Chapter Fourteen: The Play’s the Thing
Harriet thought it best that we look only once at the various the news reports on television from the Sunday press conference.

“It’s best not to be obsessed with what the media is saying,” she advised.

The few reports I saw were somewhat sensational, but by and large presented a fair picture of the situation; fortunately, the principal had arranged for several renowned psychiatrists and experts to explain my transition as caused a natural condition – gender dysphoria. The reporters correctly described it as a syndrome over which a person has little choice to their belief that they belong in a gender other than the one in which they were born.

One station, however, headed its broadcast with this lead-in: “Would you want your teenager to be taught by a teacher who last year led classes as a man and this year as a woman? That’s what parents at one area high school have to decide as the new school year begins.”

It was the most biased of all reports, putting one parent on camera to say she was taking her daughter out of Farragut High because of its “Satanic practices in fostering sexual deviancy.” I was surprised because the parent was the mother of one of my best students during my semester of substitute teaching.

It was apparent, too, from that broadcast that there might be a demonstration at the school on its opening day, a fear that made it hard to sleep on Monday night. Harriet assured me, however, that the school had made arrangements to assure that I would safely enter the building Tuesday without trouble. I wasn’t so sure.

For the first day of school, I decided to wear a brightly colored full skirt that flowed down to mid-calf, topped off by a sleeveless cream-colored blouse with broad collar and a high neckline. I wore a simple silver necklace and a pair of small silver earrings. I had found a pair of comfortable black pumps with a short heel, realizing that I would be on my feet for much of the day. I wore only a natural colored lipstick and just a hint of eyeliner, hoping to portray the image of a serious schoolteacher.

I loved to let my hair flow freely and decided that I would follow that style in my teaching.

“You look quite harmless, dear,” Harriet said with a smile as we headed off in her car for school.

“That’s the image I want to show,” I said.

“I think you succeeded. No one can make you out as the devil incarnate as Channel Six did.”

“I’m too scared to be any kind of a devil.”

“I know you are, honey,” she said, patting my arm as she drove. “But you need not be frightened. You’ve got plenty of support. You’ll see.”

*****
There were perhaps fifteen pickets gathered at the street entrance to the teachers’ parking lot, some holding signs protesting my hiring. For some reason they all depicted me as Satan. Nearly all of the pickets were adults, with perhaps three or four students, none of whom I knew. They were being restricted to the sidewalk by several police officers along with Mr. Benson, the school security officer and several husky school aides.

Nearby were perhaps a hundred students, forming a counter picket group, all apparently supporting me. They carried hurriedly drawn signs saying “We Support Miss Pearson,” “LGBT Rights,” and the cleverest, “She’s a jolly good . . . lady.” At the front of the group were Jeremy Hudson, the student council president, Ahmed Johnson, the towering center on the basketball team, and Thomas from my last semester’s class. They shouted in what seemed like perfect harmony, “Miss Pearson, Miss Pearson, Miss Pearson.”

A view television crews stood by, filming the event.

I entered the school without incident, and the school day, to my surprise, went smoothly, except for the usual first-day-of-school glitches; my students, of course, were incoming freshmen and they were likely more frightened of being in the big school than I was. Many, I’m sure, were unaware that I was not who I was perceived to be: their female English teacher. I got some stares from older students as I walked the halls, but no one said anything to my face, though I could sense they were talking about me.

Carmen Mendoza stopped by between classes to wish me well, as did Thomas, who added: “If any of those kids give you trouble, Miss Pearson, you tell me. I’ll take care of them.”

“Thank you, Thomas, but I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” I said to him with a smile.

*****
I was pleased that most of the teachers accepted me as a colleague; perhaps it was due to the fact that they had met me the previous semester and I guess I had proven to be a congenial co-worker. Most were aware of my friendships with Hank Duke, Jon Edwards and Harriet Simpson, all of whom were respected by the other teachers. Mrs. McGuire – whose classes I had handled that semester – and several others treated me coldly, keeping their distance from me. I later learned that Mrs. McGuire and the others held views that came from their religious views that saw transgenderism as violating some rule of their God.

