Ghosts of Boyfriends Past

by Carly Alexander

  The man had tried to separate himself from the rest of the faculty, letting us into some of the details of his life, treating us as peers, and sharing his enjoyment of everything from the San Francisco bar scene to his racy sports car, which slowly circled the parking lot after school before revving to a higher speed as he pulled out. At one point, it was a daily ritual for Lizard, Rikki, and me: We would meet at Lizard’s locker, then head out by the gym door to watch Mr. Minnetta depart for cooler, sexier regions of the Bay Area.

  “I’ve got to hand it to you, Madison,” he said, “it takes a lot of nerve to return to your old stomping grounds and admit you’re not a huge success.”

  “I had to be honest,” I answered, thinking it was a better thing to say than: My mommy made me do it. The second tone rang, filling me with panic that I would lose him. “I can’t believe you’re still here,” I blurted out. “I mean, it’s so great. You were one of the best teachers in this school. Probably the best.”

  He nodded. “I enjoy it. ‘We but teach bloody instructions, which, being taught, return to plague the inventor.’ ”

  I bit my lower lip. “That’s Shakespeare, right? I feel like you’re giving me a pop quiz.”

  “ ’Tis Macbeth,” he said, bowing deeply. “And you passed, milady. With honors.”

  “You always acted out Shakespeare’s plays so beautifully in class. Are you still pursuing the acting?” I asked, wondering if I was putting my foot in my mouth again. Somehow my brain was lagging behind my hammering heart.

  “I am Macbeth,” he said. “Tuesday through Sunday at the Phoenix Theater, eight P.M.”

  “Oh, wow!” A reaction lacking in brilliance, but I was riding on adrenaline now. “I have to come see the show before I go.”

  “I’d like that,” he said. “How about tonight?”

  “Tonight? I . . .” I tried to think if I had any plans, but my entire future was a blank calender looming into infinity. “That sounds great!”

  “Come backstage after the show, and I’ll buy you some dinner,” he said.

  “Okay!” I nodded, my head bobbing like a puppet. “Okay, then. I’ll see you tonight.”

  He gave me a quick smile, then headed down the hall in a cloud of total coolness.

  As I walked out of my old high school, the shock began to set in. I had just scored a date with the hunkiest teacher of my life, who was also appearing in a play. Hell’s bells. I had to call Lizard and spill the dirt, even if it was her busy season.

  By the time I found my seat in the theater that night, I had lit up the phone lines with news of my dinner with Mr. Minnetta. Leo had teased that I would turn into “teacher’s pet.” Wolf had admitted that he’d always had a crush on Mr. Minnetta, and Sugar had told me to go for it. “Honey lamb, the girls of the world are looking to you to fulfill our fantasies. Fuck the teacher!”

  Lizard had shrieked into the phone for a full two minutes. “I hate you!” she’d bellowed. “You breeze into town and scarf up the best weenie in the Bay Area! I am so jealous!” I know, I’d thought, and I am totally gloating.

  The show was precise and heavy, a typical Shakespearean tragedy. I thought Mr. Minnetta—Judd—did a great job. His lines had the ring and depth of poetry even as he got across the dark story of a man who couldn’t live with his mistake. After the final curtain I dashed backstage, where Judd greeted me with a sexy kiss on the lips.

  My fingers dug into his satin tunic as he pulled me against him and sucked face in front of the entire cast. I quickly overcame my shock and poured a little feeling into the kiss, glad that we weren’t going to do that tedious mating dance of “If you like me, then maybe I like you.” It was clear that Judd liked me, and the feeling was more than mutual. If I could just get past my tiny idol-worship syndrome, things would be peachy.

  After Judd removed his makeup, we hopped the cable car to a storefront on Russian Hill, a Spanish restaurant that featured more than forty different kinds of tapas. Although Zarzuela was packed, the owner managed to find a table for us, and from the way Judd teased Lucas I could tell they were old friends. The casual atmosphere and the red wine helped to dispel some of my “teacher’s pet” jitters as we nibbled on garlic-flecked shrimp, slabs of cheese with paper-thin slices of serrano ham, and elegant olive chutney. And though I’d worried about making conversation, Judd filled most of the time with anecdotes about his acting career.

