I worked up the courage to go up to my 4th period civics teacher today after detention. Everybody was all the way across campus watching the new try outs and it was just me and two others in detention. And Mr. J. I had him last year for history. The only reason I passed that class, I hate history, was cuz I’d listen to everything he’d say. I remember every word cuz I’d be lookin at the way he moved. Then after practice and after I’d finish work I’d go upstairs to my room, lock the door and imagine him.

It wasn’t even my fault Tuesday. But when I got detention and saw who was on duty I’d have paid to go. He was wearing these fitted jeans and a matching navy light sweater with a gray T-shirt underneath. Military close cropped blonde hair and a week’s worth of blonde fuzz on his face. I sat down where I could see. I know he saw me cuz he kept looking over at me. When the two from the baseball team asked to get out just in time to see the last try outs for next year, he let them go. It felt like my heart was gonna bust out my chest. I wanted to so bad. But I was scared. Scared he’d tell the principal. Scared my dad would get involved. But I couldn’t help it.

The guys raced down one flight of stairs. Then a second flight. Then the last flight. They made so much noise then burst out the east door onto the field heading to the main athletics campus. The door banged shut after them. Then. It was just us and the silence. I felt like I was gonna faint. But I couldn’t help what I had to do.

Mr. J had this way of looking into you. His eyes were the color of a freshly frozen over pond on the first frost of the winter. You know, that cold gray-blue that tells you something’s stirring underneath. Anyway, before I realized what was happening, he was staring at me. At ME. I looked at the clock. It was two minutes past four. Detention was over. I got up, left my bag and math book. Somehow I got over to his desk. He sat back. Really relaxed, legs wide spread like the guys in the back of class do. I reached over and started to close the door behind him. He grabbed my arm and shook his head. Where he was holding me felt like tin foil fresh out of the oven that covers our lunches would feel if it was plastered on my flesh. It was hot and firm and barely moist. But the thought of his sweat staining me, seeping into me… “We need to be able to hear,” he said.

And then I was straddling him.

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