My Best Student: Introduction

You chewed your lower lip as you paged through the short story I'd set before you, looking for the comments I usually wrote in the margins.

As a teacher facilitating multiple creative writing workshops each semester, I would never openly admit to having "favorite" students; privately, however, I had to acknowledge that the combination of your work and your temperament-the sweetness with which you accepted critiques from other students and from me, the attentiveness with which you addressed your classmates' work-had earned you a special place in my heart. I paid extra attention to your work, offering extensive comments and suggestions.

Every page of this story, however, looked just as it had when you'd handed it in. When I saw that you'd flipped all the way through, I stepped forward and placed my hands flat on the table across from you.

"You're not going to find any comments from me on those pages, Jack," I said. "Do you know why?" You glanced up and shook your head, giving me a glimpse of wide green eyes, and then quickly looked down again at the stapled stack of pages. I raised my eyebrows. Of course you knew why; you'd been acting nervous since handing in your story, and I'd thought you were going to faint when I asked you to stay after class today. I waited, but you said nothing. "No? Hmm."

I leaned further forward and tapped one fingernail on the front page of your story. "Well. I'm quite sure I asked for a revised version, Jack, but this is the exact same copy you turned in as a draft a month ago." I paused, pretending to think it over. "Did you imagine I wouldn't notice, Jack? I find that insulting." You hunched your shoulders and shook your head vigorously. No, it wasn't that. I pursed my lips. "Hmm. All I can think is that you must want a bad grade for some reason. Is that it?"

You wouldn't look up, but I could see your face reddening. I'd noticed over the course of the semester that you had very little control over that. You blushed when I complimented your writing, you blushed when I criticized your writing. You blushed when I smiled at you, when we passed in the hallway, when I made a joke in class. Thinking about it made the corner of my mouth quirk up, but I fixed it before you could see. This was no time for softness. My best student was in serious danger of failing a class in which he ought to be excelling. I couldn't let it slide.

"Is that it, Jack? You want a bad grade on this assignment?" I blew out my breath in frustration. "Not just this assignment, in fact. Your attendance has been...sporadic, recently. Your input on your peers' work hasn't shown your usual level of attention to detail." Frowning, I tapped my fingers on the table. "Furthermore, I've spoken to a few of your other teachers as well-oh yes, we do that-and I don't like what I've heard. They tell me you've been an excellent student...until recently. Suddenly you've stopped showing up, your work is half-finished at best."

I waited, but if anything, you stared harder at your paper, leaving me addressing your messy dark hair. I was getting annoyed with that. I leaned in and grabbed your face, thumb and fingers pinching the pressure points behind your jaw.

"Jack." You stiffened for a moment but quickly relaxed, not fighting it as I tilted your head back and forced you to meet my eyes. Interesting. I would've expected a little more resistance; instead, you looked almost relieved. I frowned. "I know they don't teach a whole lot of etiquette in school these days, but it's disrespectful not to look your teacher in the eye when she's speaking to you."

You nodded slightly, still held in place by my hand. I was pleased that you hadn't decided to cop an attitude. A couple of the other instructors had mentioned that you'd given them some dark looks and a little back-talk, and I appreciated that you weren't trying to pull that with me. Even so, nodding wasn't good enough. I expected more than that. Hadn't anyone ever taught you how these things worked? Sometimes I forgot how young you were, 21 to my 32. Things change a lot in a decade or so, it seems. I sighed.

"I thought I was keeping you after class to speak to you about what's happened to your work ethic," I muttered, "and we do need to discuss that. But now I think we might have to incorporate a lesson in basic manners first." I shook my head. "Otherwise, we won't get anywhere. All right. First of all, Jack, maintain eye contact when you're being spoken to by your teacher. Is that clear?"

You nodded again, your face moving against my hand. Your eyes were very green, and I enjoyed looking at them. You were a skinny coltish thing, all angles, and I could see your pulse beating in the hollow of your throat. You were nervous, of course you'd be nervous, but it seemed to me that there was something more there, somehow. I brushed it aside for the moment, focusing on what I needed to tell you.

"Second," I said, my voice stern, "nodding is not an appropriate response when a teacher asks you a question. You need to offer a verbal response that includes a respectful form of address. Do you understand?" I let go of your face. You smiled tentatively, making you look even more nervous than you already had, but maintained eye contact. I nodded when you kept your head raised, and the corners of your mouth turned up a little more.

"Yes," you said. Your voice was so soft, it was almost a whisper. I frowned, and you blinked. "Um." You started to drop your eyes, then caught yourself. You fidgeted, your fingers playing between the pages of your story. "Yes...ma'am?" You winced as you said it. I think it was especially hard for you to say it while staring into my eyes, and of course you weren't entirely sure you'd chosen the right form of address.

I didn't tell you immediately, either. I watched the color deepen in your face again; I watched you squirm in your chair. It made me want to come around the table and hug you, let you hide your face against my neck. Entirely inappropriate. I had to figure out what was under your skin, why you'd gone from model student to slacker.

