Schooled 4.0

by Deena Bright

  Briggs’ face fills with sadness. He reaches for me. I move out of his reach, shaking my head. “What happened here was just stupid and… and… Damn it! I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’m a mess.” I hate the sympathy, pity, and sadness on his face.

  Students aren’t supposed to feel sorry for their teachers. Teachers didn’t confide in students. Hell, husbands weren’t supposed to bang their secretaries. This whole night was a clusterfuck of “not supposed tos.” I finally manage to put my key in the door. Briggs moves my hand, removing the key from the lock, putting my keys in his pocket.

  “Pancakes,” he says, shrugging. I must have looked at him with a baffled look, because he repeats himself. “Pancakes. I like to end drunken nights with pancakes.” He looks down at his phone, checking the time. “When I was little and we didn’t have much money, my mom would make pancakes, a ton of them. Pancakes always made me feel better.” He takes me by the hand, leads me to his car, and opens the door as I get in. “I think we need chocolate chip pancakes.” I stare at him in awe. He isn’t trying to cheer me up or get into my pants. He merely wants to take me to get breakfast to sober up and calm down. God, I really don’t know this kid like I thought I did. Correction again, he is a man, yes, definitely a man, not a kid.

  We drive in silence. No talking. No radio. Just the sounds of cars passing and our own breathing. My eyes strain to stay open. I’m so tired. Very tired. To think, twelve hours earlier, I was ecstatic, because the bell rang, students left, and the summer had just begun. Just as my eyes begin to close and my head falls back on the headrest, my phone beeps. A text. From Marcus.

  MARCUS: Where r u? Its 2:15 in the goddamn morning.

  How dare he talk to me that way! He has no right to think he can question me or cuss at me. If he cared where I was, then he should’ve kept his dick in his pants .

  I simply respond with:

  JANELLE: I came home, Marc.

  I feel so numb. I want to scream at him, tell him how I really feel, but I don’t even know how I feel. For Christ’s sake, I’m sitting, wasted, in a student’s car, a student who 20 minutes ago had his tongue down my throat. Oh God. What happened to my life?

  MARCUS: WTF???? When? Where r u?

  JANELLE: Marc, I left. I saw Lauren. I SAW you. I left.

  I don’t know what to say to him. I don’t want to say anything. I’m curious to find out what he’s going to say now. He’s a smart man. He’ll try to finagle his way out of this one. I look over. Briggs is staring intently at me. We’re parked at I-hop. I hadn’t even realized we’d stopped.

  “You okay? Need a minute?” I wonder if he knows who I’m texting. He has to. I’m holding my phone, shaking and trembling as it dings again. I look down. I’m surprised it isn’t ringing, but beeping with a text instead. I see his words. The words that define our entire time together. Utter disbelief.

  MARCUS: I want the ping pong table & Keurig. You don’t drink coffee anyway.

  Really? Married two years, together for five, and the only thing he has to say is that he wants our ping pong table and coffee maker! No apology? No stammering excuses? No promises of making it up to me? He should’ve been calling me. Begging me to come home, so he could explain. Not giving up on me, on us. Trying to make me listen. Who’d I marry? Who did I let myself fall for? Oh My God. Never again. I’m done. Done. No question about it. This is over. Ping pong table! He never even used it!

  “Miss Garrity?” So, now I’m back to ‘Miss Garrity?’ which is better. I suppose.

  “Pancakes, lots of pancakes and syrup,” I declare firmly. As I get out of the car, I feel better. Much better. Ping pong table. That’s what it all boils down to. My husband cares more about a ping pong table than he does about me, about our marriage, about our life together. Fine. Who knew a ping pong table and an overpriced coffeepot could seal the deal and be the closure I needed in a relationship that lasted five years, 4 ½ years too long? Done.

  Briggs doesn’t speak or really even look my way until after we order. He says, “I really wouldn’t have graduated without you Miss Garrity. That’s no joke.” He’s staring at me, searching my face for comprehension. I don’t know where he is going with this. “When you told us all about your parents leaving, that hit home.” Briggs shakes his head and looks at me with awe. “You did it without parents. I had two parents there helping and pushing. It wasn’t fair that crap your parents pulled.” He’s so serious, so honest.

