys, but I’m passionate about my Shakespeare.” A couple of kids groan; some laugh, but most just lean forward a little in their seats.
“You can be passionate about me, baby.” The voice comes from the center of the room, muttered but still distinct. There are a few uneasy ripples of laughter.
“Shut it.” Gunner twists in his chair, a glare on his face.
One of the guys in the third row back holds up his hands. “Dude, sorry.”
This is why I didn’t want to teach. I don’t even know what to do. Are they about to fight? Should I send them to the office? I opt to ignore it and clear my throat. “So, anyway. Moving on. There’s so freaking much in this play. It’s hard to know where to start. What would you say is the most pervasive theme? How does it relate to the relationship between Hamlet and Ophelia?”
Our discussion feels like it has scarcely gotten underway when the bell rings, si
gnaling the end of class. Essay assignment in hand, everyone starts filing out, except Gunner Ford. He stands and approaches my desk, rubbing the back of his neck as students for my next class start arriving.
“Did you need something, Gunner?”
“Um, no, I guess not. I’ll see you later.” He turns abruptly and bolts, leaving me wondering what that was all about.
I am ready for the day to end when the last period of the day arrives. It is technically my planning period, but I often arrive to work early so I could leave early. I can’t today, though, as Gunner is coming in. Hopefully, he would be fairly on track in his former class and wouldn’t require too much catch-up.
He arrives a minute or two after the bell, breezing in with empty hands and a confident air.
“Hey,” I greet him. “Have a seat. What do you have this period? I’ll get a pass ready to excuse your tardy.”
“No need. I have sixth release.”
“That’s nice… I guess you’ve almost finished up with most of your credits, then? Did they give you release for sports or work?”
“I use it for football in the fall and then transition back to working for my family’s business afterward.”
“You’re still playing football, then?”
“Yeah. It’s my last season.”
“So this is the end? Are you going to play in college, or is that even something you’re interested in doing?”
He sits down in a desk, fitting himself uncomfortably in its small proportions. His long legs sprawl out to the side and he drapes an arm over its top, making it look like a piece of doll’s furniture. “No. I work for my family’s vineyard, so I’ll be taking coursework designed to help me with that. And I’ve never wanted the stress of playing in college. I’ll just miss the game. Miss my team.”
I nod. “I get that. I felt the same way with dance when I was a senior.”
His eyes gleam. “That’s right. I remember you dancing.”
“Yeah, well, maybe that’s enough memory lane. I’m thinking we should keep the past out of the classroom.” It’s as good an opportunity as ever to get that out in the open. “Forget seven minutes in heaven, Gunner. That was a kid’s game, and a dare for me. Nothing else.”
Gunner draws designs on the desktop with his finger. “You mean my comment today?”
“Exactly.” He doesn’t reply, and after a moment I keep going. “Okay… well, let’s get you up to speed so I don’t hold you up too long. I’m sure you have places to be—” Inwardly, I’m cringing. This is so awkward. And why the hell do I even care? I take a deep breath, ready to launch into an explanation of the syllabus and text I’ve set in front of Gunner when his big, warm hand covers mine. I freeze instantly, looking pointedly down at his hand, and he lifts it warily.
“Sorry. Just... sorry. Just wanted to get your attention.”
“For?” I pick up my water and sip.
“Just to say I’m sorry for earlier. You were right. I was disrespectful, and no matter how insanely good your ass looked—”
“Gah—” I spew water inelegantly through my nose all over my desk and his shirt. “Oh, my god… That’s what I’m talking about! You have no business even looking at my behind, let alone saying things like that.”
“I had no call forgetting my manners,” he agrees. Grabbing a tissue, I start blotting at the combination of spit and water on the desk. “But I won’t apologize for letting you know I think you have a great ass. What was it that Polonius guy said? To yourself be true, or something like that?” He stands, the action putting him too close for my peace of mind. He just paraphrased fucking Hamlet, my brain whispers. I guess he was listening to something in class.
He pulls the tissue gently from my hand and tosses it in the trash can and I blink my eyes long and slow, exhaling sharply. My hand stills, then falls away. Danger, Will Robinson, Danger.
“I think that’ll be all, Gunner. Please review the syllabus and let me know if you need anything. The topics on it will show up on the final exam, so make sure you’ve done the reading for anything I won’t cover in class. I’ll get your grades from your counselor. Now go.” I turn away and start packing my take-home bag, not waiting for anything further from him. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t know why, but I can’t think in his presence. I can’t listen to the low, rumbly growl of his voice, can’t smell his cedar and citrus scent, without it making me think about things I have no business thinking.
I lectured him, but I can’t deny that in the safety of my own thoughts, Gunner Ford is not that gangly fourteen-year-old from three years ago. I should not be noticing things like the way his chest looks under that tee shirt, or the trace amount of stubble on his chin.
