Forbidden Fruit: An Unlikely Love Story

by Michelle Fondin

  Brogan grabbed the schedule out of Marissa’s hands. “Oh my God, you have a beach bum schedule. My mom forced me to take Latin and Math this year.”

  “Oh well,” Marissa smiled. “C’est la vie!”

  Marissa had actually worked her butt off junior year to get a little ahead. She took so many credits the previous year; she didn’t even have a lunch hour. As she compared her schedule to Brogan’s, she felt not once ounce of pity. She deserved that break.

  Brogan studied her schedule and commented, “Did you notice how many new teachers there are this year?”

  Marissa hadn’t noticed. But looking again she saw that she only recognized two teachers’ names out of four.

  “And look at my schedule,” said Brogan shoving her schedule into Marissa’s hands.

  Huh, thought Marissa, Brogan has two new teachers as well. Then she studied it harder. Intro. to Art Mr. Smith Art Room. Her eyes bugged out at Brogan. “Art? You’re taking Introduction to Art? O.K. you really have a lot to say about my schedule,” she said sarcastically.

  “Hey, I had one more elective and I thought it might be fun to take art,” said Brogan defending herself.

  After saying, hi to everybody in the halls, Marissa sauntered into her music class. She raised her eyebrows as she spied the new teacher. It appeared that he had walked off the cover of GQ magazine and into St. Mary’s choir room. As handsome as he looked, he was clearly a first year teacher. He stuttered as he spoke and fumbled through class as if the classroom of senior choir students were going to suddenly take over. Marissa felt sorry for him and found the flustered teacher, rather charming. During the break she saw Pamela in the hall.

  It was Pamela’s freshman year and Marissa sought the opportunity to tease her a little bit.

  “Hey Pamela,” Marissa chided, “Did you get lost yet?”

  “Shut up doofus! I just had art class. Like I would get lost going to the art room, puhleeze,” Pamela said annoyed.

  “Hey check out the new music teacher,” Marissa whispered to her sister, “He’s simply divine.”

  “Well, I’ll bet he’s nothing compared to my new art teacher.” said Pamela as she motioned over her shoulder.

  Marissa glanced around her shoulder and her mouth nearly dropped. If the music teacher had stepped out of GQ, the art teacher had been sent down from the gods. A tall, thin and sculpted man in his early twenties stood, with a notepad in hand, and glanced back and forth nervously as students swept past him. But it wasn’t his body that stopped her dead in her tracks. It was his face. His wavy sandy-colored hair fell close to his deep-set blue eyes, which gave way to his prominent cheekbones and strong chin. Marissa was awestruck. He reminded her of a Greek god that an artist had carved out of stone.

  “You win.” Marissa sighed dreamily, “He is gorgeous.”

  “Forgetting about Dan are we,” Pamela giggled.

  Marissa whacked her sister on the head with her binder, “No jerk,” she huffed, “I’m just admiring beauty.”

  As she ran down the hall to her second period, she thought, Well at least the scenery at St. Mary’s will be more pleasant this year. Her thoughts went back to the art teacher’s blue eyes and her stomach filled with butterflies. She noticed this and felt discomfort and guilt. For the two years she had known Daniel, she would check out other guys but never had a guy affected her so strongly.

  Marissa’s heart was still beating fast as she reached the classroom door just in time for newspaper class. Ms. Prime, the journalism teacher, was going through article ideas for the first issue of the school newspaper.

  The teacher rattled off the ideas listed on her notepad, “O.K. we have the first football game, the back to school dance, other sporting events, back to school pictures and events, and the new teachers. Any other ideas?”

  Sam, the newspaper editor and class president, raised his hand and gave some suggestions: an advice column, a fashion column and a Beevus and Butthead column.

  Marissa rolled her eyes at him. How immature. Out of all of the guys at St. Mary’s she really liked Sam the best. He was smart and genuinely nice. He had a sweet boyish face and his ears stuck out a little but sometimes he reverted back to an eight-year old when he was around his friends.