  “People tell me I should go to L.A.,” he said, contemplating the wine in his glass. “Audition for television. That’s where the real money is, but for me, it’s not about money. I have to be on stage. It’s like breathing or eating. Acting is my means of survival.”

  “And you belong on stage,” I said. “It was exciting to see you playing Macbeth. A real thrill.”

  He reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Trying to turn me on?” he teased.

  We both laughed.

  “I have more sophisticated methods than that,” I said. Though at the moment, I couldn’t think of what they might be. I licked my lips, thinking of that kiss back at the theater, the way his tongue slipped into my mouth so easily.

  You are going to have sex with your teacher from high school, a teenage voice taunted. Something about that seemed illegal or immoral. But what could the problem be? He was probably only six or seven years older than I was. And after dealing with Greg’s twentyish aloofness, I was ready to graduate to a guy with some maturity and experience.

  After we left the restaurant, we were walking along Powell when Judd pulled me into his arms. “You are so beautiful in the moonlight.”

  I smiled up at him, feeling goose bumps rise on the back of my neck. I’d never been with a guy who spoke in poetry. “Where are you living these days?” I asked, wondering if he would take the hint.

  “North Beach,” he said, tilting his face until it was just an inch from mine. “I finally got a grown-up apartment. You’ll have to come see it sometime.”

  “But not tonight?” I asked.

  “Ooh, sorry, milady, but I have the day from hell with the superintendent visiting the school tomorrow.” He locked his arms around my waist, pulling my hips against his. “But I’d love a rain check. Tomorrow night? That way we can both sleep in Saturday.”

  “Okay.”

  He closed his eyes and kissed me again, fast and sweet. “Mmm.” He groaned, ending the kiss. “Enough of that or I’ll end up getting myself sent to the principal’s office.”

  He walked me to the cable car, his arm over my shoulders as if we’d been lovers forever. When we got to the cable car stop, he bowed low and kissed my hand. Two older Asian women at the stop stared at him blatantly, but he didn’t seem to mind.

  “‘Good night! Good night!’” he boomed in a stage voice. “‘Parting is such sweet sorrow, that alas, I would say good night ’til it be morrow.’”

  “Bye,” I chirped, giving a tiny inconspicuous wave.

  The women nodded at each other, then smiled at me. “Your boyfriend make a good actor!” one woman said.

  “Very nice, very nice,” added the other.

  I smiled at them. I wanted to add that Judd didn’t rush me into bed on the first date, but I wasn’t sure the women would appreciate the novelty of that. So instead, I looked up at the dark sky and thought about what I would wear tomorrow night.

  Time to cash in Mom’s gift certificate for some new lingerie.

  12

  The next morning I managed to book myself at Elizabeth Arden for a total day of beauty, rationalizing that a little waxing and toning would give me a boost of confidence when it was time to drop my drawers for Judd.

  I had forgotten about the searing, tearing pain of a bikini wax. “The price for beauty!” the pink-coated attendant said in her brisk Russian accent. Sadist that she was, as I glanced down at the crotch of my panties I had to admit that the woman was thorough. With these silky thighs I could abandon publishing and model underwear.

  I had also forgotten that deep-cleansing facials
leave your face with angry red pores screaming for the plugs that had abandoned them. Oh, well. Hopefully Judd wouldn’t notice that my makeup was heavier than the pancake he used on stage.

  By the time I met Judd at the theater, I was primed and conditioned from the spa, oiled and lubed from thinking about defiling my high school teacher. This was truly the stuff that adolescent girls’ fantasies are made of.

  Judd met me backstage with a dark look, then swept me into his arms for another dramatic kiss.

  This time I laughed, nearly toppling over in my spiky heels. “If this is going to be a regular occurrence, I’m going to have to wear more practical shoes.”

  “I have a surprise for you,” he said, guiding me out the door. “My car is parked in the garage here, and I’ve made reservations at Casa Madrone, that charming inn in Sausalito.”