  I had great parents. Perfect parents. Storybook parents, all the way up until my sophomore year of college. My aunt died. My mom and her sister, Lillian, were really close. My mom holed herself up in her bedroom and couldn’t deal with anything. This went on for months. Then, to add to her pain and worry, she found a lump under her arm and FREAKED. It turned out that it was an enlarged lymph node, due to an infection. She was fine. But she still couldn’t shake the feeling that she “was next.” She and my dad changed; I mean really changed. They packed up all of their belongings and left. They quit their jobs, withdrew their savings accounts, sold my childhood house, sold their cars, and left. Really left. They said that they had spent the last 27 years raising kids, fulfilling responsibilities, and doing what “the man” wanted. They wanted to do what they wanted: spend the last years of their life together, making memories and crossing items off their bucket lists, one by one. They do make sporadic trips home, for our weddings, their grandkids’ births, and that’s about it. In eight years, we’ve seen them five times. Last post card we got, they were living in New Guinea, teaching English to underprivileged children. For free.

  “I’m not QUITE as bitter as I used to be.” I laugh nervously, not even convincing myself. “They did what they wanted and are actually happy.” I state. Thinking about it for a moment, I add, “I guess they should be my inspiration. I need to do what I want.” I love giving myself drunken pep talks at 3:00 in the morning at I-hop with former students.

  “So, what do you want?” Man, Briggs is gorgeous. He was a good-looking kid when he was in my class, but sitting here across from me, eating his pancakes, he is more than an old student, he is one beautiful man, a man I can see myself getting lost in. I can’t believe that I’m still having these thoughts—even while sobering up.

  “I want to order more whipped cream and syrup for my pancakes, leave my husband, and spend the summer figuring the rest out.” That’s the truth. I’m not about to try to “work through” my problems with Marcus. They go far beyond him fucking his secretary. We’ve never had what Jocelyn and Rick have. We’ve never had anything really. Counseling and talking aren’t the answers. I married the wrong man.

  If someone hooked me up to a lie detector test and asked me if I loved Marcus, and I answered “yes.” It would detect the truth. I love him. He’s my husband. He saved me from being alone, from being lonely. If that same someone asked me if I was passionately in love with him and couldn’t wait to spend the rest of my life with him, and I answered “yes,” the machine would spaz all over the place. Marc isn’t my one. I think I’ve always known that. Sadly enough, he knows it too. Now, I know it’s over. I feel it.

  “Want to know the first time I really wanted to fuck the shit out of you?” Briggs asks, abruptly. Holy shit. As the words leave his mouth, chocolate milk shoots straight out of my nose and mouth. Did he just say that to me?

  “Ummm, first time? I didn’t realize that there were any.” Wiping my mouth, shirt, and lap, I feel my face redden and my lips moisten and twitch, not the ones on my mouth either.

  “Well Christ, tonight I had a hard time not taking you right on the dance floor, ripping you in half. But yeah, the first time, back in high school.” He looks so serious, so sincere. Looking at him, you’d think that we’re talking about the stock market, not about sex. He’s so nonchalant, at ease discussing sex with a former teacher. People just don’t get that teenagers aren’t who they used to be. Teenagers know more and see more than society really ever gives them credit for. Not that Briggs is a teenager. That,
he is not.

  “Well, I guess. Wait! No, that’s not appropriate,” I state, finalizing my statement. Sitting there staring at the most attractive man I’ve seen in a long time, I can’t help but wonder what he saw in me so many years ago. “But, yeah, I guess I do want to know.”

  Crap. I’m crossing a line again. But Hell, I need a little ego boost after seeing Marcus’ tongue… I look at Briggs, and sigh, “Go ahead, tell me.” I cave.

  “It was Spirit Week. You were a baby for Wacky Wednesday—”

  “What the Fu—heck is wrong with you? That’s sick, you pedophile!!” He raises an eyebrow. Who am I to call anyone a pedophile? Yeah Briggs is 23, but to me he’s a kid, does that make me a pedophile? It has to. Right? “Okay, before we talk about anything else, how old are you?”

