Remedial Trig

*

Twenty minutes later the period ended with the abrupt sounding of the buzzer from the loudspeaker over the classroom door, just as Mrs. Tindall--once again at the front of the class, her arms folded under her pointy little tits, and a tense, severe expression on her face--was giving instructions to those of us who hadn't been able to finish the worksheet during class. She raised her voice over the sudden hubbub of squeaking chairs and teenagers in motion, loud enough for me to hear through my somnolent daze, "...And Freddie, I'd like to see you for a moment, please."

I dragged my feet as I headed to the front of the class. There was momentary eye-contact, but Mrs. Tindall looked away quickly, first toward the stragglers leaving the classroom then out of the window at the straining varsity team; anywhere but at me. As I reached the first row of desks she said in a voice much too loud, "Freddie, I think we might need to consider some remedial tutoring." She looked past me towards the door and I turned my head to follow the direction of her gaze. One of the math nerds, a grade-grubbing striver like the rest of them, was loitering at the door with a smirk on his face, hoping to hear more of what Mrs. Tindall had to dish out.

Mrs.Tindall raised her eyebrows at him and inclined her head, which was all it took to see him off. Little pansy. I realized then that her remark was intended for his benefit.

"Bring a chair up to my desk, Freddie," she said now in a softer tone. She sat down in her teacher's swivel-chair and glanced out the window again at the footballers. There were no other chairs in the room besides the desk-chair combos, so I dragged the nearest one over to the side of her much larger desk and slid into place. Side-by-side, the adjacent furniture was comically disproportionate. I felt like a toddler in a high-chair.

"Now," Mrs.Tindall said, flashing a brief, dangerous-looking smile, "you didn't think you were going to get away with that little stunt, did you?"

I don't think I considered, even for a split second, denying that anything had happened. On some level I was aware of a degree of complicity on Mrs. Tindall's part; there'd been awareness, certainly, perhaps even acquiescence, judging by the rhythmic bobbing of her right knee. So... getting away with it? What was that supposed to mean?

"Um, um no, ma'am. And I guess I should apologize... and I hope--"

"That's not what I mean, Freddie."

She folded her arms again and draped her right leg over her left, leaving her right foot to dangle, half-in and half-out of her pump.

"Oh," I said, and waited. Full teacher-student authority had been restored.

"What I mean is that our, let's call it our encounter just now, was a little, shall we say, one-sided?"

"Oh."

"Not that I'm angry, Freddie," she said quickly. There must have been a look on my face for her to have said that. "But now's as good a time as any for you to learn about reciprocity. And I don't mean," she said, leaning towards me conspiratorially, "I don't mean reciprocal trig identities."

She gave a little snort of amusement; maybe this counted as dirty talk for math whizzes.

"Okay," I said, relaxing a little, relieved that I wasn't about to be reported to the principal and subsequently expelled in disgrace.

"I don't know that I'd be quite so indulgent with some of the other... with some of your classmates. But I see potential in you, Freddie."

I can't say I fully grasped what she was talking about, but I went along.

"And your success reflects well on me as your teacher, as I'm sure you can appreciate."

I nodded. "Uh-huh."

"What I mean is, if I can help you, you also help me. And it works the other way about, too. Reciprocity. You see what I mean?"

Well, no, not really, but I seemed to be headed out of danger so I said, "Sure."

"Good. Now, I'd like you to put your right hand on the corner of my desk here."

Where was this going? Was she about to bring out a stiff ruler from her desk drawer? Rap me across the knuckles? I thought corporal punishment had been outlawed in public schools? Only the nuns were allowed to inflict injury on schoolchildren anymore. Timorously, I placed my hand flat on the corner of Mrs. Tindall's wooden desk.

"Good. Now if you'd just grip the corner, curl your fingers around it. That's it."

She looked at my hand for a moment, then looked at me, then back at my hand. "Just..." she said, "just, if you could, just, um, stick out the knuckle of your middle finger. Good. Now I want you to hold your hand in that position. Can you do that?"

I could feel myself grinning like an idiot as I finally caught on. "Yes, I can," I said.

"You have nice strong hands. Strong hands..."

As she said this she stood up from her chair. She looked me in the eye once again then quickly looked away towards the window. As she did so, she grasped her skirt with both hands at the level of her thighs and began to make a clawing motion that drew the fabric up into her fists, more and more with each grab. I watched the hem rise above her knees until her hands were full.

