Taming His Teacher

by Tamsen Parker

  “So when do you think we should move in?” he asks.

  “Tomorrow, I guess. Most of the boys will be at games off campus, so we shouldn’t have much of an audience.”

  “Hey.” Will walks over and takes my shoulders in his hands. “I know this isn’t your idea of a dream house, but we’ll make it ours. I swear.”

  I nod and his hands slide up my neck to grasp my face in his hands. “At least we should get to enjoy our wedding night, right?”

  Desperate hope claws at me, spurred on by Will’s charm in the close space. He can be so handsome and charismatic. And surely the sex will get better as we learn how to press each other’s hot buttons, get to know what turns each of us on. I could leave one of my books out for him to happen upon and hopefully he’d take some notes. Try out some of the things I think I’d like; some restraints here, a bit of spanking there. Maybe this won’t be so bad. Maybe if we try really hard… “Yeah.”

  By the time I’m standing in front of my first period seniors on Monday morning, word has spread around campus that Will and I have tied the knot. I get a lot of good-natured joshing from the boys. But there’s no gentle teasing or even a muttered congratulations from Shep.

  It’s not unusual for his face to be clouded over, but this morning he looks like he’s survived a monsoon. Tired, rumpled, miserable. Is that how I look? It’s how I feel. I want to take him aside and explain what’s happened, but that would cross far too many boundaries. All I can do is shoot him a pleading glance. Please, please understand. If I didn’t, I would have had to leave. I can’t afford to leave, to lose everything.

  He doesn’t even give me a chance after class, grabbing his things and heading out the door without his usual dipped chin, not meeting my eyes. I want to go after him, but for what? We’re not allowed to acknowledge whatever it is between us, so we definitely can’t talk about how I’ve ruined any chance of anything ever happening.

  He doesn’t talk to me for a week.

  Shep

  She wouldn’t. She didn’t. That’s been my mantra for a week. The only thing that kept me from losing my motherfucking mind through workouts in the gym, three-hour practices on the ice, endless pages of reading, interminable lines of translations and never-ending problem sets. It pounds in my ears and through my veins as I stalk across campus, stomp up and down stairs and slam through doors. She wouldn’t. She didn’t.

  She would. She did. That’s the only explanation for why Erin married Will. Shotgun wedding. Not that she’s confirmed it, but that must be why. Must be.

  I’ve locked myself in the stall of the bathroom in the basement of Leonard, hoping Tennant and Fisk get the fuck out of here sooner rather than later. I managed to keep my breakfast down all through class even though every time I saw that fucking ring on her finger my stomach clenched around the stack of waffles I ate this morning.

  She married him.

  It’s ridiculous, but I always thought there was some way for us to be together. Fantasies of getting her alone after I had my diploma in hand and telling her I love her. She’d throw her soft little body against me, the spring smell of her hair drifting into my nostrils, her head not even coming up to my chin because she’d be wearing those flat purple shoes. She’d say I love you, too. I’ve loved you since the day I saw you. I’ve thought about you every day.

  From there, my thoughts go off-kilter. Dirty. Really dirty. Like how she’d tell me she’d gotten herself off with one hand while she graded my tests with the other. That she’d touched herself in the shower after watching me out on the soccer field or coming off the hockey rink. But she wouldn’t, because she’s a fucking professional, and fingering your pussy while thinking about your student is against whatever code of ethics you want to adhere to like whoa.

  But now when I picture her small hand slipping into the navy blue velvet pants she wore once before winter break—and hasn’t again, I’m guessing because she looks damn good in them and it’d been hard for some of the guys to hide their, uh, admiration—it’s ruined by the hand having a goddamn gold band on her ring finger. Even though I bet she masturbates with her right hand. She’s right-handed. I’ve always thought of her…

  It doesn’t matter, you ridiculous fuck. She’s married. Probably because she’s having a baby. Will Chase’s baby. That’s not some intoxicated Vegas-weekend thing you can get annulled. Erin’s not going to leave the father of her baby. Any odd hope I had of being with her is gone. The door to the bathroom swings closed with a heavy thunk. A good thing, because I can’t keep it in anymore. I flip up the seat and crouch on my knees, puking up my guts because everything just got so much worse.

