by David Rose
Teacher's Pet
by David Rose
Copyright 2016 David Rose
Published by
Two Moons Books
License Notes
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and actions have either been invented by the author or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to real persons, whether living or dead, or to actual occurrences, is therefore necessarily and entirely coincidental.
Teacher's Pet
Sam Loves Becky. Well, it didn't say that in so many words. On the birch trunk the crudely carved heart simply had SLB in the middle, but sixteen year-old Becky remembered what the letters stood for. Once upon a time, a year ago, she'd been the most important person in Sam Forrester's life. She sighed, then went on into the house and trotted upstairs to dump her book-bag on her bed.
She sat at her desk, looking out of her bedroom window over at Sam's house next door. His window faced hers, but it was empty. No doubt Sam was still at school, helping Miss Guyot with something or other after class.
The bright sunshine of a May afternoon illuminated her face, but it didn't make her beautiful, or even pretty. Becky had ordinary brown hair pulled back in an ordinary and slightly untidy ponytail. Her wide eyes were light brown, which a kind person might have called hazel, her nose was a touch too long, her chin a bit too firm, and her lips might be called full but her mouth had no particular shape. At least her freckles had faded, and the acne had eventually cleared up. On the other hand, she'd never quite shaken off what her Papa had called her puppy cuddles, so she wasn't nearly as slim as she might have been. There'd been a time when Becky had never thought about what she looked like from one day to the next, but now she'd begun to look in the mirror and to wish that she looked - different. Taller, blonder, more elegant.
Becky grimaced and cut off that line of thought. She popped in her earplugs and selected some Evanescence, and then began to work on the Social Studies essay which was due the next day. Miss Guyot wanted a critical discussion on the ineffectiveness of current measures against sex offenders.
A while later her mobile lit up with Lisa's face and Becky answered with a smile for her best friend.
"Hey, Becky, d'you want to come over and help me demolish a pizza later?" Lisa asked.
"You bet!" Becky agreed, "But what happened to the diet?"
"I've given up. Jean doesn't even know I exist any more. Why should I care about looking good for him?"
"Yeah, I gave up on Sam a while ago. But let's not get too down if it's pizza night - what are we going to get?"
"Well, I figured we've got so much homework to do, we need a lot of energy to get it all done, right?" Lisa chuckled.
Becky giggled. "Just how much energy d'you think we need?"
"I thought maybe a Four Seasons double-decker and a deep dish Hawaiian might do it."
"Better add a side of those cheesy cocktail wieners, and extra cheese on the pizzas."
"Some things go without saying," Lisa's smile came through the mobile, "See ya later!"
Becky closed the mobile and set it down, pulling thoughtfully at her ponytail with the other hand. They had a big problem at school and it was only getting worse. Its name was Miss Guyot.
She'd arrived from Montreal nine months ago, was French-Canadian in the most charming possible way, and had been the center of attention for every male in the school from the moment she'd stepped out of her Porsche in those high heels and that inappropriate black miniskirt. Not even to mention the semi-transparent charcoal blouse. Her age was hotly speculated upon, but no one was opting for anything over thirty five, and very few would even go as high as thirty.
In Becky's opinion (a view which was widely held among all the girls in school), only teenage girls should or could ever wear miniskirts. The breach of this fundamental tenet stung still more since Miss Guyot wore hers so effectively.
Miss Dominique Guyot was tall, blond, and, not to put too fine a point on it, super-hot. She had enormous green eyes which were ever so slightly tilted like a cat's, the kind of pouty lips other women tried to achieve with botox, and smooth, creamy pale skin. She carried herself with the understated grace of a gazelle, rather than the strut of a model, and she seemed to be utterly irresistible. If that was what she wanted then her provocative style in clothes certainly helped; but in spite of her fondness for black Becky couldn't honestly believe the moderately popular theory that Miss Guyot was actually a witch.
Perfectly decent young men - like Sam, for example - had abandoned girls they'd been going steady with for years, or at least months; if not at once then within a few weeks. It was as if they'd been hypnotized. All they did was stare at Miss Guyot in class with their tongues hanging out, and then flock around her in breaks and even after school, desperate to do anything to prolong their time in her presence. And the male teachers were no better. When Miss Guyot spoke with him, even Dr. Hatchett, the elderly principal, got this look on his face like he'd been hit between the eyes by a bowling ball.
But it was the way Miss Guyot messed with the boys that really pissed Becky off. She'd play one off against another for the title of Teacher's Pet for the week. Her Pet would get special attention, and be allowed to do more menial tasks for her than any of the others. None of these boys could seem to see what was disgustingly obvious to every one of the girls, and that made it all just totally unbearable.
When Becky had left school that afternoon, Sam was part of Miss Guyot's entourage, and not about to be distracted by anything so insignificant as the former love of his life.
Becky had trudged out of school in a depressed sort of way, pausing in the entrance hall to acknowledge the memorial photo to Dean Kavanaugh, a classmate who'd drowned in a boating accident at the end of March, and whose body had never been recovered. He'd been a popular boy with the girls, with those bright blue eyes and his quick wit. She would stop by his parents' place on the way home; they needed to hear that people remembered their boy, and missed him just as his parents still did. Amy Ferguson greeted her just then, and they went off together.
Becky scanned what she'd written so far. Not particularly inspired, but adequate, although it probably needed more details. And she was still 300 words below the minimum. She should probably Google a bit more. Right then her play list ran out, so she pulled up The Killers and listened for a bit.
Absently Becky tapped her pencil between her teeth and drifted off in a reverie of the good old days BMG - Before Miss Guyot. She and Sam had grown up as the kids next door, had known each other for as long as either could remember.
She'd always liked Sam, his honest good nature being a kind of stabilizer for her more volatile moods. He wasn't too tall for her either, and he'd begun to develop impressively broad shoulders for his height. She'd dreamed of running her hands through his curly brown hair. A wistful smile curved her lips as she recalled the first time she'd kissed him. Of course, he still believed that it had been he who'd done the kissing, but guys were so sweetly naive that way.
They'd been doing duty as ushers for a school play the year before, and were sitting outside on the hall steps waiting for the last of the late arrivals. It was nearly summer, so it had still been quite light. She'd fancied Sam for ages, and she was pretty sure he liked her too. Why else would he have started tripping over h
is words, or just clamming up altogether when she spoke to him? His fair freckled complexion would flush easily, and she could say something as innocuous as, "Hey, Sam, you want a hot dog, or a hamburger?", and he'd stand there trying to frame an answer, and looking at her like a stray puppy confronted with the animal control officer. Or she'd pass him a soda, and their fingers might touch, and he'd go red, especially his ears. So she'd known he'd need a little help.
They'd been sitting on the steps, thinking out loud that the late-comers probably weren't coming at all, but they'd been told to stay on duty until eight-thirty.
"Hey Sam," she'd asked him, "Who do you think is the prettiest girl in our class?" Yeah, bright red, but she'd pretended not to be looking at him.
"Or should we talk about who's the best-looking guy? What about Dean?"
Sam had made a strangled noise, like a frog clearing its throat.
"Black curly hair, deep blue eyes, tall, handsome, rich... that Irish charm works pretty well, doesn't it?"
"He's had a lot of girlfriends," Sam had managed.
"Yeah, I suppose being faithful is not one of his strong points. But what compensations!"
"Do you really like him?"
"Well... there's a difference between fancying someone and really liking