Brittany's Do-Over

So this wasn't the first time Brittany and I had breached the sort of carefully staid barrier a lot of teachers put between themselves and their students, and vice-versa. But this was taking it to a whole new level.

I don't think I taught very well that day.

* * *

I got Timmy to bed at 8:30, and at last I was able to settle on the couch and watch basketball. Steph was out late, having yet another interminable client meeting, and my phone had been rattling all evening on the side table while I amused the kids. I snatched it and woke it up.

"Are you done researching?"

A smiley emoji floated at the end of the sentence, but she'd sent about three question marks after that, spaced maybe ten minutes apart. I stared blankly at the phone, and scrolled back up a bit to remind myself what she was talking about. Ah, yes. I'd lied and told her I was researching virginity. I rolled my eyes at the stupidity of a line like that, especially when I was sure she hadn't believed it. She'd assumed I was ducking her question, which was pretty fair on her part. Since I was.

I sat down, kicked up my feet, and thought about how to go with this. It was obvious that the responsible move was to not engage in a sex-based conversation with a former student less than half my age while my wife was away; put that way, the whole thing seemed really disgusting. But it didn't feel that way at all. This was a young lady of gravitas and thoughtfulness, and I'd gotten to know her so well over the years...

So, of course, I texted back. "Yup. Does your friend feel like she had sex?"

A pause, the Brittany Pause, and then an unexpected hedge. "Maybe. Hard to tell. I feel like something happened, but I'm not sure how to define it." Another wait, my phone jiggling in my hand with the sound muted. "I mean, she."

I smiled tightly; I'm not sure why. I subsided into technicalities. "Penetration is sex, but there's an emotional side too. If she doesn't feel like it?" I slapped a "shrug" emoji onto the end of it and let my decision go swooping off into the world, flying toward her phone far away at college. And then I set my phone on my thigh and watched vacantly as the basketball game went on, because if anything else happened now, it needed to be about her.

This was wild. And, as expected, there was a long wait for her response; a woman as deliberate as Brittany would be typing, backspacing, reconsidering, proofing, and finally deciding; her reply came back after nearly six minutes. "She feels like she's still a virgin, but she knows she isn't."

Interesting. I made myself wait, even though the reply was obvious. I was still tapping it into the smartphone's blank face as she sent a follow-up that made my mouth fall open. "She thinks she liked it a little, is the thing."

I backspaced frantically; I'd been about to tell her there was nothing to worry about, that these kinds of conflicted feelings were natural. Instead, I slapped out something more appropriate. "Well, she's supposed to like sex. Most people like it a lot."

This time, her response was swift. "See, she thinks she wants to try again. She didn't really know the guy."

She'd be expecting something light now. A fast reply from her, verbally or on the phone, usually meant she was comfortable with how things were going. "At least she knows two inches of him now."

A dry response from her, a very ironic "LOL." She was always being cynical when she used abbreviations. I waited for more, and wasn't disappointed. "She wants me to point out that she was being careful. I guess her mom made her go on birth control. She had weird periods."

I sighed. Years ago she'd asked me, as her bio teacher, a number of questions about menstruation, and it hadn't been hard to guess she was trying to figure herself out. I'd given vague answers then based not on my biology degree, but on living with my wife. I shook my head, as I often did when I was talking to her, and I imagined she was sitting across from me eating her bagged lunch in my classroom. "Well, she sounds like a very sensible girl who's just exploring something new. Tell her these are normal questions, and that she should just do what she feels comfortable with."

"Thank you," she sent back immediately, and then it was time for a subject change in her usual abrupt manner. "Are you chaperoning the Valentine's thing again?"

I smiled despite myself. "Always." This was true; once you're a class advisor, there's a sense that you have to support other class' advisors. Class advisors are a small fraternity of suckers, but we're close. I waited a few more minutes to the blaring noise of the halftime dancers on the TV court, counting the minutes until my wife was due home, but when my phone no longer vibrated I shrugged and put it back on the little table.

