Was it a tic? Was she doing this involuntarily? Did she have no idea what she was doing to him? All Tim knew was that she did it all of the time during Algebra class. Tim had counted his teacher, Mrs. Saunders, fiddling with the top button of her blouse a maximum of 15 times during the 50-minute class.
Tim was doing more poorly in this math class than he had ever done in math. Not that he was a math genius, but he had always been able to keep up until Mrs. Saunders's class. Every time Mrs. Saunders bent her left elbow and started to fiddle with the button on her blouse while she was explaining the value of x, 13-year-old Tim could think of nothing other than the value of Mrs. Saunders’s chest, of its majesty, of its mystery.
The problem, of course, was that Tim was unable to follow the lessons and was falling badly behind. After his very poor score on the last quiz, Mrs. Sanders asked Tim to stay after class to discuss it. This request by Mrs. Sanders caused Tim to feel shame, anxiety, desperation, fear, and excitement within a 5-minute time frame.
Tim stayed in his desk after class and waited for Mrs Sanders to return. When she did she asked Tim to come to the chair next to her desk and sit down. Tim was used to seeing Mrs Sanders from the back of the room and when he got up close to her, he thought he might pass out. What was wrong with him? It is like he was living in some other new strange out of control body.
“What is wrong, Tim?” Mrs. Saunders asked. “You’ve done well in all of your previous math classes. What is it about this one that is causing you to perform so poorly.” Mrs. Sanders said fiddling with the button on her blouse. “I don’t know, Mrs. Sanders” lied Tim as he helplessly stared 12 inches from Mrs. Saunders's electrifying chest. “Well, we are going to have to do something about this.”, Said Mrs Saunders, fingers back at her button.
God, kill me now, prayed Tim. “All right, Tim,” Said Mrs. Saunders. “You can go. I hope you can turn this around or we are going to have to get you a tutor.” Out of somewhere, from some other planet in which everything was screwed up and embarrassing beyond endurance, Tim blurted out. “Can you tutor me Mrs. Saunders?” “I wish I could, Tim, but no, I can’t.” Mrs. Saunders said. “You can go now.”
What was Tim going to do now? He couldn’t stand up in his current condition in front of Mrs. Sanders, so he turned his chair around and stood up with his back to Mrs. Saunders and tried to walk away in the opposite direction.
“Tim, the front door is in the other direction,” Mrs. Saunders said. Tim made a wide arc toward the front door, carefully adjusting his position, walking sideways toward the door until he could get out into the hall, breathe some fresh air and figure out if there was any way he could transfer out of Mrs. Saunder's class and save his life.
— DanielSouthGate
Tim was doing more poorly in this math class than he had ever done in math. Not that he was a math genius, but he had always been able to keep up until Mrs. Saunders's class. Every time Mrs. Saunders bent her left elbow and started to fiddle with the button on her blouse while she was explaining the value of x, 13-year-old Tim could think of nothing other than the value of Mrs. Saunders’s chest, of its majesty, of its mystery.
The problem, of course, was that Tim was unable to follow the lessons and was falling badly behind. After his very poor score on the last quiz, Mrs. Sanders asked Tim to stay after class to discuss it. This request by Mrs. Sanders caused Tim to feel shame, anxiety, desperation, fear, and excitement within a 5-minute time frame.
Tim stayed in his desk after class and waited for Mrs Sanders to return. When she did she asked Tim to come to the chair next to her desk and sit down. Tim was used to seeing Mrs Sanders from the back of the room and when he got up close to her, he thought he might pass out. What was wrong with him? It is like he was living in some other new strange out of control body.
“What is wrong, Tim?” Mrs. Saunders asked. “You’ve done well in all of your previous math classes. What is it about this one that is causing you to perform so poorly.” Mrs. Sanders said fiddling with the button on her blouse. “I don’t know, Mrs. Sanders” lied Tim as he helplessly stared 12 inches from Mrs. Saunders's electrifying chest. “Well, we are going to have to do something about this.”, Said Mrs Saunders, fingers back at her button.
God, kill me now, prayed Tim. “All right, Tim,” Said Mrs. Saunders. “You can go. I hope you can turn this around or we are going to have to get you a tutor.” Out of somewhere, from some other planet in which everything was screwed up and embarrassing beyond endurance, Tim blurted out. “Can you tutor me Mrs. Saunders?” “I wish I could, Tim, but no, I can’t.” Mrs. Saunders said. “You can go now.”
What was Tim going to do now? He couldn’t stand up in his current condition in front of Mrs. Sanders, so he turned his chair around and stood up with his back to Mrs. Saunders and tried to walk away in the opposite direction.
“Tim, the front door is in the other direction,” Mrs. Saunders said. Tim made a wide arc toward the front door, carefully adjusting his position, walking sideways toward the door until he could get out into the hall, breathe some fresh air and figure out if there was any way he could transfer out of Mrs. Saunder's class and save his life.
— DanielSouthGate
Poor Tim. You described the misery of adolescent boys perfectly.
ReplyDeleteVery enjoyable to everyone other than Tim.
ReplyDeleteOh, this is so realistic! You have convinced me totally, and even though I don't understand it at all and wish it didn't have to be this way, I feel bad for Tim and wish him the best. Maybe he can find a nerdy high-school boy to tutor him. I hope. (Inside, I'm saying to myself, 'It's just a human body! What's the big deal!") ---Macoff
ReplyDelete