"Good," I said finally, stifling a laugh when you breathed a sigh of relief. "Very good, Jack." I gave you a moment to get yourself under control, then tapped my fingers on the tabletop. "Now," I continued, "you know my teaching style by this point in the semester. How do we back up what we've learned?"

"Um," you said again. It wasn't just you: students were always "um"-ing before everything. I was supposed to find it unprofessional and work to correct it, but to be honest, I found it endearing. Luckily, I wasn't the public speaking instructor. You ran a hand through your hair. "Practice, I guess? Ma'am," you added quickly. I smiled, and you smiled back. Your smile was more confident this time, though your eyes were still rabbit-round and fixed on mine.

"Yes, that's right. Good." I crossed my arms over my chest, thinking. "Yes, we'll do some practice exercises, make sure you've at least learned those two basic rules before you leave the classroom today." I started running through potential exercises in my head. I could have you give me an extemporaneous explanation of something-or-other, during which you would maintain eye contact and polite address. We could role-play a teacher-student meeting. My good student was still in there somewhere; I knew you'd do your best to remember the rules and follow them. On the other hand, though...

"And what should I do if you don't follow the rules, Jack?" It was out of my mouth before I realized I was going to say it. Once it was in the air between us, it immediately took on the purring tones of the Cheshire cat-in my head, anyway. Did it sound as suggestive as I thought? Unlike you, I had learned long ago to control my facial expressions; I felt the heat begin rising in my cheeks and immediately blocked it.

"I, um," you stammered, staring at me. It looked like you'd heard the purring tones as well. I held my position, waiting. I should have immediately moved us past that strange, strained moment. If I'd sounded casual enough, you would have written it off as your own imagination playing tricks on you. That's what I should have done...but somehow, I couldn't. I thought of your wide eyes, the pulse beating at your throat-and, especially, the way you'd relaxed so quickly when I'd grabbed your face, surrendering control of your movements to me with what had looked like relief. Your response, I decided, would dictate whether I backpedaled, or took our meeting in another direction entirely.

Your cheeks had gone scarlet, but you forced the words past your lips. "I...I guess you'd have t-to..." You hesitated, then said the rest of the words in a breathy burst. "I-guess-you'd-have-to-punish-me-ma'am." You didn't look away, but you did close your eyes. You breathed hard, lips parted. I could see your chest rising and falling under your black t-shirt.

Aha. Yes, here it was. I'd seen this before. You had a need, and you'd been acting out, frustrated and anxious and unsure how to get your need met. Probably you didn't even realize what was going on with you, didn't consciously know what you needed, yourself. But I did, now. How could I have been so blind? In retrospect, everything seemed to point to it. Perhaps I'd refused to see it because it appealed to me so much.

You needed a teacher for more than just writing; you needed someone to teach you how to behave, someone older and more mature to discipline you, make you do what you knew you ought to do. Take care of you, make you do your work and go to class, take you firmly in hand when you didn't. I reached across the table and pushed a stray lock of hair off your forehead. Your eyes blinked open at my touch, and I smiled.

"Yes," I agreed. "That's exactly what I'd have to do, Jack. I'd punish you." I chose my words carefully. "I don't offer this kind of...personal attention to all my students, but I think you deserve it. I shouldn't say this, Jack, but you're my best writer. Your work shows real promise."

Your face was so much fun to watch, your expression reflecting everything from fear to hope to pride, all at once. I let my hand drop to the side of your face, brushed a thumb across your cheek. You leaned into my touch, as I'd expected you would. I wasn't done, however.

"If you're going to do your very best work, Jack, you need discipline. You don't have enough of your own." I pulled my hand back and slapped your cheek-gently, more of a pat, really. You jumped, though you didn't pull away from me. Your pretty green eyes had gone wide again, staring into mine. I held your cheek. "I can help you with that, Jack. If you'll trust me and do as I say, I can teach you to do your best. I can help you become a better writer, a better student. A better young man." I smiled. "It's up to you, though. You have to tell me, Jack." I paused, holding your eyes with mine. "Do you want me to teach you?"

You shivered and let your eyelids drop, your dark lashes brushing your cheek. I waited, wondering if I'd pushed you too hard, too fast. You were so young, and clearly inexperienced. I knew now that this was what you needed, but perhaps I hadn't given you enough time to realize it for yourself. I was trying to think of something soothing to say, something that would give you a little more time to collect yourself before you had to answer my question, and then you turned your head so that your lips brushed the palm of my hand.

"Yes, ma'am," you whispered against my skin, driving away my fears for you. Your eyes were still closed, but you kissed my palm, your lips soft, your breath warm against me as you murmured the words. "Please, please teach me."

Even as I leaned forward across the table to press my lips to your forehead, accepting your request, I had already begun planning our first real lesson.