By the second week of school it appeared my gender issues had ceased to be of interest. I found myself deeply involved in trying to keep my students interested in my English class, hoping to neither bore them or to permit unruly behavior in the classroom. In many ways, I found my classes this semester to be easier to handle, since the students were all new to the school and more willing to take direction. I was certain that would change as the year went on.

If anything, I may have been too diligent, trying to cram too much at once into their still developing minds; I found myself assigning too many essays and tests, all of which took time to grade and tired me out immensely. I soon realized, too, that I may have been assigning too much homework; I got several notes from parents seeking to excuse their son or daughter for failing to complete a homework assignment, claiming there wasn’t enough time available for the work to be completed.

“Miss Pearson, I don’t want to interfere with your teaching, but don’t you think you’re expecting too much from your students?” one mother wrote. “My daughter Ellen is a top student and worked two hours on this project and couldn’t finish last night. She also had assignments from Algebra and Social Studies. Thank you for your understanding. Helena Patterson, mother of Ellen.”

More than half the class was unable to complete that assignment, I learned.

“You’ve still got lots to learn, dear,” Harriet Simpson told me. “Just slow down and remember to have fun in class.”

It was good advice and I tried to follow it. I soon found that my students were less tense, more eager to learn and sometimes even fun.

*****
Carmen Mendoza joined the drama club which met after school and I saw her several times a week. She periodically told me of Randy’s progress in school, how good he was as a football quarterback and his other activities.

“He told me he wants to teach school, Miss Pearson,” Carmen said one day. “He’d like to be an English teacher and a coach.”

“He won’t get rich in this work, Carmen,” I said.

“He knows that, but I think he’s inspired by you,” the girl said.

“Don’t be silly, Carmen. He’s never seen me teach.”

“I know, but I’ve told him how dedicated you are and how the kids seem to like you.”

“Carmen, you tell him to follow his own dreams, whatever they are,” I said. “He shouldn’t be influenced by me or anyone else.”

“I think you’re important to him, Miss Pearson,” Carmen said. I think I caught her wink as she said this.

The conversation ended as Harriet called the group together to discuss the details of the play they were to perform later that semester. As I turned my attention to the drama club activities, I began to wonder if I could never get Randy, that handsome, appealing boy, out of my thoughts.

*****
While the teaching seemed to go smoothly, my personal life changed immensely. My friendship with Harriet continued, of course, but our time together grew more and more limited. In autumn, she had become friendly with a handsome widower, an engineering company executive of about her own age whom she met at a benefit reception for the arts community.

My Thursday and Saturday excursions with Harriet ended by Thanksgiving, leaving me with empty nights. Jon Edwards found a new lover, thus ending most of our outings. “I think Harold will be moving in with me,” Jon told me. “I’ve never been so in love.”

I wished them both well; they were dear friends and had been very important as I began my teaching career. Fortunately, I was able to enjoy occasional breaks with each of them in which we might share a coffee and some conversation.

At the urging of Jon, I took driving lessons. To be honest, I had always been afraid to drive a car; mom had always been pleased to drive me everywhere and I was often teased by other kids in high school for being such a momma’s boy. They were right, of course. Her car, a four-year-old Chevy Malibu was still sitting in the garage, not having been used since her illness ended her driving.

“You need to have that car driven, Julie,” Jon said, warning me that such inactivity was not good for the car.

I gave him the keys one Saturday and we went for a drive after stopping off at a gas station to fill it up and check the tires, all of which had gotten soft in the last two years. He made an appointment to have the car checked and to have the oil changed and then came over a few days later to take care of that chore.

“Now, you must learn to drive,” he insisted, as we sat in the grubby waiting room of the auto repair shop.

I told him that I didn’t see the need and that I found public transportation perfectly adequate.