  He guffaws, knowing damn well what I’m getting at. “Janelle, I’m done with the Miss Garrity crap. I’m 23. I’ll be 24 next month. You’re 29, and single—almost anyway.” He stops, double-checking that he hasn’t just crossed some imaginary offensive line, a line that may or may not have pissed me off.

  Continuing Briggs says, “I’m not your student anymore. I’m a man who cannot wait to get you alone again, privately, so we can finish what we started.” He grabs my hand, kisses my fingers, and says, “I’m praying that time comes soon, because that was the best start to anything I’ve ever had.”

  Briggs stops, takes a drink of his Coke and looks at me with lust in his eyes. Then adds, “And yes, the baby costume. I wanted to unzip those footie pajamas, from top to bottom, and see what you were wearing under them. You looked so hot. I’m getting hard now thinking about it.” He shifts in his seat, adjusting himself. Adjusting himself? Fuck, I’m squirming in my thong.

  Whoa. I chose that costume, being a first-year teacher, because it lacked all sexuality. High school boys and their raging hormones! I should have worn a hefty bag and gone as a bag of trash. I’m feeling kind of trashy right now. Briggs make me hot. I can’t deny it, but I’m going to deny it. But given my situation and how long, excruciating long, it’s been, the sausage link on my plate makes me kind of hot.

  I decide to pull the teacher-card and break it down, point by point for him. “Briggs, A. You are not going to get me alone like that again—ever again. That was a mistake. Granted, a nice and distracting mistake, but a mistake nonetheless,” I say, firmly. When he begins to interrupt, I put up my finger, silencing him.

  Continuing , I add, “B. How could those jammies get you worked up? You need to work on your self-control, young man,” I announce, placing my finger against his lips to quiet him again. I only take it away when his tongue darts out and licks the tip of my finger, sending jolts of desire right through me.

  Regaining my composure, I finish with, “And C. You’ll always be my student. I’m your teacher, remember, Miss Garrity to you—always Miss Garrity.”

  He smiles, but it’s more of a smug smirk. He raises his brow, shrugs his shoulders, and replies, “D. Janelle,” emphasizing my first name. “I’m going to fuck you, fuck you so right, you’ll forget everything you saw tonight and never remember that bastard’s name again.”

  He takes the last drink of his soda and gets out his credit card, smiling at my obviously shocked and impassioned face. “It might not be tonight, maybe not even be tomorrow. But it’s going to happen, probably a lot more than once.”

  With that, he gets up, leaves, pays at the counter, and walks out of the restaurant. I’m sitting at the table, stunned and so damn wet. He’s on to me. He knows I want him. He knows that I need to have him. I need this, more than I’ve needed anything in a long time. But, I have to deny myself this gratification. I can’t go there. I shouldn’t go there.

  Could I?

  Should I?

  Shit.

  I leave the restaurant. The car’s running and waiting for me in the handicapped spot. As I approach the car, he leans across and opens the door. Marcus couldn’t lean across and open the door. He’s too short. Briggs is much taller, bigger, hotter. He looks over at me, “Where to?”

  I hadn’t thought about where I wanted to go. I want sleep, a lot of sleep. “Can you just take me to the Hawthorne Suites by the airport? I’ll have a friend take me to my car tomorrow.” I could go to Charlene’s or Jocelyn’s, but what I wanted more than anything was some alone time, time to think, sort all of this through, and just decompress.

  Briggs paid for the room. I tried to protest; he hadn’t even graduated from college yet. He said that ESPN had already given him quite a bit of money for his “story” to use to advertise the new show. He was adamant about paying.

  After walking me to my room, Briggs pulls me into a strong embrace, slowly rubbing my back and kissing my head, and says, “Good night Janelle, sleep well.”

  As I watch him walk away, I’m shocked at how disappointed I am. There is no doubt in my mind that I want him to stay. He knows I want him to stay. Why is he leaving? I don’t want him to leave. I can’t resist the spell he has on me.

  “Briggs! Wait!” I call after him, wanting him to stop, wanting him to come back, wanting him.

