Blind Side (6 page)

F
riday mornings serve
as the precursor to absolute numbness. In a mere few hours, the entire town will assemble around an aging football field, watching young men navigate a thrilling game, and hopefully inch one step closer to a state championship—the highlight of many of these young men’s lives.

Excitement fills the air here at Ridgefield High School, and every other damn high school in the region. Staff and students alike are dressed in school colors, an almost mandatory display of school pride. It’s not much different than patriotism; you’re expected to comply without question. Football is what we live for. It’s what we breathe for. Sometimes, it feels like it’s what we’re dying for.

My heels click against wooden floors as I rush down an empty hallway. Purple and white lockers, alternating in color, pass by me in a blur as I hurry toward the end of the hall. The bell rang two minutes ago, so I imagine my classroom has turned into complete anarchy in my brief absence.

I stop to catch my breath before pushing the classroom door open and making my way to my desk. I drop my purse on the floor and position myself to the center of the chalkboard. I grab a piece of pink chalk and scribble a quote on the board:

“Anyone who can tell me who uttered these words without looking at their phones will receive an automatic passing grade on our next test.” I glance around the room, waiting for someone—anyone—to take interest in the topic at hand, and approach a student perched at his desk in the front row, with a varsity jacket slung over the back. “Jason, do you have any guesses?”

“I could care less.” He groans and taps his fingers on the desk.

“Typical.” I force a smile. “The next time you want to show off for your friends and show how much
you really just do no care,
use the following phrase,
I couldn’t care less.”

“I couldn’t care less.”

“Brilliant.” I take a step backward. “Now, I’d really start paying attention if I were you. What we’re going to cover today is going to be a great boon for when you eventually have to retake this course next year, when you’re nineteen.” I turn my attention to address the entire class. “Does anyone else want to take a guess?”

“Hillary Clinton?” a student from the back row questions, and by the look on his face, I’d say he’s well aware of how off base he is.

“No, Scotty. The last time I checked modern women do not speak this way.”

“Michelle Obama?”

“Let’s shift away from first wives. Though the women who uttered these words was a wife, among other things.”

“Rose Dawson?” Another student questions, followed by a snicker.

“If any of you had read the syllabus, you might have guessed correctly.” I turn my back to the students as I scribble on the board:

“It was Medea who spoke these words.” I park myself on the edge of my desk and dust chalk from my hands.

“That chick dude?” Scotty questions with a bemused look.

“Tyler Perry?” I shake my head. “No. Medea is a famous Greek tragedy written by a man named Euripides.”

“Do we have to read that?” Jason groans from his seat, and tosses his head back, pretending to snore.

“It’d be advisable, Jason. At some point, you’re going to have to learn a thing or two. You can’t depend on football carrying you through life when you’re benched every other Friday.”

“You used to be the cool teacher,” he pouts and folds his arms over each other.

“I used to care.”

“And then Nathan happened,” he mumbles under his breath, but it’s loud enough that I can hear him.

My throat tenses. My jaw clenches. “Go to the office,” I scowl at him.

“Hamilton—“

“You heard me!” I snap, and look away from him as he hurries from his seat, throwing his bag over his shoulder. The door slams shut behind him. I take a few moments to myself on the edge of a panic attack, all the while knowing my students are watching me as I try to process emotion, and as I try not to break.

My feet land on the tiled floor. “If anyone else has anything they want to say about Nathan, they can go get chatty with the school psychologist, or they can choose to keep it to themselves. I’ve been accused of many things, but none of them are true. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be standing in front of you today.”

Jules, a shy, timid girl raises her hand in the back. I nod in her direction, signaling it’s okay for her to ask a question. “Do you think he’s ever going to wake up?” It’s been a year, and some of these students have shown they’re not complete psychopaths, that they have the ability to care. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t resent them though, because caring in the aftermath of the accident isn’t the same as caring before. Back then, caring could have changed things, and now all it is, is an empty sentiment.

“I don’t know.” I clear my throat. “If anyone wants to talk about Nathan, please see the psychologist.” The classroom door swings open. “I said go to the damn office,” I yell, but realize I’m not scolding a rowdy student. I’m scolding my best friend, the Assistant Principal Ashley Salt. A beautiful woman three years older than me, but with decades more wisdom. Long, wavy blonde hair falls upon her shoulders with grace, blending with the earth tones of her mild blazer.

She glares at me curiously, cautiously even.

“I’m sorry,” I say as I approach her, standing in the doorway, and offer her a warm smile. “Jason Mathis will be waiting for you when you get back to your office.”

