Schooled (3 page)

The song ended, and the lights flooded the bar.

It was the last song of the night. I’d missed the “last call” when I was in the bathroom. Briggs looked at me and my well-overdue emotional crumbling hit. My eyes welled with tears as I ran from the bar to my car, a car that I clearly couldn’t drive. I stood fumbling for my keys, not seeing through the tears that flooded my eyes and streaked my face. What had my life become? I felt him come up behind me, turning me slowly around. He kissed my forehead and pulled my chin up, forcing me to look into his eyes. “I’m sorry Miss Garrity. I was out of line. I had no right--”

I had to stop him. This wasn’t his fault. I couldn’t allow him to feel guilt or accept any blame. This was my problem, my shit to deal with. “Briggs stop. I’m the one who’s sorry. Before you got here tonight, I was drowning myself in Tequila.” I paused, afraid to go on, but I couldn’t let him feel guilt. This wasn’t his problem. I took a deep breath and said, “I went home earlier tonight and walked in on my husband fucking his young, hot, slutty bitch of a secretary in our bed.” His face filled with sadness. He reached for me; I moved out of his reach, shaking my head. “What happened here was just stupid and…and…Dammit! I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’m a mess.” I hated the sympathy, pity, and sadness on his face.

Students weren’t supposed to feel sorry for teachers. Teachers didn’t confide in students. Hell, husbands weren’t supposed to bang their secretaries. This whole night was a clusterfuck of “not supposed tos.” I finally managed to put my key in the door. Briggs moved my hand, removing the key from the lock, putting my keys in his pocket.

“Pancakes,” he said. I must have looked at him with a baffled look, because he repeated himself. “Pancakes. I like to end drunken nights with pancakes.” He looked down at his phone, checking the time. “When I was little and we didn’t have much money, my mom would make pancakes, a ton of them. Pancakes always made me feel better.” He took me by the hand, led me to his car, and opened the door as I got in. “I think we need chocolate chip pancakes.” I stared at him in awe. He wasn’t trying to cheer me up or get into my pants. He merely wanted to take me to get breakfast to sober up and calm down. God, I really didn’t know this kid like I thought I did. He was a man, yes, definitely a man, not a kid.

We drove in silence. No talking. No radio. Just the sounds of cars passing and our own breathing. I felt tired. Very tired. To think, twelve hours earlier, I was ecstatic, because the bell had rung, students left, and the summer had just begun. My phone beeped at that moment. It was a text. From Marcus.

Where r u? Its 2:15 in the goddamn morning
.

How dare he talk to me that way! He had no right to think he can question me or cuss at me. If he cared where I was, then he should’ve kept his dick in his pants.

I simply responded with:

I came home, Marc.

I felt so numb. I wanted to scream at him, tell him how I really felt, but I didn’t even know. For Christ’s sake, I was sitting, wasted, in a student’s car, a student who 20 minutes ago had his tongue down my throat. Oh God. What happened to my life?

WTF???? When? Where r u?

Marc, I left. I saw Lauren. I SAW you. I left.

I didn’t know what to say to him. I didn’t want to say anything to him. I was curious to find out what he was going to say now. He was a smart man; he’d try to finagle his way out of this one. I looked over. Briggs was staring at me; we were parked at I-hop. I hadn’t even realized we’d stopped.

“You okay? Need a minute?” I wondered if he knew who I was texting. He had to. I was holding my phone, shaking and trembling as it dinged again. I looked down. I was surprised it wasn’t ringing, but beeping with a text instead. I saw his words. Utter disbelief.

I want the ping pong table & Keurig. You don’t drink coffee anyway.

Really? Married two years, together for five, and the only thing he had to say was that he wanted our ping pong table and coffee maker! No apology? No stammering excuses? No promises of making it up to me? He should’ve been calling me. Begging me to come home, so he could explain. Not giving up on me, on us. Trying to make me listen. Who’d I marry? Who did I let myself fall for? Oh My God. Never again. I was done. Done. No question about it. This was over. Ping pong table! He never even used it!

“Miss Garrity?” So, now I was back to ‘Miss Garrity?’ which was better. I supposed.

“Pancakes, lots of pancakes and syrup,” I declared firmly. As I got out of the car, I felt better. Much better. Ping pong table. That’s what it all boiled down to. My husband cared more about a ping pong table than he did about me, about our marriage, about our life together. Fine. Who knew a ping pong table and an overpriced coffeepot could seal the deal and be the closure I needed in a relationship that lasted five years, 4 ½ years too long? Done.

