Extra Credit Page 4

  End of the year activities ignite a buzzing in the air, and they’re all restless. Seniors are emotional, juniors are eager, and sophomores and freshmen mature. Until Troy and I began our tutoring sessions, I looked forward to summer vacation after my first school year as an educator. I planned to spend entire days spent at the beach, binge-watching TV shows, and I kind of wanted to get a tattoo.

  Now I find myself wondering what graduation means for me and Troy. He’s going to college locally, but why would he want to be involved with his high school teacher when he can hook up with college girls? I’m a novelty today, but that’ll go away once a diploma is placed in his hand.

  He won’t be the kid who’s fucking a teacher anymore. Our four-year age difference will seem like forty years overnight.

  “Is it too late?” he asks. “Can you still sign up?”

  “No,” I lie. I refuse to divulge my worries. It would be unfair to him.

  Troy shrugs. “Then I’m not going.”

  Rolling my eyes, I say, “Don’t be ridiculous, Troy. You’re not missing senior prom because I’m not going to be there.”

  He lifts his backpack from the ground, hitching it over his shoulder. There’s no resentment in his body language or facial features; he neutral.

  “I don’t want to go if you’re not there, Miss Gray. You’re my lady.”

  I blink once, twice, three times, speechless and unprepared. “I’m not your lady, and I won’t be the reason you skip the dance. You’ll regret it.”

  Troy tightens the straps around his shoulders and stands with his feet shoulder-width apart. He’s the epitome of stubbornness, but I can’t let him do this. I can’t let him disrupt a pivotal moment in his life when we have an expiration date right around the corner.

  He swallows and breaks eye contact with me. Troy’s jaw is tense, and his shoulders fall. “You are mine, Miss Gray. And I don’t want to go to the stupid fucking dance with anyone but you.”

  The backpack suddenly feels like a prop. He’s not the defiant student who sits in the back of my sixth-period class. In only eight weeks, he's become my every thought. Troy Murillo is who I look for the second I step on campus. He's the best part of my day.

  He’s mine too.

  But I won’t tell him that.

  “Knock it off,” I say unconvincingly.

  “Or what?” He runs a hand through his hair. “Is this the part where you threaten to break up with me again?”

  I shake my head and say things I don’t mean. “We’d have to be in a relationship to break up.”

  “I can’t figure you out.” He scratches the back of his neck. Troy turns his shoulder to me, giving me only half of his attention. Half of my joy, half of my heart, and half of the oxygen in this small closet goes with it. “You’re so fucking hot and cold. I don’t know if you think this is a joke, Miss Gray, but—”

  Troy and I both halt when the door handle jiggles from the other side. My heart stops, my lungs seize, and my blood goes cold.

  “Why is this door locked?” Mrs. Chopra asks from the other side. “I don’t think I have a key for it. Where’s Carlos? Every room needs to be cleared during an alarm.”

  “Oh my god,” I whisper.

  Shutting the space between us, Troy places his hand over my mouth like he has so many times before. He holds me close against his body, jumpstarting my heart and gifting me with an instant dose of ease.

  “I want to be with you, Mis Gray,” he whispers. His lips brush against my ear with each syllable. “I want to take you on a date. I want to go to sleep with you at night and wake up with you in the morning. I want to fall in love with you.”

  A single tear streams from my eye, trailing down my cheek.

  The door handle rattles again.

  Honest green eyes catch mine and don’t let go. We’re an unlocked door away from being caught together, and if there was ever an opportunity to tell him that I want to fall in love with him too, it would be now.

  “I’ll go to prom,” he says softly. Goosebumps spread on my arms. “But only because you want me to. I don’t give a shit about any of that stuff. You’re the only thing that matters to me.”

  Abruptly, the fire alarm goes silent, leaving behind a ringing in my ears. Without the trilling siren to hide his whispers, Troy’s forced to keep his confessions to himself. And I can’t tell him that I think he’s mistaken. How would it look if we made our relationship public after graduation? Speculation would run rampant, and how do two people fall in love like that?