  Chapter 6

  Erin

  The first twinge hits in my AP Calc class. I’m explaining how to construct a Taylor series for sin(x), my back turned to my students, my writing bleeding onto the second half of the board. Suddenly my breath catches while a screwdriver’s punched through my pelvis. It passes quickly and I hope none of them noticed the slight pitch forward of my shoulders, my chalk-free hand flying to my abdomen.

  I continue the lesson, attempting to hold their attention on the day before spring break. Best of luck to me. But the end of the year and therefore the AP test are so close they can smell it, so most of them are half-focused despite the beaches and summer homes that await them. I fully expect drubbing heels and dropped pencils all day. You’re not the only ones looking forward to getting out of here, fellows.

  The clock ticks interminably to nine and then it’s time to wish them a happy break and remind them of the easy assignment I’ve given them so their brains don’t turn to sun-shriveled raisins by the time they get back.

  “What are you doing for break, Miss Brewster?”

  “I will be heading to Nova Scotia for a week.”

  Not my idea of a dream honeymoon, but Will said he’d always wanted to go. When I had asked if we could stop on Prince Edward Island to see where Anne of Green Gables had been written, he’d laughed. We need to find you some real books to read, Erin. Can’t wait ’til he discovers the stack of romances I keep under my side of the bed.

  “With Mr. Chase?”

  “Yes, Mr. Caldwell. Married people do generally travel together.”

  Caldwell laughs at my dry humor. I can see he’s trying to determine whether further mockery would get him in trouble. An arch of my eyebrow and a tip of my chin warn him off.

  “Have fun at lacrosse camp. Please do your best not to get eaten by a manatee.”

  The boys filter out and I wish them fun or good luck depending on their plans. Shep’s held back, which wouldn’t have been unusual a few months ago. But since Will and I got married, he’s been distant, avoiding me. I don’t blame him. It’s probably for the best.

  I go about my business, straightening papers, erasing the scribbles on the board, doing my utmost to pretend he’s not there. But it’s difficult when my brain is shouting, Shep’s not here! He’s not here! Those blue eyes, floppy hair in need of a cut. Not here!

  God, I’m sick. I’m married and carrying another man’s child, and yet I’m fantasizing about one of my students. You’re going to hell for this, Erin Elizabeth. Shep’s footsteps are heavy on the carpet as he approaches, too heavy to pretend I don’t hear him coming.

  “Mr. Shepherd, I assume you’ll be going to lacrosse camp over break?”

  “For the second half.” He’s responded, but absently, as if he’s only using ten percent of his brainpower. The other ninety percent is focused on me. His gaze is so intense I blush, though I’m wearing trousers, a twin set and pearls. “Are you okay?”

  “Of course.” I shuffle papers on my desk, messing up stacks I’d neatened a minute ago.

  “You don’t look okay.”

  “It’s not considered good manners to tell a lady she doesn’t look her best, Mr. Shepherd. Surely Mrs. Wilson’s mentioned this in one of your etiquette sessions.” In an antiquated tradition, every year each boy is required to have a sit-down dinner with the
Headmaster’s wife and a few other students, during which she imparts upon them bygone manners. You know, should royalty ever come to town. My accompanying beware-of-boundaries glare doesn’t have the same effect on Shep as it does on Caldwell or the rest of my students. If anything, he’s more determined.

  “You’re pale and you flinched during class.”

  The first of my little boys filters into class and I give Shep a hard glare. We’re not doing this in front of the kids. As he offers a fist bump to the lanky freshman passing by, I know he won’t cross any lines in front of them. He takes his role of upperclassman very seriously.

  “I’m fine. Thank you for your concern. Enjoy Fort Lauderdale and I’ll see you in two weeks. If you’ll excuse me, I need to use the ladies’ before next period starts, and you don’t want to be late for Mr. Jeffries. You have a test, if I’m not mistaken.”