  “Really? Great!” I told him, showing off my extensive vocabulary. I’d been curious about Judd’s apartment, but I was secretly thrilled that he’d gone out of his way to make the evening special. He’d made reservations! He was going to spring for a room! Hell’s bells, was this a grown-up relationship, or what?

  As the valet appeared with Judd’s car, I was relieved to see that Judd had traded in the old Z-penis-car for something more age-appropriate. This late-model Saab convertible wasn’t exactly mint condition, but it was fun riding over the Golden Gate Bridge with the top down, bundled in our jackets against the chilly wind, listening to a Steely Dan tape. “I love these guys,” he said. “Their songs are full of literary allusions and black humor. Did you know they got their name from the William Burroughs novel Naked Lunch?”

  “I didn’t know that,” I said. Tomorrow, I’d have to run down to the library and pick it up. I didn’t want Judd to discover that I’d become semiliterate since I’d left college.

  I asked him about that evening’s performance, and he talked about the producer of the show and the politics involved in staying in favor in San Francisco’s theater community. On some level I worried that I should be reciprocating with anecdotes about my day, but I wasn’t going to tell him about getting waxed and clipped at the spa. At the moment, I didn’t really have a whole lot going on in the personal files, but that didn’t matter to Judd, who seemed to enjoy spinning his ordinary day into extraordinary tales.

  So I just leaned back and let the wind wash over me as we went under the majestic squarish spires of the Golden Gate. The tires whirred happily over the grooved bridge pavement, lending a chorus to the song in my heart. He wants me, he wants me . . . the renegade teacher wants to be with me.

  The inn was actually a series of cottages cascading down a gentle hill. Each cottage faced the bay, explained the innkeeper, and they were connected by stepping-stones to a string of accommodations like a hot tub and sauna. There was an odd moment for me when Judd went to register.

  “Yes, Mr. Minnetta,” said the clerk, “your room is ready, sir.”

  I froze, suddenly flashing back to high school. He was Mr. Minnetta—the Mr. Minnetta. God, what if someone from school saw us together? I felt like the Nob Hill Lolita, corrupting this poor man to bed his young protégée.

  Or was that an overreaction?

  When Judd handed the clerk his credit card, I grabbed his arm and yanked him aside. “One question. How old are you, anyway?”

  Judd laughed. “Old enough to know better.” I shook my head. “Not buying that, eh?” he said, grinning. “Okay, I’m twenty-eight. Fast approaching the big three-oh.”

  “Oh.”

  “Is that a good oh, or an ‘oh my God, he’s old’ oh?”

  “Old? At twenty-eight? No way. I mean, you’re definitely in a different place from most guys my age. But that’s a good thing. I was just thinking about how those seven years made such a big difference back when I was the student and you were the teacher. But now . . .” I shrugged. “Odd, how we sort of end up on the same level.”

  “Speak for yourself,” he said as he turned back to sign the registration. “I hate to be compared to my contemporaries who live on Chinese takeout and Three Stooges videos.”

  At a table looking out over the dotted lights on the shoreline and the dark bay, we sat beside each other and held hands. It was so romantic, I imagined my heart swelling up ten sizes too big, like the Grinch’s. As we feasted on chicken cordon bleu with fresh string beans, Judd told me he missed home-cooked meals.

  “I probably shouldn’t tell you this . . . No, I shouldn’t.”

  “What?” I fought off panic. “You’re scaring me. Okay, Judd, now you have to tell me if you don’t want me to run screaming down to the bay.”

  He sighed. “My last girlfriend was a fabulous cook. She was raised in the kitchen, she used to say. Her mother was from Greece.”

  I nodded, relieved. I could live with the fact that there’d been other women before me. Let’s face it, if there was a void, it would confirm that Judd was seriously defective, an ax murder or a secret psychopath. I didn’t mind discovering a few skeletons in his closet, as long as they weren’t real decaying bones. “It’s nice that you appreciated her talents,” I said. “What did she do for a living?”

  “She was a chef. The famous Stamata of Café Corinth.”