  “That’s only a supply closet,” a second voice I don’t recognize calls to Mrs. Chopra. “Carlos has the keys, and I think I saw him outside with the students. Do you want me to grab him?”

  The door handle rattles one more time before the school principle’s voice carries away down the hall. “No, that’s okay. Let’s just make sure everyone is accounted and can get back to class.”

  We wait until we hear the double door leading outside slam closed before we dare to speak.

  “I can’t believe that just happened.” I wipe the tear from my face and rake my fingers through my hair, taming it. “We almost got caught, Troy. Just stay here until I’m gone. Then go home. I’ll tell them you weren’t feeling good and left.”

  “What about tutoring?” he asks defensively.

  I turn away from him to say, “I can’t be your tutor anymore.”

  I leave the closet before he can protest and hurry down the hallway. My heels tap on the tile floor, echoing loudly against the walls. Pressing my palms to my clothes to make sure they’re straight, I also fight back the emotion that wants to burst out of me.

  This isn’t supposed to happen.

  Troy and I are not supposed to be anything more than temporary.

  Teachers don’t fall for their students.

  Then why does leaving him hurt so much?

  Bursting past the doors, I hurry toward the group of people awaiting the all-clear to head back inside. I squint against the bright sunlight and put a smile on my face despite the breaking of my heart.

  Mrs. Chopra hears my approach and stops to wait for me to catch up. Her chin-length haircut sits atop her head like a helmet, and there’s a run in her nude stockings. The walkie-talkie is in her hand like a sword.

  “And, where were you?” she asks.

  “I’m so sorry.” I pretend to be out of breath, holding my hand to my chest and inhaling a large breath. I cringe. “It’s that time of the month, and my flow is so heavy.”

  Mrs. Chopra shrinks away from me as if the women hasn't had a menstrual cycle in the last thirty years. I believe it.

  “After excusing myself to use the restroom, I left a student in charge of my class.” This isn’t technically allowed, but I think she stopped listening after I mentioned my flow. “I’d just sat down on the toilet when the fire alarm went off. I was so flustered, I dropped my tampon in the water and—”

  Mrs. Chopra holds her hand up. “No need to explain anymore, Samantha. I understand. Luckily for you, there’s not a fire. If I had to guess, this was just some lousy senior prank to get us out of class. Once you’ve been here for a while you’ll come to expect it around this time of year.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I ask, shaking my head. “Kids these days don’t respect the rules anymore.”

  “You have no idea,” she agrees, walking ahead of me.

  I roll my eyes behind her back and find my students. When were allowed inside the building ten minutes later, Troy doesn’t join us. He doesn’t show up for tutoring either.

  As the crack in my heart splits a little more, I remind myself it’s for the best.

  8

  Troy doesn’t show up to class all week long. When I see him outside of the classroom, he doesn’t acknowledge me beyond the same polite smile he shares with everyone. There’s no eye contact, no warmth, and no hint that we’ve shared an intimate relationship for the last two months.

  I’ve considered approaching him between classes to de
mand he see me. I’d do it in a teacherly manner in front of his friends, so he’d have no choice but to agree. Then I remember this is my doing. He spilled his feelings to me, and I disregarded the sentiment like it meant nothing.

  It meant everything.

  Now its too late.

  Prom is tomorrow night. The kids purr with excitement, and they ignore my attempt to teach a decent lesson. Everything I say goes in one ear and out the other, so I give up and let my last class of the day—the class Troy is supposed to be in—start their weekend early.

  “Be safe tomorrow,” I say as they shuffle out of class. “I want to see every single one of your faces on Monday.”

  “We will, Miss Gray,” they mumble.

  “No drinking and driving,” I continue, perched on the edge of my desk. “Say no to drugs. And practice safe sex!”

