by S. Walden
I. Was. Scared.
“Stop playing with me!” I shouted.
“Lower your voice,” Mr. Connelly demanded, then walked over to the door and shut it. He turned to face me. “No one’s playing with you, Cadence. I called the store and asked Dylan to set aside the album for you.”
“Why did you buy it for me?”
“Because I knew you’d like it.”
“Why did you buy me the album, Mr. Connelly?”
“Because . . . because everyone should own at least one record.”
“I don’t have a record player!” I cried, exasperated. “Why did you buy me that album?”
Mr. Connelly sighed and scratched the back of his head. He had no choice, and he knew it. And when you’re not given a choice, it makes acting on what you’ve always wanted to do so much easier. He walked towards me with purpose until he was inches from my face. He hovered over me, and I was afraid to look up at him. So I stared at his chest instead.
He bent down and whispered in my ear. “Because I wanted to do something nice for you. You need someone to do something nice for you, for Christ’s sake. You walk around this school like someone killed your dog. You’re the saddest thing I’ve ever seen, Cadence. The loneliest thing I’ve ever seen. And any chance I get to see you smile, I’m gonna take it.”
I wanted to scream for not being able to touch him. I was afraid someone would walk through the door.
“Do you do nice things for all your students?” I asked.
“No.”
“Why me?”
There was a brief pause.
“Because I like you, Cadence. I like you very much.”
“But I don’t have a record player,” I replied. It was an absurd response.
Mr. Connelly cupped my face in his hands, forcing me to look up at him. His touch was so gentle, reminding me of the last time he cleaned my floured hands and face. I thought he could get anyone to do what he wanted with those hands. They were magic.
“You don’t have to have a record player for me to like you, Cadence.”
I laughed.
“But guess what?”
“Hmm?”
“I have a record player. And I’m not tutoring tomorrow.”
“Again?”
“I have another doctor’s appointment,” he replied, and I could hear the smile behind the words.
I nodded, my face still trapped in his hands.
“I . . . I think you’re the sweetest thing,” Mr. Connelly said.
“Yeah?”
He nodded and released my face.
I watched him turn to the white board and grab the dry erase marker from the tray. I was unsure if I should stay or go to my locker.
“Go put your books away,” he said. It came out flat and unemotional.
“Really?”
“Yes, really. And keep that door open when you leave,” he replied.
“Are you mad at me?”
Mr. Connelly turned around. “Why would you ask me that?”
“Because you’re acting harsh right now.” I hugged my waist defensively.
“Cadence, I don’t mean to sound harsh. I really don’t. But I’m taking a huge risk here. One really gigantic risk. I don’t think you realize how gigantic. Do you understand?”
I nodded. I tried to fight the impulse, but it was useless. And I’d waited so long. I flung my arms around his neck. He leaned over, but I still had to stand on my tiptoes. He wrapped his arms around my waist and stood up, lifting me off the floor. I smelled the aftershave on his jaw and the musk of that tender flesh on his neck. I’d never smelled those things on the boys I dated in the past. But Mr. Connelly wasn’t a boy. He was a man. He smelled like a man. He felt like one, too—his muscled arms holding me captive against his muscled chest.
He walked me to an alcove in the room that couldn’t be seen from the classroom door window and buried his face in my neck, inhaling deeply.
“My God,” he breathed.
He gripped me tighter, and I gasped for air.
“Will I see you after school tomorrow?” he asked softly into my ear.
I shivered and nodded. A faint “yes” escaped my lips.
“Good,” he replied, and set me carefully on my feet.
I couldn’t process what just happened. Mr. Connelly walked back to the white board and resumed his work. I watched him for a split second before leaving the room. I sprinted to the bathroom and hid in a stall. My entire body shook uncontrollably. My stomach hurt. My armpits were moist. I thought I’d peed in my pants only to realize that it wasn’t pee at all. My panties were wet because of him.
***
Cadence, you’re a very bad girl.
I lay in bed, trying to ignore my conscience. I didn’t think she was right anyway. Why couldn’t I touch myself? At least I wasn’t having sex. And so what that I was fantasizing about my math teacher? That’s all it was: a fantasy.
I knew I wouldn’t go to his house tomorrow. I didn’t have the guts. He scared the hell out of me, and I was an utter mess around him. I really couldn’t figure out what the attraction was anyway. Yeah, I thought I was kind of cute, but there were girls in my math class who were drop-dead gorgeous. I didn’t think I was that. I wasn’t a super model. I was your girl next door.
Well, maybe he liked the girl-next-door types. Or maybe he sensed my emotional vulnerability, my loneliness. Maybe he thought he could take advantage of that. I wasn’t a complete idiot. I knew this was all wrong, and I knew I had to confront the possibility that Mr. Connelly was a bad man. A user. An exploiter. So why didn’t I believe any of it? Why did I think he was genuinely nice and kind instead? That he had fallen for me apart from any insidious motive? Was it just my naiveté?
You’re seventeen, Cadence. Of course it’s your naiveté.
I answered my conscience by plunging my finger inside myself, moaning softly.