  “Don’t know the place,” I admitted, staring into the flickering gas flame in the stone-walled fireplace.

  Judd switched the focus to me for the first time since my lecture at the school. “Do you cook?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “Who doesn’t? Don’t we all have to eat to survive?”

  From his hesitant nod, I had a feeling he was expecting more of an answer. Maybe I should have whipped out a menu of the various dishes I’d perfected. Which would have been fine, had I perfected an entree beyond ramen noodles, mac and cheese, or spinach salad with hard-boiled eggs. After all, I’d been living in college dorms, where even hot plates are illegal.

  Not that I minded. That corny old joke could have been written for me. What does a spoiled brat make for dinner? Reservations!

  “You know,” Judd went on, “I wasn’t trying to flatter you when I said you were one of my most promising students. You had the soul of a writer. Have you pursued that, beyond fact-checking and typing your boss’s memos?”

  “Not really.” I felt apologetic, as if I’d forgotten to turn in a term paper. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  “I can help you with that,” he said. He reached into the deep pocket of his black cashmere coat and removed a slender package wrapped in green tissue paper.

  “A gift? For me?” How did he know I was a Christmas nut? “That’s so sweet,” I said as I tore into the paper. I assumed it was a book, a slender hardcover. But the cover had no title.

  “It’s a blank journal,” he said. “For you to start writing again. Every day, you should be writing something down—your thoughts, your dreams, your wildest ideas and fears. They’re all seeds that must be nurtured.”

  “Oh, Judd, thank you.” I pressed the journal to my chest, pleased that he thought so much of me. “Honestly, I don’t think of myself as a writer. I mean, I like writing just fine, but I don’t feel that incredible compulsion that most writers talk about.”

  “Give it some time,” he said. “Put pen to paper and let your mind loosen up. Write down some ridiculous, disjointed thoughts and open the gates for the honest, profound material to flow.”

  I opened the book and smoothed down a crisp, lined page. “I’ll do that,” I said. “I’ll start writing tomorrow.”

  “Good.” His eyes never left mine as he slid his hand over my thigh under the table. “So what do you think? Should we order some dessert?”

  With a sigh, I leaned my head on his shoulder. His hand was moving gently up and down—titillating, but I wanted more. “I really want to make love to you,” I whispered. “Right here, right now.” Can you believe me? I could barely believe myself as I placed my hand in his lap. He gasped as my palm made contact.

  “How the hell are you going to get that thing to ou
r room?” I said, my fingers closing over his fly.

  “Very gingerly.” He removed my hand and took a deep breath. “Okay, wicked woman, we’re in cottage three. You lead the way.”

  Snatching up my new journal, I headed out to the lobby and threw open the door. A blast of cool air hit me, and I felt giddy as I leaped out and hopped from one stepping-stone to another. Behind me, Judd was laughing, saying something about how I had to promise not to include him in my first big novel. “Or else, make sure I’m a nice character.”

  I turned in the doorway of cottage three, waiting under the dim yellow bulb. “Oh, I don’t think I’ll be writing about us,” I said. “I don’t think you can print the things we’re going to do tonight.” Oh, why was I bragging like that? I hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed.

  He unlocked the door and I stepped into a warm, cozy cottage. I sank onto the bed and ran my hands over the red and tan handmade quilt, not really sure how to proceed. Should I turn down the lights and pretend I did this all the time? Or should I let him be the aggressor?

  Judd closed the door behind him, went to the table by the door, and switched on his tape player. The jazzy blues of Steely Dan filled the room. His dark eyes were penetrating as he stared at me. “I have an announcement to make,” he said with dramatic flair. “It’s time to ... get naked!”

  He tugged off his sweater and flung it in the air, followed by his balled-up T-shirt. I laughed at first, then realized I had better get in on the action before he won the race. My sweater went flying, revealing my silky new camisole and panties. I twirled, giving Judd a chance to appreciate my lingerie before I stripped everything off and tossed it into a silky puddle on the rug. Sweeping my hair back, I lifted it in the air, then let it fall onto my shoulders.