Gunner interrupts my musings by rising from the desk. “See you soon, Teach.” After several seconds, I hear the soft pad of his feet on the floor, and the click of the door as it closes behind him.
8
Shiloh
It’s Thursday evening, so I settle in the corner of my couch, phone in hand and a glass of wine on the table beside me. Every Thursday I’m ready and waiting for Cotton’s call. She’s currently deployed somewhere in Latin America—I don’t ask, and she doesn’t say—so calls lately have been irregular.
Sometimes she only has a few minutes for a hasty voice call. Sometimes it’s a string of texts. When she’s on base, though, and has ample time, we get to see each other face to face via Skype. I’m hoping tonight will be one of those nights.
I want to see her face when I tell her Gunner Ford is in my class.
Minutes later, I see the call connecting and her face fills the screen. It’s filled with static, but she’s there.
“Hey, girl, heyyyy!” she says, her standard greeting.
I give her a finger wave with both hands. “How’s life, chickadee?” As a lower level operative with SouthCom, Cotton’s not generally open about her job or its status, but I always ask anyway.
“Same old, same old.”
I snort. “I’m sure. Same old gun fights, high stakes operations, humanity in crisis, that sort of thing.”
Cotton smiles at my jab, but it’s a tired smile. “It’s not all like that.” She’s quick to change the subject. “What’s up back home? You lost that pesky v-card yet?”
“Umm, no. But I’m just fine with that. You know I’m not giving it up to just anyone and I don’t have time for dating and shit.”
“Blah, blah, blah. All I heard was ‘I’m afraid of dick.’”
“Cotton! I am not afraid. I just prefer to be in a committed relationship first.” I decide to change the subject. “You are not going to believe this. You remember Gunner Ford?”
“How could I forget?”
“He’s in my English class. Switched in this week.”
“No way. I bet he is crazy hot now. He was such a cutie when he was younger. And tall! Is he tall?”
“I think you’re missing the point, Cotton. This is disruptive to my class.”
“‘This is disruptive to my class…’” Cotton mimics me perfectly. “Babe, pull the stick out of your ass. I’m not missing the point at all. He’s hot and apparently you are just going to have to work on restraint, you cougar, you.”
“Ha, ha,” I reply dryly. “He has legend status or something for sucking face with me. All of my other students know about it and think it’s this big thing.” I shift uneasily on the couch, disrupting the camera’s view for a second until I resettle. “You should have seen them laughing when I got on his case for staring at my ass.”
“He was checking out your ass? Tell me more.” Cotton props her chin on her hands, and I roll my eyes.
“Again, missing the point.”
“You are no fun. I would expect no less. I’m sure he’s not the only guy checking out your ass. Your ass is great, Shiloh. Like JLo great.”
“Cotton…”
“Okay, seriously?” She adopts a solemn expression.
I nod. �
��Please.”
“Tell mama all about it.” She makes a gimme gesture.
“That’s most of it. He is just always watching me, always… looking. It makes me uncomfortable.”
“Uncomfortable good, or uncomfortable bad?”
I stop myself from making an impulsive response and cast my mind back to our interactions. We hadn’t had many, but the times we had interacted had left me bothered. Unsettled. But they hadn’t frightened me.
Uncomfortable good, my head whispers.
“I’m not sure yet,” I tell Cotton.
She sits back and temples her fingers, assessing.
“I think you’re creating a problem where one does not exist. So you kissed three years ago. Don’t assign it more significance than it has. Just do your job and treat him professionally. Shut him down when he tries to pull stuff. And babe, he will try to pull stuff. He’s a boy in high school with a hot teacher he wants to impress.” She holds up a single finger. “But definitely shut it down the way you did. If you don’t, you’re going to have trouble with all the boys. You remember Miss Jones? How all the boys were panting after her?”
“Oh, yes. I felt so sorry for that poor woman.”
She looks at someone off camera and makes a face. “All the dudes here are the same.”
“Someone there giving you trouble?” Once upon a time, Cotton and I had dreamed of traveling the world together after high school. She was going to be a correspondent, and I was going to be a photographer, snapping photos to accompany her incredible, life-changing stories.
Things didn’t work out quite as we’d envisioned. She ended up enlisting, more as an eff you to her parents than out of any real desire to be in the armed services. Her parents had been mortified.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” she says now, and there’s steel enough in her eyes that I believe her. Still, I make a mental note to return to this later. It’s not like her to be evasive with me.
She lets me sit in quiet for a minute while I consider her words. This is one of the huge reasons we have remained friends as long as we have. We both have no problem doling out truth and then giving each other as much time as we need to accept it. “You’re right, of course, Cotton.”