CHAPTER 2

Meet Autumn S. Student number 17 on the roster for ‘Creative Writing’. It’s an English elective, and no, it isn’t completely made up of poetry geeks and drama nerds. What is high school about if not getting into college? The class looks better on a transcript than art or an extra gym class. Some kids might even sign up because it sounds fun, but let’s not get carried away, right?

Autumn was in many ways your typical senior. Well, your typical senior who liked high school. No, she wasn’t the head cheerleader. And no, she didn’t drive a sports car worth more than my yearly salary. But she was confident, intelligent, and yes, good looking. I had never gotten hung up on this fact before the little “show” at the gym. Really.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t pretend to be some paragon of moral inscrutability. I can recognize when a student looks good. All teachers do. Because we want to fuck them? No. It’s because we need to understand it in order to reign in the classroom dynamics. Hate me for stereotyping all you want, but whenever I see a student who was lucky enough to have attractive genes, then I start out dubious.

Why? Because they think they can get away with more. You know that’s a fact, so let’s move on. My point is Autumn, like any other cute student, hadn’t ever registered on my “I’d like to bang you”-meter. Besides, I’m a taken man. Granted I’m fairly new to the teaching profession, and one could argue that she really isn’t that much younger than me, but… Well, that’s not important.

I’m not sure if she saw me that evening at the gym. I did my best to convince myself that I would not have appeared as anything particular; just a man on a bike, staring at the floor. In the zone, if you will. For about a week, I maintained this belief. I even managed to stay unflustered back in the classroom when she first strolled in; period before lunch.

Okay, almost unflustered. That first day was maybe a little unnerving. She walked in with one of her friends, and I dealt with the compromise of looking busy at my desk and hawking her out of the corner of my eye. Did she look at me funny? Did she giggle? Nope, nothing. She just walked down an aisle to the back of the classroom. Her ass does that same wiggle in those tight jeans even when not jogging…

Yeah, I tried to pretend that I didn’t think that. So maybe I had a few illicit thoughts. I’m only human, right? I got over it, moved on. She never acted weird; I was good to go. That is, as I said, for about a week.

Let me rewind for just a second. I had given an assignment, and this was before that day at the gym, to write a short story. The prompt was just: An Unlikely Encounter. I used it every year. Basically, I let the students go hog-wild; write whatever you want. Usually they turn in something about meeting a celebrity, or Bill Gates, or the most popular: an alien. It is supposed to be fun, let them make up something out of the ordinary, no strings attached. Okay… sorry, you’re not here for an English lesson.

So back to today, they were turning in their first chapter. This way I could make sure it was something reasonable, that they weren’t half-assing it, that they were actually writing something and not putting the entire project off until the last day. I would grade it, write some feedback, give it back to them. Then they write the next part. Really, I’m not trying to bore you; this is critical information.

I told them to bring their paper up to me at the end of class before they headed out to lunch. The bell rang and they did so. With each piece handed to me, I first amused myself by checking out the page setup. Big font. Huge margins. Enormous title. Come on, that shit doesn’t work in the 21st century. But still they try…

The last paper was handed to me with some trepidation, not just sloughed off into the pile. I looked up. There was Autumn, hand still holding the paper, looking right at me.

“Thanks,” I gestured toward the pile.

“Um, I’m not sure if it’s very good…” she warned.

Uh oh, here come the waterworks about why she had to write it at the last second. “I’m sure it’s just fine,” I reassured.

“Well, I think it starts off good…”

Starts off *well* damn it.

“…but I’m not really sure I know how to continue it,” she finished.

“Ah! But that’s the whole point: to get feedback before it’s all done,” I smiled.

She shifted her weight and bunched up her lips, making a little pout. “Okay, but um, I was wondering if you could maybe look at it now? And give me some advice?”

I leaned back in my chair. It’s lunch time; I’m hungry too, Autumn. “Don’t worry about it, I will read over it at the regularly scheduled time. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

She looked mildly dejected and took a step back. It was at this point that I realized her shirt didn’t reach all the way down to her jeans and exposed a little midriff. A flash of her half-naked body briefly popped in my mind, but I had the good grace to keep my eyes on hers.

“Um, okay. Just, let me know what you think should happen next. I’m really interested.”

I chuckled, “It’s your story, Autumn. Not mine.”

She gave a smile. And I’m usually pretty good about these things, but I couldn’t tell if it was forced or not. In retrospect, I know that it wasn’t.

“Okay, if you say so!” And with that, she left the classroom. Somewhere, part of me wanted to check out her ass again. Of course I didn’t look, and for a half-second I was inwardly proud of my restraint. It was quickly replaced by the realization that I shouldn’t have had that urge in the first place.