Briggs didn’t speak or really even look my way until after we’d ordered. He said, “I really wouldn’t have graduated without you Miss Garrity. That’s no joke.” He was staring at me, searching my face for comprehension. I didn’t know where he was going with this. “When you told us all about your parents leaving, that hit home.” Briggs shook his head and looked at me with awe. “You did it without parents. I had two parents there helpin’ and pushin’. It wasn’t fair that crap your parents pulled.” He sounded so serious, so honest.

I had great parents. Perfect parents. Storybook parents, all the way up until my sophomore year of college. My aunt died. My mom and her sister, Lillian, were really close. My mom holed herself up in her bedroom and couldn’t deal with anything. This went on for months. Then, to add to her pain and worry, she found a lump under her arm and FREAKED. It turned out that it was an enlarged lymph node, due to an infection. She was fine. But she still couldn’t shake the feeling that she “was next.” She and my dad changed; I mean really changed. They packed up all of their belongings and left. They quit their jobs, withdrew their savings accounts, sold my childhood house, sold their cars, and left. Really left. They said that they had spent the last 27 years raising kids, fulfilling responsibilities, and doing what “the man” wanted. They wanted to do what they wanted: spend the last years of their life together, making memories and crossing items off their bucket lists, one by one. They do make sporadic trips home, for our weddings, their grandkids’ births, and that’s about it. In eight years, we’ve seen them five times. Last post card we got, they were living in New Guinea, teaching English to underprivileged children. For free.

“I’m not QUITE as bitter as I used to be.” I laughed nervously, not even convincing myself. “They did what they wanted and are actually happy.” I stated. Thinking about it for a moment, I said “I guess they should be my inspiration. I need to do what I want.” I loved giving myself drunken pep talks at 3:00 in the morning at I-hop.

“So, what do you want?” Man, Briggs was gorgeous. He was a good-looking kid when he was in my class, but sitting here across from me, eating his pancakes, he was more than an old student, he was one beautiful man, a man I could see myself getting lost in. I couldn’t believe that I was still having these thoughts; I was starting to sober.

“I want to order more whipped cream and syrup for my pancakes, leave my husband, and spend the summer figuring the rest out.” That was the truth. I wasn’t about to try to “work through” my problems with Marcus. They went beyond him fucking his secretary. We’ve never had what Jocelyn and Rick have. We’ve never had anything really. Counseling and talking weren’t the answers. If someone hooked me up to a lie detector test and asked me if I loved Marcus, and I answered “yes.” It would detect the truth. I love him. He’s my husband. He saved me from being alone, from being lonely. If that same someone asked me if I was passionately in love with him and couldn’t wait to spend the rest of my life with him, and I answered “yes,” the machine would spaz all over the place. Marc wasn’t my one. I think I always knew that. Sadly enough, he knew it too. Now, I knew it was over. I felt it.

“Want to know the first time I really wanted to fuck the shit out of you?” Holy shit. Chocolate milk just shot out of my nose and mouth. Did he just say that to me?

“Umm, first time? I didn’t realize that there were any.” Wiping my mouth, shirt, and lap, I felt my face redden and my lips moisten and twitch, not the ones on my mouth either.

“Well Christ, tonight I had a hard time not taking you right on the dance floor, ripping you in half. But yeah, the first time, back in high school.” He looked so serious, so sincere. Looking at him, you’d think that we were talking about the stock market, not about sex. He was so nonchalant, at ease discussing sex with a former teacher. People just don’t get that teenagers aren’t who they used to be. Not that Brigss was a teenager. That, he was not.

“Well, I guess. Wait! No, that’s not appropriate,” I said, finalizing my statement. Sitting there staring at the most attractive man I had seen in a long time, I couldn’t help but wonder what he saw in me so many years ago. “But, yeah, I guess I do wanna know.” Crap. I was crossing a line again. But Hell, I needed a little ego boost after seeing Marcus’ tongue…. I looked at Briggs, and sighed, “Go ahead, tell me.” I caved.

“It was Spirit Week. You were a baby for Wacky Wednesday--”

“What the Fu—heck is wrong with you? That’s sick, ya pedophile!!” He raised an eyebrow. Who was I to call anyone a pedophile? Yeah Briggs was 23, but to me he was a kid, did that make me a pedophile? It had to. Right? “Okay, before we talk about anything else, how old are you?”