Next she drew her hands up until they were level with her hips and I saw for the first time the lower reaches of Mrs. Tindall's bare thighs, modestly pale, her quads toned and angular; nothing like I'd previously imagined from studying the back-lit silhouettes when she stood by the window, but the force of their simple reality--living flesh in front of me, unfiltered--obliterated all other versions generated by my inadequate imagination.

But it was just a glimpse, because she then lifted her bunched skirt over my hand and let it fall along my forearm. I still recall noticing how close to me the white linen was, inches from my face, and the tiny printed blue-gray flower stencil motif in a wide border running just above the hem.

Having let go of her skirt she placed her hands along the edges of the desk, left hand on the long side, right hand on the short side next to my extended arm. She transferred her weight to her hands and I watched her hips elevate a few inches. (To this day, I regret not being able to witness the muscle definition in her calves as she performed this maneuver, all on tiptoe, her bare heels no doubt popping out the back of her sleek pumps. It must have been spectacular.)

She lowered herself onto my clenched fist and made small adjustments to align her sacred cleft with my middle knuckle. Her cotton underwear was smooth against the back of my hand, but friction soon developed as her wetness soaked through.

She held steady for a moment and seemed to be gauging the arrangement for optimal performance. Her eyes were closed and her jaw was set, the tendons in her neck betraying the tension. My knuckle was tight against Mount Pubis, like special ops poised to rappel into the valley below.

With no further adjustments to make Mrs. Tindall puckered her mouth to a tiny hole and let out a long, thin breath that seemed to go on forever, as if she'd been holding her breath since the start of class. She kept her eyes closed and I took the opportunity to regard her face and neck and imagine the unbuttoning of her blouse all the way to her waist. I thought of reaching out and doing so but the sternness of her expression, even with those piercing eyes closed, was enough to stay my hand.

Finally, she opened her eyes looked into my mine and said, "Now, don't move."

She looked away again and as far as I recall that was the last time she looked me directly in the eye that day. Her attention was directed outside through the window where the boys were trotting and squatting and stretching in their tight leggings and their ridiculous scaffolding of pads and helmets.

I felt Mrs. Tindall move against my knuckle. A barely perceptible movement at first, with no corresponding displacement of her clothing. She pressed hard against me and the sensation in my hand grew quickly from pressure to pain. And as the movement of her hips increased in amplitude there was no reduction in the pain as she bore down on my knuckle. In fact, she gripped the edge of her desk all the harder, pulling herself down onto the corner with all the strength she could muster.

Her face contorted into a startling expression, a kind of combined grimace and frown that managed to make her look simultaneously worried, annoyed, and ecstatic. Bystander that I was--really, no more than a protuberance with a heartbeat--I felt a compulsion to contribute something to Mrs. Tindall's pleasure. I thought of her blouse again, how nice it would be to see her breasts, perhaps play with her nipples while she ground away on my fist. I knew it was out of line but I couldn't help it.

"Would you like me to--"

"Don't speak, Freddie. Absolute silence, just as it was for you."

She hadn't bothered to look at me, just closed her eyes in frustration as she suspended her movements to scold me. When she sensed I would be no more distraction to her, her expression relaxed, slightly, and her eyes opened. She was looking at the football players again, who at this point were leaping around like it was ballet class at the ape sanctuary.

Mrs. Tindall soon regained her rhythm and momentum, and before long she was giving off little noises that didn't make it much past the back of her throat. Her lips pressed so tightly together they were the same color as her cheeks.

I held on for dear life as she rocked back and forth. Some sort of spasm or cramp was developing in my middle finger as she held it immobile against her nubbin, my hand the immovable object to the unstoppable force of her relentless pelvis.

In the end she couldn't keep her mouth closed, and with three or four particularly violent spasms of her hips, Mrs. Tindall finally mashed her bean into total submission. She exhaled long, sorrowful gasps in waves of diminishing volume and intensity.

We remained frozen in our respective positions for a good thirty seconds before she disengaged from me, allowing her skirt to fall primly back into place.

"Very good, Freddie," she said, once again checking in on football practice, "that'll be all for today."

*

I'd missed the school bus, of course, and began my long walk home, wondering if I'd be able to run my pants and underwear through a wash cycle before my parents got home. My right hand was a twisted arthritic claw, and it would be days before the muscles flexed normally again.

It was only a few months later, toward the end of junior year, that--as previously noted--my mathematical prowess deserted me for good.

The spark, in the end, had failed to ignite the tinderbox.