  He stops, takes a deep breath, and turns around. His face is beaming and confident. He shakes his shoulders and takes another deep breath. Briggs walks toward me, nods, and says, “Goodnight Janelle, get some sleep. You’re going to need it next time I see you.”

  His hands are in white-knuckled fists. Smiling, he turns back around and takes the stairs down out of the hallway. That’s it? Well, shit. Alright then. I go into the room, close the door, and cannot figure out what to do with myself.

  After taking a long shower and blow-drying my hair, I get into bed still naked, but exhausted. The sun is starting to come up. I love that I can just close the thick hotel room curtains and “lock fair daylight out.”

  Leave it to me to be thinking about Romeo and Juliet right now. Always the teacher. Romeo moped and made himself an “artificial night,” because Rosaline vowed chastity. Marcus couldn’t spell chaste, fidelity, or faithful. I don’t want to lie here and think about him or his skanky secretary. I need sleep, but my head is so full, thoughts of Lauren and Marcus, thoughts of my parents and my future, but truthfully my only real thoughts are of dancing with Briggs and his hands and body all over mine. I keep tossing and turning, readjusting the pillow and blankets, trying to block the image of him kissing the flower tattoos on my hand. Just the thought of him makes my body shiver and my insides tingle.

  I start imagining him kissing, not just my fingers, but turning my hand over and opening each finger to kiss my palm and the sensitive part of my wrist. I think about him spreading my fingers apart and tenderly licking the cleavage between each finger, before taking my index finger onto his tongue and sucking it deeply into his mouth. With that, I can’t think about it any longer without allowing myself some release. I touch the tip of my nipple with my thumb and feel like I ignited a spark inside me.

  Briggs had me on fire and kept me heated up all night long. I fantasize that he’s rolling my nipples between his strong thumb and forefinger, tweaking, pinching, pulling, and then finally licking it, sucking it in to his mouth. I allow my own hands to run down my body. I spread my legs further across the bed, opening them for my traveling hands, wishing I was opening them for Briggs to put his body between. I’m soaking wet; my fingers slid easily in. My breathing is fast and labored. I moan a “Briggs” and find my heightened desire, only needing to touch, stroke, and rub a few times before I explode with a bed-shaking and body-quaking orgasm. I can’t believe that just moaning his name and touching myself a few times produced such a powerful release. I can’t wait until the real Briggs is in my bed.

  I’m going to fuck Briggs Alexander.

  And I can’t wait.

  “WHAT? WHAT? I’M speechless. I cannot fucking believe it.” Charlene is sitting in my hotel room cross-legged on the other queen-sized bed. I called her once I woke up and told her where I was. I used our code word, “Armageddon” when she answered.
She knew to drop everything and come to me immediately, no matter what else was going on. We established this in college. It hadn’t failed us yet. Sometimes, you just need your friends—pronto. Phone conversations just can’t cut it .

  I made her sit across from me in silence as I told her every last detail of the previous day’s events. “I know. Char, what am I going to do? My marriage is over.”

  “Oh screw that. Screw him. I couldn’t give two shits about Marcus,” she says, punching the pillow on her bed for emphasis. “I cannot believe you didn’t fuck Briggs Alexander right there on the dance floor,” she groans, lying back on the bed, covering her head with her hands. “What is wrong with you? This is Briggs, Briggs Alexander, Ohio State golden boy.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. “Lauren had Marcus HANDCUFFED to my bed!” How is she so easily missing the point? “And Briggs never even played for the Buckeyes, fractured skull, remember?”

  “Tressel wanted him. If he was good enough for Tressel, then he’s certainly good enough for me. When are you seeing him again?” Char’s so frustrating; she only focuses on what she wants to focus on. “You better not say, ‘never.’ With that douchebag out of the way, you can fuck anyone now. Plus it’s time for you to know some shit about that bastard.”

  Charlene told me that after our rehearsal dinner, Marcus cornered her in the parking lot and begged her for one of her infamous blowjobs. He swore he’d never tell anyone, but thought he deserved one last “blowie before the chapel he had to go-ey.” His exact words she said. I could hear Marcus saying that too. He always called it a fucking “blowie.” God, that should’ve been my first clue. Jesus Janelle, pay attention to the damn signs! Such a douchebag!