“Julie, you need to be an independent woman, and a car will mean just that for you,” he said.

I knew he was correct, I was scared to operate a car.

“Look up there, on the bulletin board,” Jon directed me, pointing to a board in waiting room, advertising all sorts of services. One of the largest and most colorful was for “Friendly Driving School.” It advertised in bright yellow type on a dark blue background the words: “Instruction with Compassion.”

“I had a friend use that driving school and they’re great. That’s the place for you to learn, I’m sure.”

Without me agreeing, Jon picked up his cell phone, and made an appointment for me to begin instruction. A day later, he took me to get my learners’ permit, again using my mother’s car.

*****
Two months later, on a blustery, frigid November day with light snow falling that threatened to turn the roads to ice, I took my driver’s test; to my surprise and in spite of a chilling fear that I’d fail or crash during the test, I passed.

I was convinced I had failed as we drove back to the motor vehicle branch office as I finished the test. The examiner, obviously a longtime employee of the agency, was a man in his late forties, tall and still handsome whose once hard body was turning soft. He had a stern look during the test and had even corrected my mistakes twice, including assisting me in parallel parking.

“You passed, ma’am,” he said curtly at the end of the test.

“I passed, really?” I said, confused since I had felt I had done horribly.

“Yes, ma’am. You had a few rough spots, and you better practice parallel parking a bit more. But I liked how cautious you were and that’ll help you navigate OK, I’m sure.”

He finally smiled at me; then he found a card in his folder of papers, handing it to me. “If you’re ever interested in a little driving instruction on the side, just to help you get adjusted to the roads, feel free to call. Perhaps we could set something up,” he said, pressing the card into my hand. He held my hand a bit longer than I thought necessary.

“Thank you . . . ah . . . Mr. Galligan,” I said, looking at his card to learn his name.

“Pete. Call me Pete,” he said.

With that he turned to get ready for his next examinee, while I walked back to Jon, who had taken me in for the examination in mom’s old car. He was sitting in the waiting room and I could tell he watched the entire interchange between the examiner and me. He had a grin on his face and he said, “I’ll bet you passed,” even before I could tell him the result.

“Yes, can you believe it?”

“I told you that outfit would do the trick,” he said, grinning.

He was probably right, I realized. I dressed according to his direction that morning, putting on black cotton tights, a short plaid skirt and a tight fitting purple sweater. I wore flats and a cream-colored padded parka and tied my hair into pigtails. “I’ll look like a high school girl,” I protested.

“Let’s hope you’ll get a male examiner; you’ll pass easily,” he said, laughing.

“What if it’s a woman examiner? It’s probably a sure fail then,” I said.

“Not if she’s lesbian,” he said, laughing.

My legs, I was beginning to realize, were among my prettiest of features and Pete Galligan must have been overwhelmed sitting next to me in the car, observing my legs move to control the vehicle. I had also put on a faint scent of perfume to add to my femininity that morning. Even my pathetic helplessness behind the wheel must have been appealing to the man. Oh what weapons we women have over men!

*****
Jon Edwards had been right; the ability to drive helped get through many lonely periods during the school year. With Jon busy with his new lover and Harriet enthralled with hers, I rarely saw them outside of school. My friendship with the new teachers – Laura McPherson and Tamara Jackson – grew and we usually tried to get together once during most weekends, either to do a bit of shopping, to have pizza or to do a bit of innocent clubbing.

It was great being one of the girls during our outings; we often observed the young men about us and played a game about which one of us would be the most perfect mate for one guy or another. We were merciless in our criticisms of the young men, most whom we found too shy, too boastful, too fat or too wimpy for our own tastes. We also were the subject of the looks of men themselves.

“They’re obviously eyeing you, Julie,” Laura said, and Tamara agreed, “Right, she’s the prettiest of the three of us.”

“Don’t be silly. You two are lovely and sexy,” I’d argue.

“Hah,” Laura said.

“They only have eyes for you, Julie,” Tamara added.