She sighs. “What did he do now?”

“Snide remark about Nathan.”

“That’s not a crime, Stassi.”

“It was the tone.”

“I’ll talk to him.” She has a way with calming me down. Many would say she’s my better half, the sister I always wanted, but not the one I deserved, but I certainly deserved better than the one I actually got. “I’m here because you have a new student joining your class today.” She’s enthusiastic, and I remember a time not long ago when I would have been too, but now it’s just one more student. One more ungrateful piece of adolescent dead weight.

“I didn’t get the memo.”

“He actually just finished registering.” She peeks around the corner and waves. “Come on, Kemper.”

Kemper? No. It can’t be.

He rounds the corner with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans.

It’s fucking him. Same hair. Same eyes. Same fine-cut facial features. Same name. Same,
I’m going to fuck you now,
eyes.

I freeze in place. He freezes in place. This is a huge fucking cosmic joke, or maybe it’s Karma. We stare at each other just long enough to make things awkward for the innocent bystander.

“Do you two know each other?” Ashley questions, her eyes shifting between the two of us.

“No.” I fold my arms over each other and lean against the frame of the door. “Of course not.”

“Let me introduce you then.” She places her hand on Kemper’s back. “This is Kemper Scott, and he’ll be finishing his senior year here at Ridgefield.”

“Hi.” I throw my hand out to shake his. “I’m Mrs. Hamilton.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Stassi.”

I break away from his touch and feel my body being swallowed by the floor. Ashley’s eyes burn holes through my body, to the point my internal temperature reaches a boiling degree.

“Do you know her?” Ashley questions Kemper.

“It’s on this paper.” He digs into his back pocket and pushes a paper copy of his schedule into Ashley’s hand. “See, right there. Stassi S. Hamilton.”

“We don’t refer to our teachers by there first names here, Kemper.” Ashley scolds him in a tone where he probably doesn’t know he’s being scolded. I’ve been on the receiving end of that tone one too many times. “That might fly in some new-age school district in California, but here in Ohio, we respect our elders.”

“My apologies.” Kemper’s eyes lock with mine. “Mrs. Hamilton.”

I
’m parked
in the comfortable chair behind my desk with my head resting against my palms that are propped up by my elbows. It seems most of my time lately is spent waiting, sometimes for something inevitable and other times for something uncertain, but I’m always waiting.

I don’t dare take my eyes off the clock positioned on the back wall of the classroom, above a shelving unit housing spare textbooks. I watch each tick of the clock, ticking from one second into the excruciating next.

The thirty-something students in front of me all stare at the textbooks folded open on their desks. Some of them are reading, while others are daydreaming, but most of them are playing on their phones.

But Kemper, the man—boy—who seduced me three nights ago, is too busy watching me to indulge in any heavy reading. He’s studying me, and it’s a struggle to not give him any ammunition, so I attempt to keep a straight face.

Another minute passes, but there’s still far too many to go. I grow uncomfortable knowing he’s watching me, and knowing that anyone could see him watching me if they were interested enough to care.

My eyes grow heavy and I feel myself drifting away. There’s nothing more calming, and tiring, than watching the clock tick by.

The bell rings, ripping me out of a trance like state. I push myself back against the chair and sit up straight, forcing a smile as students begin to rush out the door.

“See you at the game, Mrs. H.” Scotty waves as he exits the classroom, leaving only two people remaining in this increasingly claustrophobic tiny box.

Kemper and I.

He slings his backpack over his shoulder as he approaches. For a brief moment, I contemplate running so I don’t have to have this conversation, whatever it’s going to be.

He on the other hand, looks thrilled for the inevitable, if for no other reason than he doesn’t realize it’s going to be a knock-down, drag-out fight. He smiles widely as he reaches my desk.

“You told me you weren’t a student here,” I scowl and look over to the open door for a split second, ensuring we won’t be interrupted. I think about closing the door, but there are already too many whispers about me when it comes to my students.

“To be fair, I wasn’t a student Friday night.” He flashes a cocky grin. “I just enrolled today.”

“You told me you were an adult!”

His dark, brooding eyes flip acrobats, as if my confusion comes as a shock to the system. “That’s because I am.”

I lean across the desk and look up at him with apathy. “You may be eighteen—“

“Nineteen,” he corrects me sternly.

“But you’re still a child. A student.”

A smirk hitches across his beautiful, unobtainable, off-limits face. “Age ain’t nothing but a number.”

