Alissa Nutting - Tampa

My time as a student teacher had been a wake-up call for how complicated my needs actually were. Initially I’d hoped that just being around them would be enough—that like coral among anemones, I could glean all needed vitality through their swirling hordes moving past my body in the hallways. Within a week, I knew this to be a lie.

In a matter of days at my first institution I’d developed a heady crush on a young man named Steven—an unfortunately moral boy. He was president of that school’s Fellowship of Christian Athletes and wore a small gold cross upon a necklace; I couldn’t help but imagine him naked wearing only this sacred object against his thin flesh. When he’d raise his hand I’d make sure my fragrant hair fell down against his arm as I leaned over to address his question; I frequently gave his back and shoulders a reassuring touch when passing by his desk. After he missed a test I volunteered to stay after and proctor a makeup: finally, it was just the two of us alone in the classroom. When he finished I asked if I could give him a ride home and suggestively leaned across my desk.

His eyes froze with appalled disbelief. Perhaps it was a rush to judgment, but my first inclination was to blame his faith. He was suddenly looking at me as though he’d seen a demon appear on my shoulder or watched hidden expletives carved into my forehead become visible. I wanted to remind him that desire was only human but figured that was probably just what he’d expect the devil to say. “M-Mrs. Price,” he’d stuttered, the tone of his porcelain voice shivering with eggshell cracks, “I think we should pray together.”

“Yes!” I’d exclaimed, my enthusiasm surprising him. I’d jumped up from the desk and walked toward him, palms outstretched. “Let us join hands.” I smiled.

He’d stepped backward with one foot, and then another. The incredulous look on his face told me I’d already lost him—somehow he’d seen through me, or perhaps he was skilled at foreshadowing. I’d imagine a pious avoidance of sin requires that. “When you play football, do you prefer offense?” I asked.

“I should go,” he finally managed to say.

“Before we pray?” I’d licked my lips and twirled a long stretch of blond hair around two of my fingers.

He’d kept glancing back at the closed door, perhaps hoping someone else would enter. “I’ll pray at home.” He’d nodded solemnly. “For both of us.”

“You’re such a good boy, Steven.” I began appealing to his sense of propriety. “I love that about you. You’re different, you know. From the others.” I’d stepped out of my high heels, placing my bare feet onto the tile so that the top of his head was level with my eyes. When I followed his eyes to the ground I realized that he was looking at my painted toenails. “So do I get a good-bye hug for staying late so you could make up your quiz?” Pretending that my request for permission had been granted, I’d leaned into his body before he’d answered, pressing myself hard against the length of him. Next I’d placed my hand over the back of his head, holding him close, then ran my lips against the hot skin of his neck when I pulled away. I didn’t look back at him, didn’t confirm or deny that anything had happened; I just walked back to the desk to pick up the papers, and when I turned around again he’d left.

I knew he’d never let me be alone with him again. I’d immediately pushed a student desk up against the door, sat down and began to finger myself while my tongue ran a slow clockwork pattern around his faint taste on my top and bottom lip—he had an earthy scent: a little grass, a bit of unsweetened tea, some salt. After I came I cried in mourning; I’d fallen for the wrong boy, an inaccessible one, and my time at that school was drawing to a close. For the three remaining weeks, he sat near the back of the class with friends and never raised his hand. Only once did he look at me as he was leaving, a glance of pained confusion that I encouraged by not giving him a smile.

On my last day, the froggish male mentor teacher I’d worked with had all the students sign a card for me. He’d included a bullshit note on ruled paper that tried too hard to play it cool and included his cell phone number, which I made a point of keeping in my purse until my next bowel movement. This happened to be at a midprice Chinese chain restaurant where Ford had insisted we meet for a celebratory dinner. “Excuse me for a moment,” I’d said, “while I go use the powder room.” Before grabbing any toilet paper, I made an initial swipe with the note, making sure the side bearing the teacher’s handwriting was facing upward. Then I looked again at the card. While most students had left mild phrases of encouragement peppered with misspellings, Steven had written only his signature. I stood, feeling my underwear drop to my ankles, and tore down the card to his name, ripping it out in isolation, then stared at the tab of paper sitting on my finger like a square of acid. I let my head hit the side of the bathroom stall as I shoved his name as far up inside me as I could. This alone gave me the strength to walk back out to the table and greet Ford, who was drinking yet another blue cocktail overflowing with flora garnish.

“Honey,” he’d called from a distance, seeing me headed back toward him. “They call this drink a Tall Blue Balls!” I’d given him an appreciative smile, as if to say, How appropriate; you are foul to me and I just wallpapered my cervix with the name of a teenage boy .

Jack had already passed the test of not having any outward affinity to Christianity, so I began assigning personal essays and in-class writings designed to give me more personal details about him.

“For today’s journal,” I announced, “I want you to take ten minutes and write about the celebrity you find most attractive. Harness the power of description—pretend I’ve never seen him or her before.”

Most of the male responses revolved around a reality star’s ample buttocks, but Jack was noncommittal. I don’t really have a favorite celebrity , he wrote. Usually if there’s a good movie I like then I will also like the main woman in it, or if there’s a singer and I like the song and the video and she’s also pretty . Friday of the first week, I decided to keep him after class to ask about the lack of detail. I planned to go shopping over the weekend and cater to his proclivities.

When I called him up, he waved good-bye to his friends—a nice gesture, I thought, making sure they wouldn’t wait outside for him. Then he slowly walked up to my desk. His hands were clutched to the straps of his backpack, holding it tightly as though it were a parachute.

“I’d like to chat for a bit about your writing—do you mind missing a little of your lunch?”

He looked at the ground, his sneaker tracing a line across the tile, and shook his head no. The puffy styling of his athletic shoes made his legs seem even thinner—there didn’t seem to be one ounce to his body that wasn’t essential. I loved the precarious way his cargo shorts drooped on the elongated hanger of his pelvic bones, the way they’d likely fall down at the slightest tug. His kneecaps, barely sticking out from the bottom of his shorts’ hem, would make perfect, nearly circular imprints if he knelt down in the sand.

“So how’s your year going? What other classes do you have?” More important , I wanted to add, when did you last touch yourself?

Shrugging, he finally looked up at me. “The usual I guess. Biology, World History…”

“Mrs. Feinlog?” I laughed. “Dear God, I’m sorry.”

He smiled. “Yeah.” He started scratching his arm, then began looking at me intently while he continued, as though he was vicariously relieving an itch on my body.