“I’m a smart girl,” I said out loud, breathing heavily.
Sure you are.
I continued stroking myself, feeling my growing wetness as I thought about Mr. Connelly’s hands. At the moment they were passing papers to the students in my math class. But then the students disappeared and the rest of the papers along with them. It was just Mr. Connelly, coming at me with purpose. He put his hands on me, picking me up roughly and forcing my legs around his waist. He carried me to his desk and set me down on the edge, pushing himself against my open thighs.
“Oh my God,” I breathed.
Cadence? Aren’t you supposed to be at youth group right now? It’s Wednesday.
“I have time,” I said.
It’s not even about that, Cadence. You’re masturbating before church!
“Shut up!” I hissed, and continued rubbing myself until I felt Mr. Connelly touching me instead. I was laid out on his desk, shorts and panties off, and he stood over me, touching me incessantly between my legs while he asked me how to calculate sine.
“Calculate sine?” I breathed. I didn’t know. I didn’t care. What the fuck? Just make me come!
“Sine, Cadence,” Mr. Connelly said patiently. “This is review from trig. You should remember.”
“I don’t know,” I cried, panting rapidly, feeling the ember burning deep in my abdomen. He kept stoking it with his fingers, growing the fire that would eventually burn me alive.
He bent down to whisper in my ear. “Sine equals opposite divided by . . .” And he slipped two fingers into me.
I screamed, the fire bursting and sizzling between my legs, licking the tender flesh of my inner thighs. He muffled my cries with his mouth, kissing me softly while I came hard, back arching involuntarily like I was asking him for more. So he gave it to me. He kept stroking me, drawing out my orgasm until it shifted from pleasure to agony.
“Please stop,” I begged into his mouth, and he did.
I opened my eyes, one hand resting between my legs, the other clapped over my mouth. My body shuddered over and over as I stared at my ceiling, empty of eve
rything. Empty of goodness. Empty of the bad. I had nothing to guide me, no direction, no intentions, so I made the decision to go.
***
I sat in my car, heart thumping hard and fast. I could just turn the key in the ignition, back out of the parking spot, and leave. That easy. Pretend I never came here. But a force greater than my fear took over, turning me into an automaton as I subconsciously locked the car and walked up the brick pathway to his apartment. Apartment 620C.
I watched as my hand curled into a fist and knocked on the door.
Oh my God. My hand just curled into a fist and knocked on the door! I need to leave! Now!
Mr. Connelly answered. “Hi, Cadence.”
“Uh huh.”
He smirked. “Would you like to come in?”
“Uh huh.”
I stood frozen to my spot.
“Maybe now?” he suggested.
“Uh huh.” But I couldn’t move, and only put one foot in front of the other once he wrapped his hand around my upper arm and gently pulled me inside.
“I’m not gonna pounce on you, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” Mr. Connelly said, shutting the door behind me.
Bad joke. Bad timing. Would he be considered a sexual predator? I was still seventeen. I wouldn’t turn eighteen until December.
“This is a bad idea,” I blurted.
“I know.”
I looked up at his face. “You’re my teacher.”
“I know.”
“Isn’t there like a conflict of interest or something?”
“Completely.”
“Aren’t you afraid?”
“Completely.”
“Mr. Connelly!” I was beyond flustered. “If you know it’s wrong then why are we doing this?”
“I didn’t say it was wrong. I agreed with you that it’s a conflict of interest and that I’m afraid.” He took my clammy hand and led me to the couch. “Please call me Mark,” he said, inviting me to sit.
I sank into the couch. He sat on the edge of the coffee table directly in front of me.
“I can’t call you that. You’re my teacher,” I said. I felt ridiculous and young and silly.
I shifted on the couch cushion feeling trapped. I was frustrated because I liked the feeling, and I’m not sure I was supposed to.
“Cadence? It’s okay. If you wanna go, that’s okay. If you’re not feeling what I’m feeling, then it’s okay,” he said. “Will you look at me?”
I forced myself to meet his gaze, pulling my hand from his.
“It’s okay,” he repeated slowly.
“Would you treat me differently in class if I did go?” I asked.
“No.”
“Would you fail me?”
The side of Mr. Connelly’s mouth quirked up. “I think you’re doing a pretty good job of that on your own.”
“Shut up!” I laughed, and punched his arm.
“Ouch,” he said. “You’ve got a mean jab.” He rubbed his arm, pretending that I actually hurt him.
“I’m doing better,” I mumbled.
“Yes, you are, Cadence. I was only joking.”
I looked down at my lap. “I don’t wanna go,” I whispered, my face burning bright red.
Mr. Connelly nodded. “Good. May I make one rule?”
“Just one?”
He laughed. “Well, I’m sure we’ll have many, but I just have one for today.”
“What is it?”
“While you’re here, will you please call me Mark?”
“I’ll try,” I replied.
“Well, that’s good enough for me,” he said. “You hungry?”
For the first time in nearly a year, I felt ravenous. I shouldn’t have. My stomach was in knots. My entire body a ball of electric nerves. I should have gagged at the thought of food, but it was the exact opposite. I thought I could eat everything in his kitchen.