  As the senior boys made fake laughs like Beevus and Butthead, Marissa stared at them in disbelief. She couldn’t believe these kids were going to start college next year too. In fact, she had a hard time looking at them as peers. She had grown up with most of those boys and they were more like brothers or distant cousins to her. And there was no way she would have ever considered dating any of them. They were way too immature. As far back as she could remember. Marissa had always preferred boys who were a little older.

  “Now think about what articles you might want to write,” said Ms. Prime, “and Sam will assign one or two to each of you.”

  Since Marissa was sitting closest to the door, Ms. Prime handed her the list first. Marissa was still shaking her head in disbelief at the monkeys across from her. She glanced over the list. Most of the topics looked absolutely boring. Sports, no. The school dances were always a flop for anyone but freshmen. School fashions didn’t inspire her either, since everyone had a dress code in school. So that left the new teachers, advice, and back to school. Marissa stared at the topic: new teachers. The word took her back to the hallway where she saw the art teacher. New teachers. She thought about his chiseled features and her stomach flip-flopped again. She had a compelling feeling that she had to write that article. For some reason, she wanted to find out more about him. His innocent, nervous look was intriguing but she didn’t know why.

  “Marissa!” Sam shouted from across the room waking her from her daydream, “Will you pick something already?”

  “The new teachers,” she said firmly hoping that no one else wanted the article.

  “O.K.” he said, “That’s a lot of work for a first article. Are you sure you don’t want to split it with someone?”

  Marissa shook her head vigorously. “No thanks. I can handle it.” She was relieved that no one else spoke up.

  After all of the articles had been assigned, Ms. Prime finished the class by explaining the importance of deadlines in journalism. “You miss your deadline: your article doesn’t get printed. It’s as simple as that,” she explained. “And if your article doesn’t get printed, I won’t grade your work. And if you don’t get a grade, well, you’re all seniors, do I really have to go on?”

  Everyone nodded to indicate they understood. It was a privilege to be on the newspaper staff senior year. The class counted as an English credit, which usually turned out to be easier than a real English class. And every student needed the English credit to graduate.

  The bell rang and Marissa sped toward the door. Sam nudged her as she walked through the doorway.

  “Hey Marissa, how was your summer?” Sam asked

  “Completely disastrous,” Marissa muttered.

  Sam raised his eyebrows. “Why? Didn’t your boyfriend come and see you?”

  Marissa frowned. “Yeah, and that didn’t go very well. Listen I really don’t want to talk about it. We’re still together except he’s over there and I’m here. It just sucks. How was your summer?”

  “Great!” He exclaimed, “I saw four concerts: Depeche Mode, The Cure, The B-52s, and The Cult. It was totally awesome! I’m sorry to hear it didn’t go well for you. See ya, I gotta run to class.”

  Marissa unfolded her schedule: third period: Lunch. She had time to set up interviews with the new teachers. Deadlines, she thought. She had to complete the article by Wednesday morning since the whole layout was going to the printers Wednesday afternoon. The school paper was distributed every Friday

  Senior hall was located in a wing, which extended out past the art room. So Marissa had to pass right by the art room to get to her locker. She wanted to go set up the interview but she hesitated. As she approached the art room, her stomach fluttered again. Blood rushed up to her cheeks. Her hands beca
me cold and clammy. She stopped at the drinking fountain to get a drink then drew in a deep breath.

  Normally, Marissa had no problem talking to teachers. In fact she had a knack at it. Teachers never intimidated her. Sometimes she felt could relate better to her teachers than her own classmates.

  This is silly, she thought to herself, he is just human. He is a teacher. I’m sure he is perfectly friendly. There is no reason to be afraid.

  With her head held high, Marissa walked briskly down the hall and down four steps that led to the art room. Her insides shook.

  When she reached the end of the hall, there were two doors. To the right was the door leading to the tutoring room, which was monitored by the principal’s wife, Mrs. Kowalski. On the left was the art room.

  The art room, which was part of the new wing, was actually composed of two adjoining rooms. The front room was spacious with high ceilings and tall windows, which allowed lots of sunlight to filter in. On the wall with windows, there was a separate door, which led to a patio outside where art students could work on their projects. The back room was a smaller classroom with a high tech photography lab. In comparison to the rest of the school, which was older and in need of major cosmetic work, the art room was top notch.

