Folie à Deux (5 page)

“Ok, well Carla, whether or not we wait until I am eighteen is up to you because you’re the one who can get in trouble.”

I am so confused I’m panting. I speak before thinking, trying to protect myself.

She immediately attacks issues at the heart of a budding romance skipping right over legality and morality. The topics she broaches are ones a high school couple needs to discuss. She keeps sniffling and snorting, wrestling to gain control of herself.

“So let me ask you something,” she starts, “What sorts of rumors have you heard about me and be honest because I’m sure I’ve heard them already. I just want to be truthful with you.”

I pause, it feels like a trap. After a moment, deciding I have nothing to lose I admit, “For as long as I have been at the school I have heard two names.” She summarily denies any involvement with either of them, telling me stories of innocuous and trivial contact with both boys but nothing that even provides opportunity for indecency.

It sounds convincing as she details her believably benign interaction but does not seem surprised by the names either. It’s almost as if she has heard these rumors too but before I can read too much into her responses she comes back with another question preceded by the same long and drawn out sigh. “So my next question,” she begins with an almost sarcastic tone, “My next question has to be something that you have heard about one time or another.”

I stay quiet, afraid to speak.

Another sigh heightens my panic, “How old do you think I am?”

I didn’t bring up the age issue in previous conversations trying to avoid being rude. However, I think it equally impolite to prompt a guess. Do I come up with a number and knock a few years off to be careful? I don’t have the time or mental energy to play these games so I create an answer that seems in the right range. “Thirty-five?” I guess. My mom is thirty-six so I think I’m safe as well as close.

Quivering accompanies her exhale. “Well James,” she says, “I am the ripe old age of,” and pauses. The pause seems unnatural as though the dead air is being filled with creativity instead of honesty; the same game I just played. “Forty-two,” and silence.

I’m fifteen. I have no concept of old. To me the seniors in the cafeteria are old. I have no frame for forty-two years old. Thirty-five was a harmless guess because that makes her younger than my mother. But now I just confessed my love, as per Carla’s recollection, to someone older than my mother.

We talk until somewhere after three a.m. because I’m afraid to leave this conversation. I know that by ending it I’m solidifying what was said. I don’t know if I want to take anything back or if I even can. I know our words are not digested yet, not applied. They are all fresh and perhaps can be slowed down or processed differently. But if we hang up they are committed to memory as having been spoken in the confines of this conversation on this night.

My reluctance means she’s the one who says, “Well I’m up at five thirty and that’s only a few hours away so I guess I should get some sleep.”

I agree, still ignorant to what any of this means. She ends the conversation with a heartfelt and romantic, “I love you,” and now I have no choice but to say what I avoided earlier. I speak before I can think, before I can attach meaning to my words and before I am anywhere near developed enough to grasp the consequences.

“I love you too. Goodnight.”

I lay awake for hours replaying the crucial parts of the conversation. I try to remember how we went from talking to crying to consoling to solidifying the foundations of a romantic relationship and I simply cannot. All I can remember is what was said but the words are now absent the bonus of context. What
I said was so quickly synthesized and enacted into the fabric of what we just created but how did those words leave my mouth? I never even knew that sort of conversation was in my head.

I think I have a girlfriend. I think I just found a forty-two year old girlfriend who was my French teacher and probably will be again next year. How do I look at my mom in the morning? How do I look at Miss Danza or Carla or whoever she just became? How do I look at my friends as we sit and have a bagel before first period? Do I tell them? Do I tell anyone?

I think this conversation has to remain a secret but she didn’t say one way or another. I think she can get in trouble but only because of my dad’s words earlier. As I was conveying those rumors I know they were spread with a sense how cool it would be if they were true. I envied the boys in the stories for having her attention and now I’m not sure that I want the uncertainty with which it comes. I was much more comfortable admiring her from afar because that was safe, like a crush on a movie star. Never did I imagine I would be the recipient of her affection.

I think I fall asleep but I’m not sure. All I know is that when my alarm sounds I have to start a new day in a new life that snuck up on me from somewhere beyond my wildest dreams.

I’m apprehensive to see her, not knowing what her demeanor will be. Will she have regrets? Was she simply overcome with emotion? Was she drunk? So many scenarios emerge that I consider the possibility that I imagined the whole exchange. I walk into her room second period expecting to discover I fashioned the conversation out of a subliminal fantasy. Instead, I’m greeted with a giant smile. She says, brimming with excitement, “Bonjour, Ça va?” which I know means, “Good morning, how are you?”

I respond, “Bien, et tu?” which is wrong but she does not correct.

She answers, “Très bien.”

Obviously, my memory matches reality.

I don’t know if it’s appropriate to continue the conversation, ignore it or embrace it. I just had history class with other kids who were talking about kid stuff, some even talking about problems with boyfriends and girlfriends but I’m sure they were manageable ones. I decide to be myself and imagine what I would have said yesterday, before last night. But all I can think about is what makes sense now in the context of those irreversible words, nothing meaningful reaching my mind.