In fact, when we were approached in the clubs, I was usually the first asked to dance; in most cases, I did accept the invite, largely because it usually opened up the table for the other two to get invitations. We had a blood pact that if we three arrived together, we would all leave together, never permitting one of us to get hooked up with a man for the night.

“Let’s seal that in a blood oath, like we did as kids,” Tamara suggested.

And we did, each make slight pin prick in a finger to draw blood and then lining our bloody fingers. I felt marvelous being in such a blood oath with other girls; oh, how I wished I had grown up as girl, participating in Brownies and Girl Scouts and having giggling girlfriend relationships all through my school years.

I did have several dates with Leighton Loomis, who asked me out first in mid-October. In truth, they weren’t really dates as you might think of dates. The first time, I joined him in a rally to support striking fast food workers in town; there I saw the shy boy I first met become a vociferous proponent for the cause, even giving an inspired short speech from the podium. After the rally, we went for pizza and beer and he talked with animation about the effort for low-wage workers. Our relationship was hardly romantic, which suited me fine. I still had my boy parts and I was not interested in getting too intimate just yet.

Except for my time with Leighton, I had few opportunities to meet men of my age who were either not married or engaged; there were none among the faculty at the school at least. Several times I found myself fending off uncomfortable advances by older men, mainly on the trains I took to and from work (even though I could drive, I still found the train just as fast and less frustrating than battling rush hour traffic). By then I decided to dress as simply and nonsexual as I could. Though I preferred to wear skirts, particularly light, flowing skirts, I took to wearing slacks to school every day; I wore little makeup, keeping my lipstick and facial tones as neutral as possible and often tied my hair into an unflattering bun.

I found I liked the solitude that came with a social life that was basically non-existent. For one thing, I kept busy with preparing for my teaching; just staying ahead of the curriculum was a chore, since it was my first complete year of teaching. In addition, I found the added chores of assisting Harriet in the Drama Club rehearsals time-consuming as well; at her suggestion, I had been studying several books on theatrical production and direction.

Meanwhile, the hormones continued to have their effect; my skin was becoming softer and fleshier. My never strong arms became mushier than ever and my breasts had grown so that they finally filled out the 36-A sized bra I wore. I looked at my nude body in the mirror almost daily, hoping to see some magical change that would give me the curves I so desired. In reality, I realized that my body looked totally feminine; except for my diminutive penis, which was hardly noticeable as it seemed camouflaged in the bush at my crotch. My major flaw was my tummy; it was not flat, but protruded a bit, marshmallow-like with flabby love handles. When I dressed up, I usually wore a corset to create a more feminine hour-glass shape.

When I complained to Hank Duke that I was having trouble reducing my tummy size, he gave me some simple exercises that I began to do daily in hopes of toning my stomach muscles and firming up my always flabby body. I also joined an aerobics class for women at the YWCA, which met on Monday and Thursday nights, and where I found myself getting easily exhausted from the simple exercises. I was horribly out of shape, it was apparent.

The hormones had other effects, bringing me moody periods during the month, more proof that I was indeed becoming a woman. In truth, I had never been happier in my life and I wished fervently that mother was here to enjoy my new life. I loved and admired her dearly; what cruel twist of fate had given her that awful disease and took her out of my life? I missed her. I think she would have been proud of her daughter.

*****
Of course, Randy was ever-present in my thoughts. Carmen Mendoza seemed always to have news about Randy when she attended Drama Club sessions. She and Ryan continued to be boyfriend-girlfriend and she announced that she had finally convinced Randy to regularly date her friend, Maria Elena; the two had gone to the Homecoming Dance, the Holiday Dance and were planning to be at the prom together in Spring. In fact, Randy – who had been named Homecoming King due to his captaincy of the football team – had chosen Maria Elena as his Homecoming Queen.

