Hot For Teacher(132)

Peggy was a senior, and I was a sophomore. She had quite the reputation, and I thought it would be a good idea to learn some things from someone who had experience.

“Don’t be scared, Simon,” Peggy began. ”Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted this moment?” she whispered. “I’m just as nervous as you are right now. So whatever you’ve heard about me or think of my reputation, I can assure you: I don’t do this all the time.”

It was convincing enough. I knew she was just a stepping stone to my future, but after the two short minutes it took for me to finish, I felt even worse about myself after I’d left. Not only did I not get her off, but I realized that I felt empty, bitter, and like I didn’t have anyone in the world.

And as much as I thought I’d feel close to her, close to someone, after we’d shared something like that together, I only felt completely isolated as I walked out of her house…alone.

I just wanted to go home and talk to my mom about stuff. But she wasn’t there. She and Dad were in Australia that month.

I missed them.

Instead of going home that night to an empty house, I went to the old church ruins that Dad and I had gone to when we needed shelter from the storm all those years ago.




I lay there for hours until I fell asleep, hoping that someday I could bring someone special to that place and share with her the magic I always felt whenever I returned.





Chapter Nineteen


My horrible past behavior has been weighing me down. I think about it nonstop. In the halls at school, a feeling of dread crashes through me when I see the girls I’ve used. Every one of them glare, their pain and angst cuts right through me.

I’ve played with them all. I’ve used them as some kind of deranged sexual experiment for the end goal of…what? To get lucky with Miss Shields? I’m disgusting.

For a few minutes every day, I have to laugh. It’s a maniacal laugh when I catch myself thinking This can’t be my life.

How I ever thought that this was normal is beyond logic now. I’m sure the Feminists would have a field day with the amount of self-deprecation I’ve had the past few days.

Arleen doesn’t speak to me. At all. She gave me her number -- had slipped it into my backpack before I confessed to her about my past -- but to be honest, I feel like I’d need to say things I wasn’t sure how to find the words for.

I just need some more time.

Unfortunately, Saint Louis is next week. If we’re going to have any chance of winning, I’m going to need to speak to her. To see her.

Oh God.

A moment of clarity comes, and I realize what I need to do: I need to apologize. Not to Arleen, but to all nine of the girls from my sexual past.

It had been so easy to dismiss them as nothing. I was selfish and arrogant. I know that the only way to truly make amends is if I suck it up and admit that I was wrong. It’ll be hard, but it’s the only way.

Once I arrive home, I race up the steps and into my room. I pull up the Excel spreadsheet with all the girls’ names. I cringe as I read the nicknames I have given them. By associating them with something like a car, I really had dehumanized them. I had dehumanized me.

Jesus, I suck.

I take a deep breath, mentally prepare myself for the ass chewing of my life, and I start calling.

But an apology over the phone isn’t enough, so I make arrangements with as many as I can to meet in person over the next few days. Some don’t answer their phones, and one number has been disconnected. But overall, I’ve scheduled times and locations for six—the first being with Andrea, the Volkswagen, in the library before school tomorrow.

***

“Motherfucker!” Andrea says, and I feel the stinging slap across my cheek.

I nod and look around the library. I’m certain I have five more slaps to come today. My poor face will need an icepack.

“I deserve it,” I say resignedly. And I know I do. Hell, I didn’t even try to dodge her.

“Do you have any idea what you put me through?” she yells.

And I feel it. I really do. I think about what I would have felt if Arleen had done this to me, and I cringe. I would be crushed. I’d want to cry like a little bitch.

Have I mentioned that I suck?

I keep my eyes on hers as she spews her hostility toward me. And I get it. She deserves an apology, and she deserved better than what I did to her.

But I’m stuck. If I tell her she deserves better, I won’t just sound like a groveling asshole, I’ll sound like I’m doing whatever I can to placate her—another go-to speech.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, going for the apology anyway. I think about covering my testicles with my hands, casting a wary glance at Andrea’s clawed fingers, worried they’ll make mincemeat of my boys.