She moves rapidly into topics that she has clearly given more thought than I am afforded. She suggests plans that involve
Christmas Caroling in her hometown, twenty minutes outside of New York City. Leaving me with only the same disastrous response, “I’d love to go but I have to check with my parents.” I’m nervous because if my parents don’t go for this invitation either what does that mean when I have to break the news? I’m already trying to concoct how I can make sure this time is more readily accepted.

The next item she mentions has caused me a great deal of anxiety since recent developments. This subject predates last night as well as the passing of Kevin’s mom. It goes back to a place before there was even a hint of anything more than just a teacher-student relationship. Sometime in the fall, Miss D. spoke to all French classes about a trip she was planning to France. I knew she took students abroad every few years because I had seen pictures. She was fond of showing slides of those trips to illustrate aspects of art and architecture in her lessons.

This time was to be different though. She explained that although past trips were educational they were too much like field trips, not immersion into another culture. This year she was planning a true exchange. The students who were selected would be staying with French families and although there would be daily excursions most of the time would be spent alone in a French household. I thought it sounded amazing so I went home that same day and asked my parents.

They were open to the idea, saying they would consider the trip but I had to provide more information. It was expensive but my parents recognized this as a once in a lifetime opportunity. So much so that my grandfather offered to defray the cost if I were accepted to participate.

The context of this trip is much different now. She gushes how excited she is to show me the places that she holds so dear
and what a wonderful thing this will be to experience together. The whole concept, which had excited me, now takes on a new meaning I’m unable to define. I don’t know if she senses my apprehension but drops that topic quickly despite the fact that it seems to be the most significant on her checklist.

Every night we stay on the phone until early morning. We become better acquainted, talking about our lives, “What do you see in your future, Jimi?” she asks.

My contribution is nebulous, “I really don’t know. I kinda just want to play football and wrestle. Maybe I’ll be a professional football player one day.”

“What if that doesn’t happen?” she presses.

“Maybe work with my dad at his business,” I appease because I simply don’t have a direction.

She says with no segue, “I watch you talk sometimes and I watch your lips. They look very soft and I want to kiss them.” Panic rises in my chest. I squirm on my bed. “I really don’t want to wait until you are eighteen years old to be able to feel your lips,” she continues yet I hope desperately that she stops.

Thankfully the conversation concludes, “Ya, me too,” punctuated with my nervous giggle.

Our routine forms quickly. She works in her classroom while I’m at wrestling practice and afterward, I go to her room for the few minutes before I catch the bus. I find myself very excited when practice lets out early and I can spend more time with her. The last day of school before Christmas break practice ends at four o’clock, I shower and rush to her room capitalizing on the most time we ever spend alone.

We make small talk while she packs boxes of classroom decorations. She breaks the lull of a comfortable silence by broaching, for the first time face to face, the subject of kissing. She’s playfully coy, alleviating some of the uncomfortable pressure but I still find it hard to breathe when she asks, “So I never asked you if you even want to kiss me?” seductively biting her lower lip.

Despite the taboo, I promised myself after last time’s awkward ending to be more confident. I courageously say, “Of course I want to kiss you, who wouldn’t? But I guess it’s not that easy because you’re a teacher.” Her expression darkens when I add the last clarification. I assume she doesn’t like to be reminded.

She rebounds quickly, “Well I don’t think it’s that difficult. I know I’m a teacher and I still want to kiss you.”

I shrug, validating her counterpoint. Wallowing in the distress only momentarily before she says, “I guess we’ll know when the time is right, don’t you think?”

We continue cleaning and talking about nothing serious until 6:00 approaches when I say, “I need to be heading to the bus.”

“I’ll walk out with you if you wait just a minute,” she replies. I watch her put on a long black overcoat and grab a shopping bag with each hand. Most of the lights on the second floor hallway are off and all of the stairways are dark too. Neither of us speaks as she locks her door and we make our way to the staircase. My mind wanders to Christmas vacation, looking forward to sleeping late and playing video games.

I open the heavy orange fire door and let her go first. The scent of imitation pine cleaner is overpowering as we reach the large landing that separates two sets of ten steps. Halfway down the second flight of stairs, still silent, she stops but I take one more step in rhythm. The first floor hallway is illuminated so as I turn, her face is slightly obscured but there is no doubt that she is looking at me. She drops the shopping bag from her left hand and pulls me by my coat toward her. One step below, I’m slightly shorter. Without a word she gently touches her lips to mine in a manner I can only describe as chaste.

We stay still with our mouths touching. Her lips part, guiding mine with them. I feel her tongue touch both lips as she slides into my mouth. This is not my first kiss but it may as well be. I’m useless. I’m neither worried about someone entering in the stairway nor about what my mom would think nor about the fact that I’m kissing a teacher. I close my eyes to block everything except the sensation at my mouth. Her hand is still clasped on my coat, her grip tightens at regular intervals. Her tongue meets mine deep inside my mouth. Shock leaves me immobile. As she tilts her head to one side I push my tongue forward not to drive hers out but to create a shared kiss, rather than an assail on my
innocence. I don’t know how long we last but as she pulls away I’m satiated yet want more.