  In all of her years at St. Mary’s, Marissa had never stepped foot in the art room. She never had a reason to. Pamela was the artist in the family, not Marissa. Now as she marched toward the door for the first time, her heart thumped loudly in her chest. The small plaque beside the door came into view.

  ART ROOM

  MR. SMITH

  She knocked lightly on the open door and walked in. She skimmed over the empty classroom for a second before noticing the art teacher. He sat at his desk flipping through a magazine.

  Without smiling he looked up at her and said, “May I help you?”

  Marissa stood there for a brief moment, and then extended her hand, “Mr. Smith? Hi, I’m Marissa Belknapp, and I’m a reporter for the school paper. We are doing an article on the new teachers and I would like to know if we could set up an appointment for an interview.” The words raced out of her mouth. By the look on his face, the art teacher hadn’t caught everything she said. She flashed a smile and waited for a response.

  After processing the bullets of information he finally said, “Oh, uh the school paper. Um, let me look at my schedule.” He pulled out a calendar and started shuffling through the pages.

  As he shuffled, Marissa glanced down at the magazine. The name on the subscription label read: Martha Smith. That must be his wife, she thought. She looked at his left hand, no ring. Well, a lot of men don’t wear wedding rings. Her eyes shifted back to the magazine. She cocked her head as she attempted to read the address when the art teacher said, “Wednesday?”

  Startled, she said, “Excuse me?”

  “Is Wednesday good? For the interview?” he questioned.

  “Oh, uh, yeah,” she stammered, “What period?”

  “Is this your lunch period?” he asked.

  “Yes. And I also have 6th period study hall which basically means I have a free period, since I’m a senior,” she blurted. Oh, nice going, she said to herself. Now you’ve said too much.

  Seeing her distress, Mr. Smith smiled and said, “This is my lunch period too. So why don’t we set up the interview for Wednesday at this time.”

  “O.K. Thank you very much, Mr. Smith.” She rushed out of the room before he could see her blush.

  Marissa left the room feeling uneasy. She muttered to herself, “Why do I care if he’s married anyway? He’s so gorgeous why wouldn’t he be married? And then what’s this sudden interest in a man, who’s a teacher, and whom I’ve just seen two hours ago?”

  She was still milling over her feelings of nervousness when she ran into Meg on the way to the cafeteria. Marissa had known Meg since junior year when Meg arrived at St. Mary’s.

  “Hey, Mariss,” yelled Meg from behind. “Wait up! Are you going to lunch?”

  Marissa turned to her and smiled, “Yup, but hey why aren’t you there already?”

  “Schedule problems,” answered Meg. “And you?”

  “Oh, I’m coming from the art room,” said Marissa.

  “You’re taking art?” asked Meg quizzically.

  “No, are you kidding? I have to interview the new teachers for the newspaper.” Marissa exclaimed.

  “Darn, because I am. Art 1. I thought we could take it together,” said Meg disappointedly.

  “What is it with seniors taking art?” questioned Marissa. “Brogan is taking Intro. to Art and you’re taking Art 1.”

  “Easy credit, my friend, easy credit,” smiled Meg.

  As they reached the cafeteria door, a voice from behind them said, “What makes you think art is going to be easy?”

  Both girls turned around to discover Mr. Smith, who was walking up directly behind them. He had heard everything. They laughed nervously and ran to the lunch line.

  Marissa felt flushed. Luckily she hadn’t taken the opportunity to talk to Meg about Mr. Smith’s looks while he was right behind them. She would have felt more self-conscious than ever having to interview him after that.

  St. Mary’s student population was composed of two distinct groups: the black kids and the white kids. There wasn’t any real friction between the two groups. In fact most students were quite friendly with one other. But in the cafeteria, there was a clear segregation. The black students stayed on their side and the white students stayed on their side. It was a strange sort of self-imposed segregation. No one imposed it or encouraged it. In fact the faculty frowned upon it. It just happened.