  My pupils can’t get away from me fast enough, and I find myself sticking around well after the bell signaling the end of the school week rings. I leave my classroom door wide open, check and recheck last night’s homework, and I straighten the rows of desks until they’re perfectly straight.

  An hour after school’s released, the only people to stop by my class are other teachers, so I grab my belongings and head home with my heart in my throat. It remains there through the night, keeping me from a decent night sleep.

  At midnight, I restlessly lay in the center of my mattress with my arms and legs stretched out like a starfish. What was I doing the night before prom when I was a high school student? If I remember right, my girlfriends and I sat around with cheap facial masks on our faces to reduce our already tiny pores. We talked about boys. We talked about whether or not we were going to give it up. We didn’t get any sleep and had to double up the undereye concealer the next day to hide the bags.

  The last time I spoke to Troy after he pulled the fire alarm just to get me alone, he agreed to attend the dance. Assuming he keeps his word, I wonder what he’s doing right now. Did he have time to get a suit? Does he have a date? Will she give it up?

  I have his phone number.

  I’ve had it since the first day of school. The same can be said for every one of my student’s personal information.

  Calling him would be an invasion of privacy, but Troy’s invading my sanity.

  Crawling out of bed, I grab my laptop from my dresser and sit on the floor with it between my legs. After a few clicks, I access my school files and bring up Troy Murillo’s information. It's too easy.

  Name: Troy Bradly Murillo

  Grade: 12

  Age: 18

  Parents: Marco and Danielle Murillo

  Address: blah, blah, blah.

  Home Number: blah, blah, blah.

  Mobile Number: yes, yes, yes.

  I’m a legitimate stalker, pushing boundaries no teacher should ever cross. How come looking up Troy’s file feels shoddier than riding his cock during the last pep rally? I briefly considered my morality when Troy had his head between my legs, but this has me strongly considering a new profession.

  I dial the number on my cellphone, but don’t press the green call button. Pacing my apartment, a dozen scenarios play through my head. He could declare his love. Or maybe he’ll be so revolted I embezzled his phone number from private files, he’ll forbid me from speaking to him again.

  I hold my breath and press send.

  It rings twice.

  “Hello?” Troy’s sleepy voice comes through the receiver.

  I hang up.

  “So stupid,” I berate myself, jumping up and down in place. “Get your life together, Samantha.”

  My phone buzzes in my hand, and I recognize Troy’s number flashing on the screen. I didn’t block my number before calling him. I didn’t block my number and now he has it. If I clear his call or don’t answer, he’ll go straight to my voicemail where I apologize for not answering and ask for my caller to leave a message.

  Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

  “Hi,” I answer. I slap my palm against my forehead and plop down on my sofa.

  “Miss Gray?” he asks, surprised. “Did you just call me and hang up?”

  “No,” I lie. “Yes. Yeah, I’m really sorry about that.”

  "Is everything okay?" he asks in a low tone. There are no other voices in the background, and he sounds like he may have been sleeping.

  “I butt dialed you,” I lie again.

  “Didn’t know you had my number.” He yawns. “But, I guess you would.”

  “I asked all students to share their email addresses and phone numbers with me.” I. Am. Mortified.

  “Sure,” he replies skeptically. “Look, if it was an accident—”

  “Why didn’t you come to class this week?” I ask, hating myself once the words leave my lips.

  “Didn’t think you noticed.”

  “I marked you as present,” I say.

  “Why?” he asks with a bite in his tone.

  “I didn’t want you to get a call home. Parents don’t generally like their kids to ditch class.”

  He chuckles maliciously. “I’m eighteen years old, Miss Gray. I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

  “Okay,” I reply.

  “If the only reason you called me was to make sure I wasn’t grounded for skipping class, I really got to go. I have to be up early tomorrow.”

  “You’re going to the dance?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he answers.

  “Alone?”

  “I’m going with Alicia Paves.”

  Alicia isn’t a student of mine, but I know who she is. The entire school does. She’s the stereotypical Little Miss Perfect, and she’s a picture-perfect match for Troy.