  I’m not. Conrad was making copies yesterday in the faculty lounge while crowing about how much agony his students were going to be in. Sadist.

  Shep glowers at me. If the world were a perfect place, I’d reach out, cup his jaw, run my thumb over his freshly shaved cheek and lay a kiss on his full lips. I’m fine. He’d take me in his arms, hold me close and say into my hair, Okay. I just worry about you.

  But this world is far from perfect so instead I offer a tight smile to his angry scowl. He follows me out the door, turning left when I go right, and hefting his heavy bag over his shoulder before stalking down the hallway and bursting out the double doors into the sunshine.

  In the bathroom, I shut and lock the stall door although I’m the only woman in the department, and tug down my pants and underwear, noticing a hint of blood on the gusset. Blood. When I wipe, there’s a pink tinge on the tissue and my heart starts to race.

  Nothing to worry about. Spotting early on is perfectly normal. I’ve read it in the dozen pregnancy books I’ve devoured in place of my usual steady diet of kinky romances. Nothing to be afraid of. But it’s not early anymore. I’m almost four months along, as my snug waistband will attest to. I’ve been avoiding buying maternity clothes but I’ll have to give up the ghost and go shopping over break. Because really, not buying pants that fit is not going to stop my waist from expanding and why should I be physically as well as mentally uncomfortable?

  I take a few deeps breaths and try to shove aside the unease crawling up my spine. I have three more classes to teach and then I’ll call my midwife. I straighten my clothes, wash my hands and head back in to where the boys are waiting for me.

  Shep

  I hate this. I’ll be lucky to not bomb this idiotic test. Jeffries is such a fucking asshole. I studied for this test, hard, and so did everyone else, but the highest grade is going to be a B. But the nerves bunching my shoulders tight aren’t about this test, they’re about Erin. She looked sick. Why didn’t anyone else say anything? Can’t they see it? Why didn’t Will do something about it? If she’s not feeling well, he should be taking care of her.

  But I don’t think he thinks about her much. He thinks about Miss Davis more. Or at least looks at her more. I guess she’s pretty. A lot of crass jokes get made about her in the locker room, but she’s too…pointy. Erin’s suppler, sweeter, a soft place to land instead of a jagged bed of nails. I shut down the comments about Miss Davis after a few, but they know better than to make any about Erin when I’m around.

  Shit. I’ve got ten minutes to finish this beast and then I have to book it across campus to get to Drawing on time. The rest of my afternoon is shot. But afterward, I could check on Erin. Make sure she’s okay. And if she’s not, make her do something about it.

  I love that she’s so sunny and optimistic, I do. Too often, though, she takes it to the extreme, blocking out the world with hands over her ears and her eyes shut tight, humming something silly so the outside world can’t burst her happy bubble. But sometimes the bubble needs to be burst because you can’t fix something until you acknowledge it’s broken.

  Hopefully it’s that her stomach’s upset. That’s what you get when you take your eggs over easy.

  Erin

  I’m explaining how to calculate the area of a parallelogram in geometry when the next twinge hits, this one stronger, more painful. My breath is knocked out of me. I drop the chalk I’ve been gesturing with and I couldn’t tell you which one of the boys who sit in the front row picked it up and handed it back. My clammy fingers graze his, and my vacant “thank you” gives me a few seconds to get my shit together.

  I’ve been going to the bathroom between each period and there’s been more blood, but nothing that truly freaks me out. It is enough to make me nervous, forgetful, and I have to email my geometry class their homework.

  I have lunch in the faculty dining hall. Will kisses me on the cheek but spends the entire hour discussing Chaucer with Lana Davis. I wonder if Will’s sorry he married me instead of trying to get into her pants. He doesn’t notice, or at least doesn’t comment, that I’m not looking well, not even a question as to how my day’s going. I wonder if I’m imagining it until Herb Warner from the history department asks if I’m feeling okay.

  “Fine, thanks. Long week. You know how they get before vacation.”

  “I do.” He proceeds to regale me with thirty years’ worth of tales of the antics of students going stir-crazy before vacations. I’m grateful for his chattiness. It means I don’t have to offer anything but a polite nod and occasional laugh at his endless stories.

