Alissa Nutting - Tampa

“Mrs. Price, good evening.” She addressed me like I was a Japanese businessman with whom she’d previously had a long and profitable, if not personable, relationship. “Did you receive the written inquiries I sent with Frank? According to him, you have yet to send home a reply.” My mind raced—written inquiries? After a moment I finally remembered odd offers, written on floral stationery, of volunteer-aide classroom assistance that Frank occasionally handed me. I’d read the first one all the way through, worried it might be some personalized warning about a specific food allergy or attention disorder, but when I realized their unchanging contents I began to throw them away upon receipt.

“Of course, yes—I figured we could just chat in person since I knew I’d be seeing you soon at open house.” Mrs. Pachenko’s pursed lips flexed slightly tighter.

“Well I’ve always started the week classes began,” she stressed, lamenting the great inconvenience I’d brought upon her. “But I’m a quick study. If you can give me the lesson plans and assignments for the next few weeks, I’ll simply work double-time to catch up. I’ll have no choice.”

It took all the muscle control in my body to keep my eyes from growing large with perception of insanity. I wasn’t sure what we’d be doing in class tomorrow, let alone several weeks from now. “You know, Mrs. Pachenko, the reason I waited to talk to you in person is that we have a somewhat sensitive situation I think you’d be a perfect fit for.” I lowered my voice to a confidential volume, taking her by the arm and guiding her toward a corner of the classroom.

“I have a colleague,” I continued, “who could really use the assistance of someone with expertise. Now, I know you’ve probably always helped out in Frank’s classes, and I get it. You’re invested in your child’s education. But I have to say, Frank is really holding his own in my course—he’s a star. With your skill set, you could do a world of good—the most good—helping out a teacher who’s frankly… well, she’s at risk.”

Mrs. Pachenko folded her arms together. “I was certainly counting on being in Frank’s class,” she began. “But I don’t want to refuse someone if I’m badly needed.”

I put my hand on her shoulder. The low thread count of the garment was nearly prickly. “Mrs. Pachenko, I wouldn’t request this if it weren’t an emergency. I feel like you’re the only one who could help.” The flattery worked; at the end of the night I walked her down to Janet’s room and made an introduction.

“You’re a godsend,” Janet exclaimed. For a brief moment she became distracted by a patch of eczema on her upper arm, but after a few scratches her joy returned. “I’ve been waiting for the cavalry to come. Do you know how many times I filled out an assistant request form?”

I left the two of them to acquaint themselves while I ran back to the classroom for a final peek—were there any stragglers, any parents working late shifts who’d only been able to arrive five minutes after open house ended?

There were not. That meant Jack Patrick’s parents hadn’t shown. I couldn’t help but see it as an omen; as I drove home that evening, every intersection’s signal was green for go.

After the open house, a pilot light of inevitability lit up inside me; it wasn’t possible to think of anything beyond when things would begin in earnest and I would have him. I felt like a scientist whose years of research had finally brought him to the cusp of the discovery he’d been seeking all along: I could feel the payoff about to hit, and waiting any longer made me want to scream at the top of my lungs.

The day after open house was a Friday; the kids were mentally checked out and I was looking forward to the possibilities of a first weekend with Jack. Perhaps we would drive through Dairy Queen, then park and explore the differences of each other’s bodies with ice-cream-cooled tongues. Or drive out to the country fields, strip down naked and run together like deer, each taking turns being the follower, the one who gets to watch the active mechanics of the running body in front. I was hopeful his parents were easily lied to, that an excuse of a sleepover would allow an overnight romp, the sun rising on our sticky bodies, me introducing Jack to his first taste of gas station coffee as I dropped him off a safe walking distance from his home, then went to the gym to shower up. I could tell Ford I had an all-night yoga retreat. Any excuse relating to physical maintenance would float with him. But what if Jack’s parents weren’t so lenient? If needed, anything was possible. Jack could sneak me into his window at night and we could fuck on the floor with clean socks stuffed in our mouths to muffle the sound. Nothing would keep me from him.

But he was absent. His very first absence. I was so dumbstruck by this development that for nearly a minute after the start of class, all I could do was stare at his empty chair without speaking. The rest of the students began to whisper and check their phones, wondering at the delay but also not wanting to snap me out of a trance and initiate schoolwork. Finally I stood and wordlessly started to put on a video of a modern adaptation of The Scarlet Letter . “Are we moving to that red-A book now?” Danny asked.

“Yup,” I answered. I found myself chewing at my nails—a repulsive habit from my childhood that I’d taken great pains to break, repeatedly applying a bitter-tasting custom polish; to this day, candy with that same specific, tangy odor will turn my stomach.

“I’ve already read this,” a young girl—I believe her name was Alexis—said. “It’s like a Romeo and Juliet where Juliet gets caught and punished and Romeo doesn’t.” She paused briefly before adding, “I read all the books for this year over the summer.”

“How impressive,” I remarked. I couldn’t stop looking at his empty chair. Had he, in fact, told his parents about our whispered exchange? Perhaps he’d confessed just before open house and his parents, who then consulted their lawyer, were told that any contact with the soon-to-be defendant was a bad idea. Worse yet, perhaps one of his parents was a lawyer. Perhaps both of them were. Were they plotting their case right now?

“Our society is still this way,” rattled Gash, whose real name was Jessica. She dyed her naturally blond hair jet black and wore black lipstick and clothing assaulted by several hundred appliquéd safety pins. “When women hit it they’re labeled sluts, but with men it’s just expected.”

“That’s true, Gash.” I nodded, pausing the video. “But it was not ‘just expected’ from Puritan ministers, like the character of Arthur Dimmesdale. Let’s think about social context for a moment, and social roles. In today’s society, whom might we expect sex scandals from?”

“Priests,” yelled Marissa; the class erupted in laughter as she looked around nodding. “For real,” she giggled.

“Athletes,” said Danny, self-referentially pulling at his football jersey with a smile on his face.

“Good,” I responded, “celebrities especially. But like Marissa mentioned, we’re most scandalized by relationships where someone breaches the boundaries of a given social role. The culturally agreed-upon role of a priest is to be chaste and holy, whereas the culturally agreed-upon role of a celebrity is to be entertaining.”

Marissa’s hand shot up again but she didn’t wait to be called upon before talking. “Plus with priests it’s kids and stuff.”

“Good point. Can someone else tell us why that’s significantly more scandalous?”

“It’s, like, double illegal,” said Heath.

Jack’s seat seemed to nearly be glowing; the glinting chrome buttons on its backrest kept flashing darts of light against the window. “Are there any social roles in our society where it’s okay for an adult to have sex with minors?” I asked.