  “Have a good time, Troy,” I say with a shaky voice. “I’m sorry for bothering you.”

  I drown my sorrows in a pint of ice cream, disregarding serving sizes and calorie intake. Rocky Road is the only friend I have at the moment. It’s not like I can call a girlfriend or my parents and explain to them my heartbreak over my student-kinda-boyfriend going to prom with another person because I forced him to.

  They’d have me committed. Or arrested.

  I should have offered to chaperone. At least then I’d be there to separate Troy and Alicia if they get too close for my liking. I could step on the back of her dress, spill fruit punch on her lap, or lock her inside the restroom.

  This is what you wanted, I remind myself with another spoonful of dairy.

  Only, I don’t want this at all. Driving Troy to participate in these events with the other students felt like the acceptable thing to do. When in reality, I want him to skip the stupid prom to be with me. He gave me every opportunity to be honest with him, too. He practically begged me to ask him not to go, and I let us both down.

  I never wished for a day to end more than I do today, but the jokes on me. This is the longest day in the history of time. Even when the sun sets, I swear the clock is stuck at six. Prom starts in an hour, which means Troy’s slipped a corsage on Alicia’s wrist, and she’s pinned a matching flower on his lapel.

  They’re a thing.

  They’re probably at a nice restaurant sharing a romantic meal.

  Maybe they haven’t kissed yet, but they will. It’s tradition.

  Meanwhile, I’m not wearing a bra, and I didn’t bother to put pants on after my shower this morning. I’m a sad, overeating lump of disappointment.

  Dealing with this tsunami of emotions might be better controlled with booze, but my cupboards are dry and there’s not a chance in hell I’m leaving my apartment. Instead, I pluck my eyebrows, paint my nails, and eat more ice cream.

  I do all of this in less than an hour.

  Resistance is futile, so I surrender to mean heartbreak and cry. And cry. And cry. Weeping’s the only thing that passes the time, and letting go of confusion, indecisiveness, and just plain sadness feels good. It feels so good, I fall asleep.

  Finally.

  The next time I open my eyes, it’s after midnight. My eyes are swol
len from my cryfest, and they rage against my sudden consciousness. My back jumps in on the assault. Camping out on the living room floor would never be my first choice, but at this point, bad sleep is better than no sleep.

  So, fuck whoever keeps pounding on my front door.

  “Go away,” I grumble.

  The knocking becomes more insistent.

  Who is even at my place this late? They’re rude.

  “Come back in five years,” I mumble, covering my ears.

  And then it dawns on me. There’s only one type of person who knocks on doors in such a deliberate, undeterred way.

  A police officer.

  I’ve seen enough episodes of Cops to understand what’s about to happen. I’ll open my door, and an officer will shine a light in my eyes and ask if I’m the same Samantha Gray who teaches English at Mission Woods High School. I’ll concur, and they’ll handcuff me and take me away in the back of a police cruiser. The neighbors will see. I’ll be featured on the front page of tomorrow’s newspaper. The story might go viral.

  The headlines will say, "HOT TEACHER SEDUCES STUDENT!"

  Vloggers, bloggers, and mommy activists will make me out to be a monster. They’ll say Troy was impressionable, and they’ll wonder why I couldn’t find someone my own age.

  I mean, I’m only four years older. He is mostly my own age.

  But that’s not the point.

  My life is over.

  There’s no point in fighting the inevitable, so I shuffle to my feet and face the music.

  But there’s no blinding light, handcuffs, or police cars.

  There’s only Troy Murillo.

  His tie’s loose around his neck and black slacks hang low on his hips. He’s not wearing a jacket, and I don’t see a pinned flower anywhere on his ensemble. Troy's cuffs are folded to his elbows, and his shoes shine in the dim yellow-orange light beside my doorway.

  He is an angel.

  “Were you crying?” he asks. He takes a step just inside my apartment. “Wait. Why are you crying, babe?”