  Within the two groups there were sub-groups: the smart kids, the nerds, the jocks, the unpopular who wanted to be popular, and the popular group. Because Marissa had been at the school for nearly twelve years and because Brogan was naturally popular, that made Marissa popular too.

  Marissa didn’t really consider herself popular. She considered herself a floater. She didn’t like to say she belonged to a particular group, she found that too limiting. In the cafeteria, she would sit with different people at different times, black kids or white kids, nerds or jocks. And sometimes she even sat by herself to catch up on homework. Often she wasn’t even sure where she belonged.

  With her lunch tray in hand, Marissa scanned the tables for a place to sit. Brogan motioned for her to come the table she was sharing with three other girls, none of whom Marissa particularly cared for. The popular girls tended to spend their time criticizing everyone else. Marissa thought it was a stupid pastime.

  “Wow, Marissa, you’re late for lunch. What took you so long?” Brogan said loudly over the noise.

  “I had to start an assignment for newspaper.” Marissa told her. Then she noticed Meg, searching for a table and motioned for her. “Hey Meg! You can sit here.”

  “Thanks uh, but there really isn’t room,” said Meg shyly.

  “Here, I’ll pull up a chair,” insisted Marissa. She didn’t want to be rude to Brogan and her friends but she wasn’t in the mood to talk to them. Meg, who was different, was her scapegoat. If Meg sat with them she wouldn’t have to talk to the other girls.

  “Brogan, you know Meg, right?” asked Marissa.

  “Yeah, we were in Latin together last year right?” Brogan addressed Meg.

  Meg nodded her head.

  “Are you taking it again this year?” asked Brogan.

  “Uh huh, the rents are making me,” answered Meg.

  “Same here,” said Brogan.

  “She’s also taking art,” added Marissa,

  “Really?” asked Brogan, “What period?”

  “First,” answered Meg, “and you?”

  “Fifth,” said Brogan, “I’ll be with the freshmen in Intro to Art. How’s the teacher?”

  “New and he’s seems tough but he’s really nice to look at,” giggled Meg.

  There Brogan goes again, making yet another friend, thought Marissa. She didn’t know how Brogan did it.
Then she remembered what she had to tell her.

  “Brogan,” interrupted Marissa, “since I’m officially off after fifth period, I can’t take you home today. Do you think you can get a ride?”

  “Hey Meg,” began Brogan, “got a car?”

  “Yeah, I’ll give you a ride,” smiled Meg happy to be a part of the popular crowd.

  Smoking was strictly prohibited on school grounds. Even so, some kids stupidly took the risk and smoked in the bathrooms. Marissa never understood their ignorance. Why risk getting suspended? she thought. She had convinced herself that she didn’t need to smoke but just liked the sensation. But by the time the end of fifth period came around, she couldn’t wait to get to her car, put on some jams and light up. Yet before she did, she instinctively checked to see if there were any teachers milling about in the parking lot. It’s not that she would get in trouble for lighting up. Technically she was leaving school grounds and she was in her own car. In a few weeks, she would be eighteen and legally an adult. Nevertheless, Marissa would feel awkward smoking in front of teachers.

  While she waited for the cigarette lighter to pop out, she popped Hüsker Du into the tape deck and started singing Too Far Down. She lit her cigarette and rolled down the window still singing. “I’m down again. And I don’t know how to tell you. But maybe this time I can’t come back. Because I might be too far down…” Marissa thought of Dan wishing he were there. She leaned back into the seat for a minute and took a drag from her cigarette. They had always had a routine after school. Every day after school, she would drive to Daniel’s house and hang out for an hour or so before she went home. Now, a new school year, no Daniel, no routine and she had all afternoon and nowhere to go.

  She was so absorbed in thoughts of her past, that for a brief moment, Marissa forgot where she was. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a man walking, with a quick pace, toward the parking lot. At once she recognized him. It was Mr. Smith. She crouched way down into the bucket seat, embarrassed that he might see her. To her relief, he walked straight past her car, brushing the rear view mirror as he swept past, to a navy blue pick-up truck. He unlocked the door, threw his bag on the passenger seat and slipped into the driver’s side. Marissa sank even lower as he started the engine and drove off.