It didn't vibrate again until much later, after I'd brushed my teeth and had my nightly dose of small talk with Steph, the mundane details of her life with insurance clients clashing softly against the totally unrelated concerns I had at school, neither of us paying much attention but still comfortable with the routine, the familiar hugs and the gentle kisses on the foreheads of half-awake kids. When we went to bed these days there was never even remotely any question of fucking, my needs in that area being taken care of with occasional porn. Hers seemed to have gone away as soon as she'd given birth the second time; she'd never had much of a sex drive to begin with.

But I was plugging my phone in when it jumped in my hand, Brittany's picture popping back up; I turned instinctively to make sure Steph wasn't watching, but she already had her contacts out. So I could have replaced myself with a fucking cardboard cutout at that point, and she wouldn't have noticed it clearly. Brittany was replying to my message of over an hour ago as if I'd just then typed it; ah, the wonders of modern communications. "Maybe I'll see you there, then."

Where? I scrolled quickly up to remind myself what the hell she was talking about. "The Valentine deal?"

Steph was burrowing into the sheets when the reply came. "I'll be home for a family thing. I'll find time to visit you."

I frowned a moment and wondered whether I should banter, and in the end I decided there was no harm. We often did that. "I haven't seen you since New Year's. I've been in withdrawal." I'd already sent it before, horrified, I realized how easily she could see that as a flirt; my mind suddenly remembered just what had happened when she'd come to see me in the science office after New Year's, what we'd done...

I was trying to decide whether it would be worse for her to reply or not when she solved the problem for me, by sending in a last text. "Me too! Off to bed." And then, incredibly, a kiss emoji, the bright lipsticky one they'd added on the last software update.

The phone nearly jumped from my hand on its own; I had to stop this. Enough was enough. The thing stayed quiet the rest of the night, but I was flipping and flopping around in my sheets like I had a live wire attached to my spine.

And at some point I dreamed, remembering. I don't usually have vivid dreams, but this one was a memory: me and her in the science office last month, her visiting just after New Year's, the innocent and ironic kiss merging into the other one, the one with tongues and moans and a hint, just a hint, of her hand descending toward my ass as we held each other. But, in the dream, there was no knock on the door as Ms Ferrick came in, no safe interruption before things went too far. Or at least, any further than they already had. No, in my dream, they went quite a bit farther than that second kiss, and when I woke up in the middle of the night I had to change my underwear.

* * *

I got one more text from her, at the end of the second week of February, asking whether I was still going to the Faire. I said yes, and asked her how college was going. "Fine," she replied. "It's snowing here."

She often mentioned snow; we didn't get any where we lived, and it was new to her. I laughed. "You'll be okay," I sent back. "Just avoid anything cold and wet."

A pause, then her reply. "I'm trying hard. My roommates and I are sitting around drinking Irish cream."

I threw out the emoji with the shocked face. "You're underage, Brittany."

She sent back a photo, a selfie of her cute face scrunched up under a ski cap, sticking a pink tongue out at me. A big plaid blanket was pulled up above her shoulders. "This is college, Mr K. And so what? It's cream from Ireland. Who says it's alcohol?"

I let that one go; I was grading lab reports. But then the phone chirped again, and I glanced over. "My roommates are laughing at me. They don't think I'm texting a teacher. You need to send a pic so that they can see you."

Fuck that. "I'm working, Btittany."

Another pause, longer, and then she replied briefly. "I'll have to do my best to describe you, then. Have fun."

"Whatever." But I did, after long thought, include an emoji. The kissy one. It was something she and I had been doing for awhile, after she'd done it once at the end of a message and claimed she and her friends always did it. For months we'd tacked it automatically onto our texts, but then it had taken on its more dangerous tone at New Year's. This time, it took a few extra moments before she sent one back.

Another Brittany Pause.

* * *

Lucas Sanders was the current junior class advisor, and he was beside himself as this year's Valentine's Faire began. He's sort of a stresspot anyway, but it seemed to me that being put in charge of something like this was too much for him, and he didn't have a competent class officer like my Brittany to set everything up for him. He was consumed, as people began arriving, with a million little details the students should have been taking care of, but I was the first chaperone to arrive and he was relieved to see me. He drew his tall self up, ran a hand through his long hair, and smiled haggardly. "Thanks for coming, Ken."