  My other class of seniors, the statistics kids, are especially hyper. I’m the last thing standing between them and freedom, and it takes all the concentration I have to keep their attention instead of letting them run roughshod over my lesson plan. This is an AP class, too, but they’re much less serious than my calc students. My laser focus on keeping eyes on the board and brains in heads makes it easier to tamp down the growing unease that’s cramping my belly. That’s all it is: a psychosomatic manifestation of my ambivalence about this pregnancy. I’ll call my midwife after this is over. She’ll have me come in, check me out and tell me I’m a nervous first-time mother, not to worry.

  When the clock strikes half-past two, the boys nearly crush me on the way out the door, making me laugh with their hurried but polite good-byes. When the last of them has gone, I take up my old-school eraser in desperate need of clapping, and start to erase the board. I’m up on tiptoes trying to reach a problem Shane Burdock had done out on the board. Given that the kid is six foot four, I’ll never be able to—

  A scream of agony rips from my throat as a tearing sensation slashes through my belly and I crumple to the ground. Shit. Shit. I curl into the fetal position to ride it out, trying to breathe around the pain. Good practice for labor. When it’s passed, I don’t bother cleaning up the rest of my classroom. I gather up my bag and hurry out, calling Will on my cell on my way back to our apartment. I get his voice mail. I leave a casual message, asking him to call back when he gets the chance.

  When I’ve hauled up the steps, I find a note explaining his absence and his failure to pick up the phone. A scrawled missive on the kitchen table tells me he left for his parents’ house after fifth period. He’ll see me Monday.

  Will’s a bit of a techno-phobe, hence the hand-written note instead of a text. I won’t be able to reach him until he’s pulled into his parents’ driveway in Cherry Hill because he turns his phone off when he’s driving. Great. I guess I’ll be going to see my midwife by myself.

  I’m about to dial her when there’s a pounding at my door. Not the hesitant knocking I usually get, but a knock that says if the door isn’t opened in the next thirty seconds, it will be broken down. I’m expecting Collins. This wouldn’t be the first time he’s forgotten to call a cab to get him to the airport and a kindhearted faculty member has had to rush him to Logan so he doesn’t miss his flight to Omaha.

  Grabbing my keys and slipping my billfold in my pocket, I shove on my shoes before I swing open the door, ready to chide him for his forgetfulness. But instead of
Collins’s spiky blond head, I’m greeted by Shep. His eyes are wide and he looks pissed instead of pleased he’s found me here.

  “Why aren’t you at the doctor?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  His voice has this deep, gravelly property to it; a restrained growl. It’s incredibly sexy, even in my less-than-hundred-percent state.

  “Tuttle said you looked like shit.”

  “I’ll need to have a discussion with Mr. Tuttle about language—” Shep’s fists clench by his sides and a vein stands out on his temple. He is not amused. “But if you must know, I was about to call my midwife. So if you’ll excuse me—”

  My lecture is cut off by another slashing sensation in my abdomen, and I pitch forward. My clutching hand lands on Shep’s broad shoulder as I muffle the shriek rising in my throat into a whimper.

  “I’m taking you to the ER.”

  This time, the growl is not restrained, nor are his hands. One arm comes behind my knees to knock my legs out from under me, and the other behind my shoulders until I’m in his arms like a damsel in distress.

  In my head, I’m formulating an appropriate scolding: Mr. Shepherd, please put me down this instant. And call 911. But the pain radiating out of my pelvis punctures any rational thoughts in my brain. He carries me down the stairs and out to my car like I don’t weigh any more than his gym bag, propping me against the passenger side long enough to unlock the door and settle me inside, taking an extra second to put my seatbelt on.

  Another stab of agony rips through me and I double over, feeling a gush between my legs. I must be bleeding. A lot. This isn’t spotting. I’m having a miscarriage. Through the panic and agony, I hear Shep cursing my Civic for being an automatic. It makes me laugh until the next sharp pain drives all human thoughts from my head.