Hot For Teacher(115)

I wish I could tell her what it does to me to read it. There are a lot of things I wish I could tell her. But I can’t.

Not yet.

After a silent dinner with my parents, I make the excuse that I need to go to the library to study. But really, I’m escaping to my place.

I’ve given up on my parents ever being anything more than financial assistance. With the exception of my mother attempting to buy my love through my obsession with chocolate chip cookies, they both checked out of my life long ago.

I’m not going to talk about how many times I cried myself to sleep when I was little, wishing my parents had time for me. What would be the point? Maybe if I was a bit more self-aware, I’d see the connection between my lack of parental love and my fixation on an older and unattainable woman. But that would require more reflection than I’m capable of.

My place obviously isn’t a secret to others. There’s been some vandalism and graffiti done over the years, remnants of old bonfires. But I think of it as mine, and it’s a place I’ve never brought anyone. A place where I can relax and take a break from being Simon Blackwell, III.

Some claim this place to be an abandoned church, others say an old Alms house. No one really knows for sure, but it’s my getaway. There are only two walls left, made from more earthen elements, but there are also shards of stained glass and scattered bricks on the ground around it. The trees have grown up and through it over the years, so that their canopy is the only thing that comprises its roof.

As I approach the thick wooden doors, I realize this place has been visited more by strangers in the past year than by people like me. I try not to touch anything when I come here, and leave it the same way I found it.

I don’t bother using the front doors because a tree blocks the other side. So I walk around to find my spot: an old cedar that has twisted its way through the ground in the center of the structure.

I get through the dense foliage to find the entrance, and am surprised to see a girl sitting on the floor with her back propped against the tree I had always considered mine.

And she’s crying.

I want to see if she’s okay. But. I’m no dummy: I've seen enough horror movies to know that approaching a woman with long, dark hair, crying in the middle of the woods is a certifiable death sentence.

Her phone chirps, and as she looks down at it she begins to sob again.

I realize—as I stand there like a creep, watching some strange girl cry her eyes out—that I want to make her smile. But I have no idea what to say.

She still hasn’t seen me, and with the dim lighting I can barely make out the color of her hair, let alone see what she looks like. I can’t even tell how old she is.

She could be young girl lost in the woods without knowing how to get home. Or she could have been attacked by something out here and need help. Shit, I may have stumbled on a very serious situation.

I hold my hands in front of me, palms out, as I make my initial move toward her. It’s meant to be a placating gesture, one that says I’m not a knife-wielding psycho, I promise!

She still hasn’t seen me—though by the sound of her noisy crying, a bomb could have gone off and she wouldn’t have noticed. Her phone beeps again and I stop moving. She looks down to read the message, and with a hard scream she throws the phone in my direction.

My initial thought when the phone slaps me across the forehead is ‘Nice arm.’ The second thought that races through my head is ‘Fuck, that hurt.’

“Ouch,” I say, reaching down to pick up the phone on the ground.

She jumps to her feet and lets out a gasp. “Who are you?” she asks defensively, yet breathlessly.

“Don’t be scared. I’m not going to hurt you,” I begin, rubbing my fingers over the small bump on my forehead. “Are you okay?”

She clears her throat, and after a short pause whispers, “I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Are you lost?”

“No,” she says with a humorless laugh.

My eyes are adjusting to the darkness, and as I take a few steps forward, I begin to make out her facial features.

She’s pretty. Like really, pretty. With long, dark hair and dark eyes. She’s got one of those faces that make you notice—even with black shit on her face from her mascara. I wanted to tell her she didn’t need that crap; she was really freaking hot without it.

“I didn’t think anyone really knew about this place. Why are you here?”

I look around and shrug. “I used to come here a lot when I was a kid. It’s been a while.”

She nods in the darkness and smoothes down her shirt in an obviously nervous gesture. “Oh, well, are you planning on coming back anytime soon?”