"No problem." I sauntered into the gym and scanned around, the early arrivals meeting my eye with varying levels of friendliness, curiosity, or flat-out indifference. There were parents to greet, alumni to hug, and fake compliments to hand out over the weird little art objects the locals had made for the silent auction: Seaborne is known for its kitschy seashell art, which sold briskly in the summertime, so there was a bunch of that. But why the Seaborne artisans would think fellow locals would bid high on something like that was beyond me.

The other chaperone was Shannon Boyle, who I didn't know well; she taught history, or economics or something. There were rumors about her, but then there are rumors about a lot of teachers. Most aren't true. But Boyle was certainly pretty, I'll admit. Super-fit, too, with a well-known obsession for crossfit or Spartan races or something similarly trendy. She ran the school's Fitness Club. She waved morosely at me from across the room, and the two of us settled into the usual chaperone posts near the corner exits. We'd both been advisors before; we knew the game.

I was supposed to be watching the gaggle of dancing kids and serving as a human FAQ for the grown-ups, but I spent most of my time watching the entrance, where Brittany had told me she'd appear "around seven." That meant, to her, at seven; she was always prompt.

Then, finally, the hands of the clock moved, and my eyes went one more time to the door, and there she was at the ticket table.

She stood there in her frequent uniform, yoga pants and a shirt small enough to expose a rind of pale skin at her waist anytime she moved. The sleeves were short, the fabric thin, the neckline low; it was a pale grey that went with her eyes. Her bra straps were prominent underneath, dark and wine-red as they peeked out of her shirt at her left shoulder, though her sleek little body didn't really have much in the way of breasts; her outstanding feature, other than the huge and luminous eyes in the high-cheekboned face, were a pair of smoothly proportioned legs that started at her compactly swelling hips and tapered to a tiny pair of size five feet, enclosed this evening in sandals. The yoga pants were black and showed her shape as though they'd been painted on, which was the reason why girls wore yoga pants in the first place.

As always, I made sure I watched her eyes carefully as I approached. Every woman I see, very soon after I notice them, gets a careful full-body inspection; so, I assume, does every man seen by every woman. You can't escape evolution. Brittany was clever and attentive, though, and she was a former student and sort of a friend, so I didn't want her to see me examine her. Even though I often had, anytime I was sure she wasn't looking.

It made me feel just the slightest bit guilty. Dirty, even. But she was a lovely lady, and I just couldn't resist.

Now she approached wordlessly, like always; a smile appeared on her thin little face and grew as she came, until by the time she reached me it was a broad grin. "Hello!" she sang, both our arms already opening, and then she gave her unusual hug, the one that involved full body contact. 99% of the world hugs from the waist up; Brittany Taylor was the other 1%, at least with me. I felt her sigh slightly as her supple body came under my hands, and she spoke into my chest. "Nice to see you!"

"Nice to be seen!" She was a sweet armful, like always, but we were in public. I patted her back and then we both stepped back. "You look great, as always."

"I try," she replied modestly. She had her glasses on tonight, and her thin ashy hair was in a high ponytail. She'd outlined her skinny lips in a dull, winy red like her bra, and she looked fresh as a daisy. "Happy Valentine's Day," she went on.

"Back at you." I knew I was grinning too, the pair of us just really happy to see each other. It was nice. "Did you get me a card?"

"Better." A little purse swung from her wrist, and her face took on an absent expression as she burrowed within. She licked her lips unconsciously as her hand emerged with a tube of Rollos. "Your favorite."

"You know me too well." I was not surprised; she usually brought me those. This time, though, she glanced around the gym until she saw a little paper heart taped to a table. She removed it carefully, stuck it on the Rollos, and held it out.

"Be mine, Mr Kershaw." The smile was softer now, warmer, and I rolled my eyes as I took it.

"Why not?" I rapped back. "You're the best choice here, for sure."

"Aww." She winked. "The Booster Club is selling hot chocolate and stuff over in the corner. Can I buy you some coffee?"

"No," I replied, starting for the Club's booth, "but I can buy you some." She fell into step beside me.

"Tea, please," she said easily. "Coffee gives me heartburn."

"Well, we can't have that, can we?" I muttered at once, smiling down at her. "You'd be useless with an upset stomach." Brittany had been sickly when she was a freshman, and she'd always blamed her stomach.

"Useless for what?" She smiled her quick smile. "Acid reflux wouldn't keep me from putting in a $24 bid for some fucking seashells."