“A little,” I said, and my stomach growled long and loud. I wanted to die. “Okay, maybe a lot.”
“I notice you don’t eat much,” Mr. Connelly said.
“I haven’t been hungry until now,” I replied. I wasn’t trying to be funny, and he knew.
“I’ve got leftovers from last night. I made a shrimp couscous dish,” he offered. “I don’t know if it’s something you’d like, but you’re more than welcome to it.”
I nodded. I didn’t know what couscous was, and I didn’t care. I would eat it because I had to eat something, anything, right now.
Mr. Connelly heated the leftovers in the microwave while I sat frozen on his couch. I didn’t know what to do and thought it would be rude to go poking around his things. So I just sat, head swiveling from side to side, taking in the look and feel of his living room. It was masculine and clean. Linear. His couch was a deep burgundy. I was so glad it wasn’t black leather. I might have walked out if it was black leather. And there was no mini bar. I was glad for that, too, though I’m not sure why I had this impression that sleazy bachelors had mini bars in their homes.
He had tons of books. He had even more records, and I wondered if he owned the same record he bought for me. I jumped from the couch when I heard the microwave beep and headed for the dining room table.
“You don’t have to sit there,” Mr. Connelly said. “You can eat on the couch.”
“Okay,” I replied, and headed back into the living room. He followed behind with a big bowl, fork, and glass of Orange Crush.
“The Orange Crush is for me,” he said, winking. “What would you like?” He handed me the bowl, and I inhaled something scrumptious—sweet and garlicy.
“I’ll have some, too,” I said.
“Then we can share,” Mr. Connelly replied, and sat down beside me.
I looked at the contents in my bowl. I took one small bite and was hooked. It was also the last small bite I’d take, every subsequent one bigger than what I could actually shove in my mouth. It’s as though I had no manners, and when Mr. Connelly asked me a question, I answered with my mouth stuffed.
“What’s your favorite subject in school?” he asked.
“Boring.” I shoveled more couscous in my mouth.
He chuckled. “Okay. Well, I wanna learn everything I can about you. Care to give me something?”
“I like to read.”
“Me too.”
I looked up from my bowl for a second to scan his collection.
“Mine’s bigger,” I said.
“It’s not a competition.” He chuckled.
I scraped the bottom of the bowl. I wish he would have given me a spoon instead of a fork.
“Yes, it is, Mr. Connelly. I have to be better at something. A few things, actually. Because this can’t work otherwise. You’re older than me. You have way more experiences. I have to be better at something. Even if it is only having a few more books than you.”
I stared into the empty bowl. I realized I didn’t offer him any.
“I’m sorry I didn’t share,” I said softly.
Mr. Connelly plucked the bowl from my hands and placed it on the coffee table. I gasped when he pulled me onto his lap. My mouth was too close to his, and it smelled like garlic.
“First off, I didn’t want you to share. I wanted you to eat the whole thing,” he said. “Second, there is no competition. You are far better at many things than I am, so don’t worry about the age difference.” He let his gray eyes rove over my face. “Third, call me Mark.”
I smiled, then looked down at my lap.
“First, it was rude that I didn’t, at least, offer, even if I had no intentions of actually sharing.”
He laughed.
“Second, I have to worry about the age difference because it’s ten years, and that’s a big difference. Third—” I looked up once more straight into his eyes, trying hard to form the word in my mouth. “Mark.”
His face lit up. “First, I wanted you to be greedy because you need to eat. You need to take care of yourself. Second, I don’t think ten years will make a difference between
us two. You don’t act like a typical eighteen-year-old, and—”
“Seventeen,” I corrected. “I’m still seventeen. I won’t be eighteen until December.”
Mark shifted. “All right. You’re almost eighteen, but you act older. I assume that means you think older.”
“I can be really immature sometimes,” I replied.
Mark grinned. “So can I.”
“But you’re a guy. Guys are always immature.”
“True.”
“Are you using me?” I blurted. It came out of nowhere, but I knew I wanted to ask it eventually. I just wasn’t planning on it while I sat in his lap.
“No.”
“How do I know?”
“Think about it, Cadence. Why the hell would I risk losing everything only to use you?”
“Oh.”
“Do you understand what I mean when I say I could lose everything? I’m talking my friends, my family, my career. I could be prosecuted, for Christ’s sake!”
“Could you go to jail?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I mean, it’s a little tougher to put away teachers here in Georgia because of the way the laws are written.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s complicated and not worth talking about. But I need you to understand that this isn’t me using you. I’d never take a risk like that knowing all I could lose if I didn’t genuinely care about you.”
I nodded. “Why not someone your own age?”
“Doesn’t have anything to do with it. I’m attracted to you.”
“Why?”
He considered me. “If I tell you, you’ll think I’m weird. Or you won’t understand.”
“Well, give me a chance, at least.”
He paused before replying, “There’s light around you.”
He was right. I didn’t understand, so I tried for a joke. “That’s because my hair’s blond.”
He laughed. “Yeah, that’s why.”
“Okay okay. I’ll take you seriously. Go on.”