Carmen showed me a picture of the royal couple and I was astounded at the striking beauty of both of them. Randy stood erect in his dark red tuxedo (matching the school colors) smiling with an arm around the waist of a truly attractive young, dark-skinned woman with jet black hair, wearing a strapless blue gown.

“What a handsome couple!” I exclaimed as I looked at the picture.

“They make a great couple, Miss Pearson, but Randy still talks about you,” Carmen said.

“Oh, Carmen, I wished he’d look at reality and enjoy his high school years with such a lovely young woman as this,” I said, pointing to the girl in the photo.

“Me too. My friend Maria Elena is in love with him, but so far he’s been fairly distant with her, just taking her out when he needs a date,” Carmen said.

“I wish he’d forget me.”

“I’m not sure he ever will.”

Too make matters worse, Randy agreed to try out for the spring play that was to be held at his high school. Carmen informed me that he hoped I would be willing to coach him so that he might get the part.

“Tell him ‘no,’ Carmen, a flat ‘no.’”

She pressed me several more times to assist him, claiming he was serious about his acting future. As much as I would have liked to coach him – just to be with him would be delightful – I knew doing so could lead only to disaster. I held firm and refused to help him. My decision of course came with tears.

In April, when Randy’s high school performed the play, a musical “Damn Yankees,” I persuaded Harriet to attend one of the performances with me. Randy played the lead part of Joe Hardy, 22-year-old phenom who becomes one of the greatest hitters of all time. Randy performed the part marvelously, even handling the singing roles admirably.

“That boy is magnificent,” Harriet whispered to me before the play had even entered the second act.

“Yes, he is,” I said. I wanted to tell her I knew him, but thought the best of it.

His name was listed in the program as Randolph B. Hastings. His friend, Maria Elena Lopez, played Lola, the femme fatale role in the play. I watched him play the part with fascination; he was totally immersed in the role. He was rewarded with the longest and loudest applause of the evening, including a kiss on the cheek from Maria Elena to the delight of the audience.

“We must meet that boy to tell him how great he is,” Harriet said as we stood and applauded.

“Oh I don’t think we’ll be able to, Harriet,” I said, hoping to avoid meeting Randy in public and with my friend at my side.

“Mrs. Synkiewicz greeted us as we entered and I’m sure she’ll welcome the words of another play director,” Harriet said. Mrs. Synkiewicz directed the show for the high school and spotted Harriet and I as we entered, pleased that another director wished to see the production.

Once the crowd had left the school auditorium, Harriet dragged me backstage where throngs of parents and other students had gathered to greet the actors. There was loud applause each time one of the young actors emerged after changing out of their costumes.

Mrs. Synkiewicz spotted Harriet and approached us: “What did you think, Harriet?” she asked.

“Marvelous, Wanda, you did a magnificent job and that musical is not an easy one to do,” Harriet said.

“I had a great bunch of kids to work with,” the director said.

“Particularly the boy who played Joe Hardy,” Harriet said.

“Wasn’t he incredible? Would you like to meet him? I’m sure he’d love to hear such words from someone like you, Harriet.”

Harriet said she had hoped to meet the boy and tell him he might have a future in the theater. I demurred, stating I’d wait here since the place might be crowded. But the director would have none of it and insisted I go with them. I did but was so worried about meeting Randy; what would he say? The director led us to a side room where Randy was standing talking to adults who were likely family members. He was still in his costume and makeup.

“Randy, I need to interrupt just for a moment,” Mrs. Synkiewicz said breaking into the group. “I’d like you to meet Harriet Simpson, who is the drama teacher at Farragut and a real pro in the theater. She’s widely respected. And the young lady is . . . ?”

“My assistant, Julie Pearson,” Harriet said.

Randy’s eyes focused in on me immediately, not even looking at Harriet who was supposed to be the person he should have been gushing over. His eyes registered complete surprise and then he smiled.

“Real nice meeting you,” he said woodenly, holding his hand out to Harriet while still looking at me.