“So is a prison sentence.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” he sneers.

I climb out of the chair and poke him in the chest. “This is my life. My career.” A life and career I’m holding onto by a thread, but they’re mine regardless.

“I can see it in your eyes.” He leans across the desk until we’re face to face, an inch apart or less. “You’re damaged, and I’m okay with being your distraction.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” I say with gravel in my voice, because that’s not exactly true. He knows too much about me. He’s seen me at my most vulnerable, more than anyone else has ever seen me. He races to the door and scans the hallway to make sure nobody sees him, then pulls the door shut. “What are you doing?” I scold him and dart to the door with the intention of ripping it open, but he cuts me off with his strong body.

He bites into his lip and presses forward until he’s hovering above me. “I know that you like my lips.”

I step back.

“I know that you love to be fucked, if for no other reason than to take a break from the world for a moment at a time.”

I swallow a lump in my throat.

“I know that when you were beneath me in that car you felt free from whatever the hell it was that was weighing you down.”

“This is wildly inappropriate.” I throw my hand up between us, and shake my head in faux disgust. My heels clatter against the tile as I approach the door

He spins around to face me. “That’s something we can both agree on.”

“Then stop,” I command as I reach for the door handle.

“It’s wrong…” He paces toward me, “but it feels so right.”

“That’s called testosterone. It’s rushing through your blood. You’d fuck a couch if your parents were asleep in a neighboring chair.”

“I don’t live with my parents,” he says so matter-of-a-fucking-factly, as if I’m a dense log for not already knowing his entire life story. “But most of all,” he continues, “I know what I feel for you. It’s tangible and it’s real.”

“It’s wrong, and it’s not real. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” His brow arches and he steps to me, so close to pinning me against the door but he doesn’t. “I know my cock twitched when I was sitting in my seat.” He points to his seat, the seat nearest the back of the room under the light of the large windows. “I know that when you steal a glance at me, you’re lost in a memory, but you pretend as if you’re staring at a clock.” He inches closer, his body pressing against mine. “I know that every time I’ll pass you in the hall, my heart will flutter the way it’s fluttering now.” He drops a hand to my side, caressing a path down to my hips. “And maybe that makes me a pussy, but I’m a real man.” He drops his head against my neck and presses his knee between my legs. “You’re hurt and broken. So let me teach you how to live again.” And then his mouth is planted against my ear, hot breath burning against me. “I promise, it’ll be one hell of a ride.”

“Number one,” I say and push him backward, “this isn’t happening.” I travel to the center of the room, where he is no longer able to corner me. “Number two, this isn’t happening. Number three, your heart flutters?”

He scratches the back of his head, and his cheeks flush a pinkish red. “Yeah.”

“Love at first sight isn’t a thing, despite what you may read in the books or see in the movies.”

He purses his lips and shakes his head. “I never said I was in love.”

“Saying your heart flutters is practically the same thing.”

He begins to retreat away from me, stumbling backward as one foot hooks around the leg of a desk. “Yeah, that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“You excite me.” His eyes glisten. “You thrill me.” His lips so bitable. “The way you provoke me with the most innocent of looks.”

“That’s not provocation. It’s embarrassment. It’s shame.”

“It’s lust.”

“Call it what you want to call it, but Webster defines this relationship as over.” I reach for the door handle one last time. “I’m your teacher. You’re my student. We don’t know each other, and we never will outside of this classroom.”

“Am I just supposed to pretend that night didn’t happen?”

“Do you not remember what you said?” I pull the door open, and gesture for him to leave. “
Whatever happens tonight won’t have had happened in the morning.”

“That was before I realized I’d be seeing you again,” he wags a finger at my face as he steps out into the hallway.

“You need to go.” I don’t wait for a response before I close the door on his face. I throw myself backwards against the door, close my eyes, and take a long, deep breath.

There’s no fucking way this ends well.

From the desk, I hear my phone vibrating against the drawer. I rush over and retrieve the phone and put it to my ear.

I grow cold, and taste the vomit rising through my throat. I collapse onto the floor, sobbing and wailing a silent wail.

* * *

I
rip open
the top drawer of our bedroom dresser and search furiously through a deep selection of socks. My hand curls around the butt of a gun. I drop the clip to check to see if it’s loaded.

It is.

I push the clip back into the gun and throw it into my purse, ignoring the silent ringing of the phone, with my husband’s face flashing on the screen. Through the picturesque windows, the sun begins to descend beneath the rolling hills outside.