"Teacher"

In 9th grade, I met my mentor, Mr. Maxwell. He was a hero, really. An English teacher, he encouraged me to write, and to think of my future. It's what made me decide that I, too, wanted to teach.

He published my poems in the school literary magazine, which was edited by students and published with his own money. He created an award just for me—Poet Laureate of Downey High School. It was the first and last time the award was given. The brown-nosing boy from my Newspaper class envied it, because it was bestowed on me—not earned or voted on somehow. He began a rumor that the teacher had only published my poetry and given me the award because of my big tits. I caught wind of this gossip, and ran sobbing into Mr. Maxwell's classroom during lunch hour. I cried into his shoulder as he assured me that the boy's words were baseless, and that my talent was the reason he had honored me. He also called him, "A little weasel," which satisfied me thoroughly.

Over the years, I shared my heartache and troubles in love with this man in the hopes that he would see me as an adult, and feel the same way that I did for him. None of my friends were fooled by my insistence that I was not flirting with him. But he never crossed the line. Even when he took me to the publication party of his ex-girlfriend's book, and I got drunk after I had a beer on an empty stomach. He took me, stumbling, into his home and fixed me coffee to drink. Then he showed me a poem on page 80 of the autographed copy of the exes book, that was about him.

But he didn't touch me, or even look at me for too long. In fact, the closest he ever came to being suggestive was when he once told me that my new haircut made me look like Exene Cervenka, when he was enamored of her as a young man.

After I graduated, we kept in close touch and saw each other still—he often wrote to me, especially during the summer. On holidays (Valentine's Day was my favorite) and my birthday he always sent handmade art cards, created using from linoleum prints that he had done himself. He began to insist that I call him by his first name, Dave. But I admired him so, that anything but Mr. Maxwell seemed disrespectful.

That admiration was something he had always discouraged. He told me many times that he was a real son of a bitch. I shouldn't think so much of him. But this only endeared him more to me, and I chalked it up to his humble nature.

When I began attending his alma mater, he gave me several of his old textbooks. I held them, smelled them, thought of him walking the same corridors and carrying the books in his arms fifteen years before. I wished I could have known him then, because I sometimes sensed a cynicism like a faultline in him, and I wondered who he was before it had existed.

When I turned twenty, he left teaching. He told me during a phone call in May, that he had been attending night classes all those years, to go into advertising, and that after the next month he would be done with the classroom. I'd had no idea.

There was an exhibit of Cuban artists at a museum Long Beach that June, and he invited me to come see it and have a drink. He had always appreciated my ethnic background, and understood about the food, music, and culture of Cuba, which made me feel like less of an alien. My mother adored him.

It was sunset when we met at his home, a bungalow in Long Beach that he had been renovating as long as I'd known him. There was always some exotic new tile he'd found in Tijuana and was laying, or a piece of religious iconography he'd picked up to hang on the wall. He drove us to the museum, and paid for both our admissions. I had worn open toed high-heeled shoes, with a black skirt and blouse. My hair was swept up with five barrettes I'd made myself—yellow rosebuds sewn to bobby pins.

At the bar he frequented (where my ID wouldn't be required, I was still only 20), we talked more about his change of career over beers. He said a lot of things about teaching that I couldn't believe he'd felt for so long. He always seemed good at it, like it mattered to him. The evening crowd began trickling in, making me uncomfortable. He surprised me by suggesting that we pick up something to drink and head back to his home to continue the conversation.

Standing in the liquor store with Mr. Maxwell asking what my poison would be made the evening surreal very suddenly. And sitting on his leather sofa drinking hard lemonade from the bottle, I could not believe this was the same man who had given me mug after mug of coffee to sober me up for the drive home years ago.

I could feel myself becoming fuzzy, I knew I had to cut off now, and said so. As I rose to use the bathroom, my full skirt flared out over the coffee table and knocked a bottle over onto one of his books. It was full of large vintage photographs of surfers and surfboards. Dave assured me that it was fine, and mopped up the spill with a dishtowel. I felt about fifteen again, as I sat on his toilet a little tipsy and thought about the bedroom on the other side of the wall.

Gathering my purse and coat, I moved to leave. Dave stood between me and the door. He asked, "Are you going to leave me alone so soon?" I said I didn't want to go, if he'd be lonely. He put both his hands on my shoulders and told me I was beautiful.

I felt the moment coming, I knew what would happen next, and I could only think, Mr. Maxwell is going to kiss me, Mr. Maxwell is going to kiss me, over and over again. And he did.

I kissed back without thinking, fantasies and wishes from the last six years filling my imagination. Impossible. He broke away, and I was certain that he would crumble, sending me home. Instead, he led me by the hand into the bedroom I had never seen.

It was plain compared to the rest of the home; the walls were nearly bare, but painted a deep rusty red, and a large bed took up most of the floor space. Dave sat me down on it, and removed the rose barrettes from my hair one at a time, sending it down to my shoulders.

On top of me, he asked whether I had thought about this in school. I answered honestly, Yes. He said to tell him, tell him exactly what I had thought about. Bent over a desk? In his classroom? Suddenly he looked like a man.

After I dressed, he sent me home with a kiss on the cheek.

I hoped for a summer of this. Perhaps, even a lifetime. In the messages I left him those next weeks, I began, "Hello, Dave." But he did not return my calls inviting him to another exhibit, a revival of one of his favorite movies, or a firework show. He did not call ever again, in fact. The exhibit packed up, the movie ended its run, and the season was gone.