“Randolph you were magnificent,” Harriet began. She continued with a fairly long critique, praising all parts of his performance. “You ought to be considering going further in the theater, young man, though I can hardly promise you’ll ever make lots of money, but it’s an exciting way to live,” she said finishing up.

As she talked, Randy turned to her, as if to listen, but periodically moved his eyes, focusing in on me.

“Thank you, Miss Simpson and what did you think of the play, Miss . . . ah . . . what did you say your name was?” the boy said.

“Pearson. Julie Pearson, and I thought the play – and particularly you – were amazing. I didn’t know you knew how to sing, dance and act, Randy,” I said, the words gushing out of my mouth.

“Oh you know my name?” the boy said, obviously catching my faux pas in using his nickname when as a stranger I should have only known him as “Randolph.”

I turned red and before I could answer, another rush of fans entered the room. We excused ourselves. I was shaking as we left the room.

*****
“The boy had talent,” Harriet said. “Did you know him, Julie?”

She asked the question after we were seated at a booth in Perkin’s restaurant for some pie and coffee after the event.

“Huh?” I said, faking as if I hadn’t heard the question.

“He seemed to look at you funny, Julie, and I know you’re far more likely to draw the eyes of a young man than I am, but he seemed like he knew you. Nonetheless, I’m glad you talked me into coming to the play. He was a real treat.”

“Oh,” I said, finally recovering my composure. “I think I remember him from the forensics contest I worked on last year. As I recall, he was a prize-winner there.”

“He’s got all the qualities of a star,” she added. “Maybe we could import him for the lead in our production of ‘Pajama Game.’ We seem to be having problems finding a good male lead in our school.”

“You can’t really do that, can you?” I asked, scared stiff that she was serious and I’d be seeing the boy almost every day. It would be an impossible situation, since we all get so deeply involved, even intimate, at times during the repeated rehearsals.

“It’s been done and Wanda, that’s Mrs. Synkiewicz, and I have worked together before. If she doesn’t have any plans for him, she’d probably go along with our request.”

I nodded, but quickly changed the subject. As we chatted in the booth, my mind wandered a bit, mainly realizing that I might have to find some boy in our own school who could do the part. It would be no good to have Randy close by every rehearsal. I imagined that if that were to occur, I would eventually break down and accost him in a locked janitor’s closet; or I might offer to drive him in my car to his home, likely stopping somewhere along a secluded parkway to cover him with kisses.

*****
A week later, on a quiet, rainy Saturday morning, Randy called me at home. Even though it was after ten o’clock, I was still in my nightie; all I had done was to tie my hair into a messy ponytail and brush my teeth before poking my head out to the front porch to pick up the Times newspaper and going to the kitchen to make coffee. I felt grubby and poured myself an orange juice and brought out some peach yogurt; before I could begin eating, the phone rang.

“Hello,” I said, tentatively, wondering who would be calling so early.

“Ah . . . Miss Pearson?” The familiar voice came through faintly, almost too faint to hear.

“Randy? Is that you?” I said, knowing full well it was him. Immediately, I felt naked and worried that I must look like hell warmed over. I had an impulse to put him on hold while I cleaned myself up and looked presentable, even though I knew that was a foolish thought.

“Yes, Miss Pearson, it’s me and I just wanted to call to thank you for coming to see the play. Did you like it?”

His words now came in a breathless rush.

“Oh my, Randy . . . err . . . Mr. Hastings . . . both Miss Simpson and I loved it and you were just terrific. I didn’t know you could dance and sing. You’re quite a talent, young man.”

I hoped I said all this in an authoritative, adult voice and not in the voice of a hopeless, lovesick young lady. It was how I feel every time I think of the tousle-haired eager boy. He’s so absolutely adorable, and so strong, too.

“Thank you, Miss Pearson, but you can call me Randy. Mrs. Synkiewicz does.”

“We better keep it at Mr. Hastings,” I said flatly, hoping my voice sounded convincing enough.

“OK, Miss Pearson,” he said. I wondered if he was pouting now.

