Teaching might well be termed the "noble profession," but at the same time it can set in train some diabolically risky situations. I should know...I have been a hired educationalist these last three decades and this is but one such early encounter.
New-Age thinking insists that obstacles and difficulties which befall us during our lives are in reality no more than "opportunities" in disguise. Such might be up for protracted debate admittedly, should a wayward semi carouse through your lounge-room one evening midway through CSI, or a herd of marauding bison trample you underfoot in South Dakota mid vacation.
Denise though was infinitely more of a challenge!
I was in my mid thirties at the time. Having had it big-time with the State educational boards and being tired of High-School theatrics and the one dimensional power-plays inside most staff rooms, I decided I could do no worse as a private teacher.
As it happened, it proved to be a great career move. In charge of my own destiny finally, rather than being at the whim of some lame-brained politically incorrect school Principal, I developed a greater pride in my vocation, taking pleasure from helping individual students to understand what the education system appeared unable to pass-on within a class environment.
My specialty, if you can accurately describe it thus, is remedial work. Parents call me in when their child is having difficulty with mathematics or science, most usually around the sophomore stage but occasionally even in their final year.
Denise in fact had only nine months left to graduation.
Her father, a prominent up-state attorney, was from the "nothing short of perfection cuts it in this world" school of thinking. Straight A's for his children were the lowest acceptable ranking and anything less than the number one class position at year-end was an embarrassment to be endured. Failure was not an option let's say!
Denise as it happened sat well inside the top percentile band of math students...having done so since sixth grade. She had simply pulled down a B plus in an early year-twelve spot test which had been enough for her father to throw a nervy turn, insisting he call in a home tutor to 'rectify the problem' before it was too late. Denise was both demeaned and upset by the suggestion but like everyone else in the family, powerless to argue or reason with this particular control-freak.
Thus it was, I was ushered late that Friday afternoon into the lofty hallway of the Sanderson manor, a riot of mosaic flooring, scatter rugs and marble statues. Conrad Sanderson himself, splendidly attired in an Armani tuxedo and on his way to some sort of legal-eagle ball downtown so I learned, escorted me up the semi-circular staircase to Denise's suite of rooms somewhere along the east wing.
"Just suss out her problem areas and help her as best you can," he muttered, knocking on his daughter's suite.
I must describe for you in detail, the young lady who now stood before us.
'Pretty,' does her an injustice. Just seventeen, Denise radiated both a poise and elegance that belied her years. Still attired in her immaculately pressed school uniform, everything about her was ultimately feminine and desirable. From the neat collar and cuffs of her blouse to the hem of her shortish but fully decent skirt, she exuded confidence and dignity. Her quite obviously natural copper-colored hair hung shoulder length, framing a somewhat inquisitive visage whose light blue eyes would have stopped a T-Rex in full flight. Together with smooth cheeks that had surely been sculptured from the finest alabaster on hand, backed-up with generous lips that would be in majorly serious demand in the coming years, here was a package that could not only reduce the average man to an outpouring of gibberish but would be likely damaging more hearts in the short term than a regular intake of a Quarter-Pounder and fries.
I shook her hand upon her father's introduction and noticed that she maintained eye-contact where other girls might have betrayed a hint of embarrassment or insecurity.
Having been married for well over a decade...and happily so I may add, let me state for the record that I had never strayed from the fold, not even looked at another girl to be honest. This was but a child technically and yet something about her captivated me on the instant.
"Well I expect you will want to be getting on with it," Sanderson barked, obviously impatient to be on his way. "The housekeeper will let you out when you are finished," he added as a seeming afterthought, before heading off without so much as a backward glance. Denise looked momentarily embarrassed by his curt manner but smiled sweetly at me nevertheless. I followed her into the room.
Ultra feminine young girls normally have ultra feminine sleeping quarters. It emphasizes their sexual birthright and highlights their orientation. Denise as I said had a small suite of rooms to color her world. Her "ante-chamber" as one might assume it to be, contained classic period furniture that would have set daddy back many a long hour in the Supreme Court. Pretty light green drapes that matched the painted decor, hung at the huge bay window that was wide enough to host a leather-ingrained desk, presently piled up with school-books at one end. Another table, smaller, but with chairs clustered around it, sat against the left wall. Home to a state-of-the-art computer system, it was to this that she led me. I had a momentary glimpse of an expansive bedroom through the far doorway, containing what looked like a four-poster adorned with a coverlet and cushions from the Persian Empire. Denise lived comfortably it appeared!
Ushering me to a chair she sat down herself, looking at me somewhat expectantly. I touched upon her father's concerns and asked if there were any areas she would like help with? Unable to nominate any she merely commented.
"It's just the way dad is Mr. Carr. He thinks anything less than total perfection is 'failure.' He wants me to go to Law school with a perfect one-hundred percent examination record." She lowered her pretty head for a moment.
"I don't even want to be a lawyer," she confided. I thought I could see a few embryonic tears and wanted to cuddle her more than anything right then.
"What is it you would like to do then Denise?" I asked.