I laughed loudly, delighted, and she giggled in reply, and there we were like a couple of nice people saying nice things to each other, not a hint of deference in her or superiority in me; she never, ever acted as though she'd been my student. "Not so loud, Brittany," I told her, complete with a wagging finger. "You'll offend the vendors."

"Then I'd be an ovvender." Jesus.

"I've missed you," I blurted, and she rewarded me with another grin.

"Same. You don't really need to buy me tea, Mr Kershaw."

"What kind of guy lets a guest buy the drinks?" I shook my head. "You've moved away. You're visiting now, remember."

"I have." She shrugged. "Only temporarily. I'm sure I'll come back here after I graduate."

"Your fans will be relieved to hear that," I smirked. "Or, at least, this one."

"The only one who matters," she nodded, and she was flushing as she said it. "I'll get us a table. Earl Grey, please."

"Sure thing." Why was I like this around her, I wondered. It was like I was her age, but that was because she acted like she was mine. Weird. I waited at the little mock bar they had set up, two smiling parents serving up paper cups. "A coffee and an Earl Grey."

"No problem." The smaller mom was helping me, a pretty woman I'd never met. "You're Ken Kershaw, right? The science teacher?"

"Guilty as charged." I was rummaging through my wallet. "I'm bad with names; have we met?"

"No." She was preparing the drinks smoothly, without even looking. "My son wants to take your forensics class next year. He's heard a lot about it."

"I'll try to disappoint him." We laughed, her a little uncertainly, and my coffee came gushing from the thermos. "Thanks."

"Sure! The coffee came from Harborside Book and Tea, so you know it's good."

"I'll bet." She smiled, dimpling, as she took my money, and I was surprised when her eyes flickered up and down my body. I'd never noticed that kind of thing when I was younger; if I had, I was sure I'd have gotten laid more often. "Thanks again."

"Happy Valentine's Day!" She winked and then she was on to the next customer. For my part, I balanced everything and then headed into the seating area. Five little tables: Brittany was not difficult to find, and not just for me. As I crossed to her, I saw that she was talking to another alumna, Melissa Southern. They'd graduated together, and I thought Melissa had also been in the marching band with Brittany.

"Holy crap!" Melissa broke into a wide smile when she saw me. She was a pretty girl, tall and curvy, already putting on the college weight that Brittany seemed to be avoiding. "Mr Kershaw? Hi!"

"Hi, Missy. Nice to see you," but she was looking back and forth between Brittany and I. She'd noticed the two cups. "How are things going?"

"Fine..." she sang it out slowly, playfully. "Brit, I didn't think you'd be here," she went on. Brittany disliked being called Brit. "Did something special bring you back into town for Valentine's?" She flickered a glance back toward me.

Brittany smiled politely up. "Family stuff. It's my little cousin's birthday, and I'm his godmother, so..." I just stood there like an idiot, and once it grew too awkward I just pulled my chair out with my foot and sat down across from Brittany. Melissa just stood there, chewing gum.

She looked meaningfully from Brittany to me and back to Brittany. Her grin widened and became crafty. "Well," she drawled softly, arching her back just a bit, "I can see the two of you are catching up. Don't let me be the third wheel," she winked, patting Brittany on the shoulder as she swung away back into the silent-auction crowd. "See you, Mr Kershaw."

"Bye, Missy," I called after her, frowning a little. Brittany was prodding at her tea with her spoon. "What the fuck was that all about? She was acting like we were on a date here," I muttered, and then I felt my mouth drop as Brittany looked away. "What?"

She pouted for a moment, and then those big grey eyes swiveled back toward me like ships' guns, now a little mischievous. "She's one of my contacts on Pixboox," she explained quietly. She set her spoon down with a little clink. "I posted on there about our kiss."

"Wait." I gaped at her. The Faire around me seemed to mute suddenly, the air heavy. "You posted on the Internet that we kissed?"

She smirked, her eyelids innocently high. "What? I didn't make a big thing of it. It was only a New Year's Eve kiss, Mr Kershaw," she pointed out. "Nobody thought it was any big thing." She winked. "A lot of my friends were jealous about it, though. But I told them you'd probably give them a kiss too, if they asked for it."