Paz. It means peace in Spanish. In Sergio, it means my eleventh-grade Language Arts teacher who is leaning across her desk to pick up the stack of our last writing assignment. Her poly-cotton dress opens at the front and what I want is a piece of that ample cleavage. Good grief, what a rack! Not too big, perfectly rounded, still perky at twenty-nine; freckles scattered throughout; connect the dots to see what constellations form.
Maybe I’ll throw a pen at Gerardo Dos Santos, or yell something random across the room like, “Justin Bieber is gayer than eight guys blowing nine guys.” It’ll be my first offense so she’ll ask me to see her after school. By that time, her hair will be a mess, breath smelling of tuna salad sandwich and Altoids.
When I walk in, she’s at her desk filing papers, again giving me a wondrous vista of the voluptuousness God gave her, but I linger too long and she catches me. My pants tighten when she walks past and says, “You’re distracted, Sergio.” She locks the door and gets closer. “What’s distracting you?”
I want to utter a cool Mickey Rourke line like, “I think we both know,” but instead pull her in by surprisingly bony hips and we lock lips. The tongue that all year has been droning on about subject-verb agreement, the hero’s journey, and SAT words like akimbo and laconic is now rolling around mine with an intent that’s long been there. She’s thought of this before; maybe in the shower while her clueless boyfriend gets lost in a rousing game of Mahjong Titans on his Toshiba Netbook.
My lips find her neck, slathered with French Vanilla body spray. God damn, her breasts are bigger than I thought. I rub against her, showing proof of her extracurricular virtues. Her hand snakes down toward my belt.
Knock, knock, knock on the corner of my faux wooden desk. “Orellana, wake up.” Ms. Paz holds my paper in hand. She flicks it at me with a lax, “Good job.” The title reads, If I was The Devil for a Day; my sloppy handwriting only penning one incomplete paragraph.
In purple pen she’s written a D at the bottom. It’s ample, like her breasts in profile and the lump at the base of my balls. This is terrible, she’s written, you need to engage your imagination, run with it. What happened?
At the row nearest her desk, Gerardo Dos Santos says the Chileans played like a bunch of pussies against Brazil. Reaching into my backpack, I’m convinced if I throw my spiral notebook just right the coils will catch his ear.
Hector Duarte Jr. is a high school English/ELL teacher and current student at FIU’s Creative Writing Program. When he isn’t disc golfing or catching up on Breaking Bad, he likes to listen to Hans Zimmer and dream that someday he might nab a small role in The Expendables 3.