He laughed, knowing what I was getting at. “Janelle, I’m done with the Miss Garrity crap. I’m 23; I’ll be 24 next month. You’re 29, and single—almost anyway.” He stopped, double-checking that he hadn’t just crossed a line, a line that may or may not have pissed me off. “I’m not your student anymore; I’m a man who cannot wait to get you alone again, privately, so we can finish what we started.” He grabbed my hand, kissed my fingers, and said, “I’m praying that time comes soon, because that was the best start to anything I’ve ever had.”

Briggs stopped, took a drink of his Coke and looked at me with lust in his eyes. Then added, “And yes, the baby costume. I wanted to unzip those footie pajamas, from top to bottom, and see what you were wearing under them. You looked so hot. I’m getting hard now thinking about it.” He shifted in his seat, adjusting himself.

Whoa. I chose that costume, being a first-year teacher, because it lacked all sexuality. High school boys and their raging hormones! I should have worn a hefty bag and gone as a bag of trash. I was feeling kind of trashy right now. Briggs made me hot; I couldn’t deny it, but I was going to deny it.

“Briggs,

A. You are not going to get me alone like that again. That was a mistake. Granted, a nice and distracting mistake, but a mistake nonetheless.

B. How could those jammies get you worked up? You need to work on your self-control, young man.

And C. You’ll always be my student. I’m your teacher, remember, Miss Garrity.”

He smiled, but it was more of a smug smirk. He raised his brow, shrugged his shoulders and said, “D. Janelle. I’m gonna fuck you, fuck you so right, you’ll forget everything you saw tonight and never remember that bastard’s name again.” He took the last drink of his soda and got out his credit card. “It might not be tonight, maybe not even tomorrow. But it’s gonna happen, probably a lot more than once.” With that, he got up, left table, paid at the counter, and walked out of the restaurant. I was left sitting there, stunned and so damn wet. He was on to me. He knew I wanted him. He knew that I needed to have him. I needed this, more than I had needed anything in a long time. But, I had to deny myself this gratification. I couldn’t go there. I shouldn’t go there. Could I? Should I? Shit.

I left the restaurant. The car was running and waiting for me in the handicapped spot. As I approached the car, he leaned across and opened the door. Marcus couldn’t lean across and open the door; he was too short. Briggs was much taller, bigger, hotter. He looked over at me, “Where to?”

I hadn’t thought about where I wanted to go. I wanted sleep, a lot of sleep. “Can you just take me to the Hawthorne Suites by the airport; I’ll have a friend take me to my car tomorrow?” I could go to Charlotte’s or Jocelyn’s, but what I wanted more than anything was some alone time, time to think, sort all of this through, and just decompress.

Briggs paid for the room. I tried to protest; he hadn’t even graduated from college yet. He said that ESPN had already given him quite a bit of money for his “story” to use to advertise the new show. He was adamant about paying. He walked me to the hotel room door, and opened the door for me. Briggs pulled me into a strong embrace, slowly rubbed my back, kissed my head, and said, “Good night Janelle, sleep well.” As I watched him walk away, I was shocked at how disappointed I was. I wanted him to stay. He knew I wanted him to stay. Why was he leaving? I didn’t want him to leave. I couldn’t resist.

“Briggs! Wait!” I called after him, wanting him to stop, wanting him to come back, wanting him.

He stopped, took a deep breath, and turned around. His face was beaming and confident. He shook his shoulders, took another deep breath, nodded, and said, “Goodnight Janelle, get some sleep. You’re gonna need it next time I see you.” He smiled and turned back around and took the stairs down out of the hallway. That was it? Well, shit. Alright then. I went in the room, closed the door, and could not figure out what to do with myself.

After taking a long shower and blow-drying my hair, I got into bed still naked, but exhausted. The sun was starting to come up. I loved that I could just close the thick hotel room curtains and “lock fair daylight out.” Leave it to me to be thinking about
Romeo and Juliet
right now. Always the teacher. Romeo moped and made himself an “artificial night,” because Rosaline vowed chastity. Marcus couldn’t spell chaste, fidelity, or faithful. I didn’t want to lie here and think about him or his skanky secretary. I needed sleep, but my head was so full, thoughts of Lauren and Marcus, thoughts of my parents and my future, but truthfully my only real thoughts were of dancing with Briggs and his hands and body all over mine. I kept tossing and turning, readjusting the pillow and blankets, trying to block the image of him kissing the flower tattoos on my hand. Just the thought of him made my body shiver and my insides tingle.