A moment of silence followed. It was awkward. I knew I should have said something, but I said nothing.

“Miss Pearson,” Randy said finally. “How did you think the whole production went? Was it convincing? Did we sound professional?”

“Well, you were terrific,” I started, but Randy interrupted.

“Forget me; I wondered how the play went. Some of the kids felt we didn’t do well and I value your opinion.”

When I assured him that both Harriet and I felt the cast and the performance as a whole was marvelous, he seemed genuinely relieved. Soon he talked enthusiastically about the hard work everyone had done in putting the play together, including some arguments, particularly between Mrs. Synkiewicz and the orchestra director.

“You’d be surprised of how some actors act like they’re superior to the kids working backstage and the musicians,” he said. “I hated that because I know lots of the musicians and they have to practice many hours to be good enough. I don’t like divisions between people.”

“That’s great, Randy,” I said, slowing gaining more admiration for this unusual boy and forgetting my resolve to address him more formally as Mr. Hastings.

We continued talking for nearly an hour; he said he was considering full ride athletic scholarships for football from a number of schools. “Maybe you could help me choose,” he suggested.

“Randy, I’m no counselor,” I said, begging off.

“Maybe you could hear me out,” he said, eventually.

I agreed I would. He said he had narrowed the choices down to three schools, including two football powers and one school – located less than two hours from the city – which was known more for its academics than football.

“Two of the schools said that they think their programs are so good that I’d likely be guaranteed to become a high draft pick for the NFL,” he said. “But I really am not certain I could make the NFL and besides I really want to do something worthwhile after I graduate and am interested in political science or sociology. And now, theater has intrigued me.”

Our conversation continued in this vain; my only role had been to ask him questions that I hoped would stimulate him to make the best decision. From all I had read, Randy was destined to be the consensus all-state quarterback in his senior year; he obviously had been attracting lots of attention of college football scouts.

“Wouldn’t you be giving up a chance at earning lots of money if you didn’t choose to go to one of the football powers?” I asked, playing the devil’s advocate. In truth I had hoped he’d choose the more academically qualified school, partly because the other two choices were both a thousand miles away.

“Well if I go to Alabama or Oklahoma, Miss Pearson, I’ll be too far away from you,” he said. He quickly followed that with a laugh, as if he were teasing.

“Now Randy, get that thought out of your head. You will have your pick of girls wherever you go. My God, you’re gorgeous and smart and sweet.”

“You really think so, Julie . . . er . . . I mean, Miss Pearson.”

“Of course I do, Randy, but even as much as I enjoy talking with you, you must not call me again. It’s just not appropriate. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Miss Pearson, but . . .”

“No buts, Randy, if you think it’s vital that we talk about your schooling or something like that, you let Carmen know and let her arrange our talks, OK?”

“Yes, Miss Pearson,” he said, his voice hardly disguising his disappointment.

When our conversation ended, I realized I was breathing heavily. My small penis had grown hard and some moisture dampened my panties. How badly I loved that boy!

*****
In late May, as the end of my first full year of teaching neared, I was called into Principal Hammond’s office. She had the windows of her office opened as a late spring heat wave had made the un-air-conditioned school stuffy; I could hear the sweet sounds of a cardinal, which had obviously been perched somewhere in the trees nearby. The bird’s melodious tweets occasionally were drowned out by a passing bus or truck on the busy street about one hundred feet away.

“It’s a great feeling that summer may be near,” commented Mrs. Hammond.

“Yes, it is.”

“How have you liked your teaching this year, Julie?” she asked.

“It was hard, but I think I it went OK,” I said.

“Actually, you did well, and I’ll be recommending that you be considered to have passed your probation period.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hammond.”

“No, dear,” she said, smiling. “It’s thanks to you. You came into the year under extreme pressure and from all reports you did extremely well. We’ll be offering you another contract for next year and we hope you’ll accept.”

I wanted to squeal like a little girl, but was content with a discreet “thank you.”