A drabble I wrote about my former chemistry teacherrr
The first day of school is always the easiest, especially in college. The professors ease you into it by shoving the dreaded syllabus under your nose. All the work you are required to complete in three months time before you even know what the class is really about. Charming at best.
I shuffled into the classroom and was already convinced that this was to be the hardest class I would take. Even harder than the two math classes I had taken on this semester. The classroom was benign enough with its white walls and a vomit like shade of beige on the top of each horribly small desk. It was 9:31 in the morning and the professor was already one minute late. Shameful, I thought, on the first day of class. Little did I know that I would eventually be the reason she was late to her own class.
She flew into the room at breakneck speed with briefcase in hand.
“Sorry I’m late! Stupid Xerox machine is broken again. They really should fix that thing. Its been broken for years.” She paused a minute.
“This is Chemistry right? I know what you’re thinking. Ahhh Chemistry. Don’t worry! You are taking this class to educate yourself on why things happen instead of just knowing that they do. Make sense? Of course it doesn’t. But it will.”
My first thought was holy crap did this lady have crack in her cheerios this morning? I was still clinging to my half full coffee cup for dear life with bloodshot eyes. But my second thought was not good. Not good at all. A real life ruiner. I love this woman already.
She wrote her name on the board like my teacher did the first day of Kindergarten. Dr. Miranda York. I’d like to think that I was a diligent little student who was taking excellent notes the first day of class but I was just taking mental notes. How tall she was. How her hair was twisted up high on her head. What she was wearing. The obscure pattern the veins in her hand made. The exact point where shoulder met neck. The inside of her wrist.
I went on to the rest of my classes in a haze. It was all the same shit each time. Introductions. Syllabus overview. Any questions? Ok then get the fuck out. See who had the best tan in the cafeteria. Who had a ridiculous haircut and who had new ink. It was all the same every semester. My only anxiety was that I didn’t have chemistry for another two days.
Dr. York had a lot of office hours for test review and for the overachievers who wanted to reassure themselves on the concepts. Every Tuesday she had a solid three hours where she was in her office and of course I made the most of it. I had the best grades in the class and she obviously knew that so I would just pretend that I was solidifying all these concepts for the next test. We would review for probably an hour and then I would use the remaining time to talk to her.
“My mom used to read to me when I was in the hospital. I attribute her for my good grades.”
“Well that is wonderful, Samantha, but you are highly intelligent and nothing your mother could have ever done would change that fact.”
She complemented me! I was so excited I almost slid right off of the office chair I was sitting in.
“Thank you, Dr. York”
“You’re welcome, Samantha.”
I raced out of the office that day and read my textbook as if to gain some clue about her that would be in there.
The weeks followed. I got all A’s and did my best not to make a hole in the blackboard where I was staring at her. She never noticed.
She was gorgeous, really. The strange paradox was that she was most beautiful when she was talking about the one thing I never wanted to hear about and wished didn’t exist; those she loved. Her husband, kids, grandkids. She didn’t look old enough to have grandchildren. One day, in her office of course, I told her that.
“Thank you,! Face it, Samantha, some of your teachers are old.” I chuckled and she smiled.
I pressed on.
“What does your husband do?”
Well he is very artistic and he used to be an architect. Now he does structural plans for the town, she said.”
“Wow that’s awesome. Such a departure from you. You’re all science-y.”
“Yes! I know. And we get along famously.”
“I don’t get along famously with anyone. Except you.”
I said it so slow as if I was just realizing that fact as I was blurting it out.
“Oh! That’s so nice! Thank you.”
Her enthusiasm was overwhelming at times. About chemistry. About life. About her(gulp) husband.
I was doomed. Totally doomed. I don’t even think she realized what I was saying. Luckily, she missed the class on body language because any outsider could have guessed where my mind was at the time. I stupidly continued on.
“I don’t think you understand what I mean.” I trailed off.
Her eyes widened, mouth slightly agape. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, making it squeak.
“Oh.” She said.
I wanted to run away. I wanted to claw at the windows and jump to my death. This was so pathetic. As soon as I said that I wanted to take the words and put them right back into my mouth.
I stayed still waiting to see what she would do next. She was glued to her chair and you could tell her mind was racing.
I couldn’t take it any longer. I reached forward and traced her collar bone with my index finger. The skin beneath reddened and flushed like it hadn’t been touched in a while. Maybe her and her husband didn’t get along so famously after all. She grabbed my hand and leaned her head back against her chair.
I straddled her and let my hands wander over her chest, down to top of her bra and up to the beginning of her neck. She let a throaty moan escape from her throat. I kissed her neck and grazed my teeth against the soft skin behind her ear. Miranda’s body shuddered slightly every time I let my tongue trail down the length of her neck. I unbuttoned her blouse slowly, kissing as I undid each button.