Hot For Teacher(114)
Mmmm…correct grammar usage will get me every time.
Oh yes, Miss Shields is different all right. She has style and grace. She wears clothes that cover just enough skin to get my imagination going. Her long black hair falls to her waist, but no one knows this since she always keeps it up in a bun. And she wears stockings. Every. Day. The kind that stop at the thigh and have an inch or two of elastic lace holding them up.
Ah, the stockings. They provided plenty of…um…stimulation for those lonely Saturday nights.
Good ol’ Miss Shields. Every teenage boy’s wet dream. And the only woman I could ever really want.
***
The bell rings as my last class ends. Mondays are always tough—especially if I’ve spent a recent evening with a girl like Andrea, a.k.a. the Volkswagen.
Avoiding them in the halls isn’t easy, because they’re looking for me. Of course they are: I’ve given them the best twenty to thirty minutes of their life (I was still working on my stamina, after all). So I usually have to take a different route to Advanced Physics and History of Russia just to keep my distance. There are days when evading the stage ten clingers feels like a full-time job.
You’re probably asking yourself how the word hasn’t spread through the debate team about my…behavior. Well I assure you, it has. There are almost thirty students on the team, and most of them are female. And as everyone knows, chicks talk. A lot. So why did they fall for my “charms” over and over again? Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was green-eyed jealousy—because what girl doesn’t want what their so-called friends have had? It doesn’t matter what they’ve heard, or even what they know to be true; they all think they’re going to be different from the one before—that somehow they’re going to be the one I decide to keep.
But there’s only one I want forever—and she doesn’t giggle when I walk into the room or think MTV’s Catfish is scintillating entertainment.
After spending an hour on homework, I set my phone down on my bed and stare at it.
It’s Monday.
My stomach rolls as I await my weekly text from Katie. This is, sadly, the highlight of my entire week.
She gets the debate topics on Mondays, and while the rest of the team gets them on Tuesdays, she’s always favored me and given me the information a day early.
That’s right: I’m her favorite. I just wish I got more out of the relationship than an early jump on the debate topics.
The anticipation pounds in my chest, and I walk to the window and look out to my car in the driveway. It was a gift from my father when I turned sixteen. It’s no Italian sports car, but it’s certainly the nicest car in the parking lot at school. Anything sexier than an Audi would raise eyebrows, anyway. I’d never want anyone to think I was a rich, spoiled brat with a small dick by getting a Maserati, Bentley, or—God forbid—anything convertible.
My parents were still around half of the year when they gifted me that car, but I knew it was just another donation toward the penance of their guilt for not being around.
I was eleven when they started traveling. Dad is in investments, and Mom stayed home with me. But once my dad hit it big with several high-yield investments and maturing CDs, he took half his earnings and invested them elsewhere, and the other half he’s spent with Mom around the world. They just got back from Japan the other night, after leaving two days before my eighteenth birthday.
I’m no dummy. I get it. Money doesn’t buy happiness, but it sure as shit helps. Which is why at the age of twelve I told my father to take the next one thousand dollars’ worth of my allowance money and invest it in the same companies he had. And he was happy to help me out, hoping I’d follow in his career-obsessed footsteps.
It’s been six years since I invested that first thousand dollars. And I have a little over one hundred thousand dollars today. It’s certainly not enough to retire, but by the time I need to pay for college and additional investing, I won’t need to worry.
My bed vibrates, and I walk quickly (I won’t run—I can’t be that eager, even by myself) to my phone and snatch it up to read the text.
Hey, Simon. ;) Thursday’s discussion will be on whether or not single-sexed schools are better for students. Good luck! See you tomorrow. Miss Shields
I exhale, closing my eyes after reading her name.
She gave me a wink.
A wink!
Maybe she agonized over that seemingly insignificant emoticon. I imagine her in my head, smiling and deliberating whether or not she should give me that wink. Pulling her hair from the bun, releasing it so that its length drops to her hips. She tugs at her lip, smirking, knowing she’s flirting with disaster. That forbidden pull I imagine her feeling makes her fingers twitch with excitement as she types every letter.