Quinn’s Senior Year:
Mr. McPhee and European History
“Is that something you’d like to share with the class, Quinn?”
My head snapped forward toward the front of the class, the note plunged into my backpack, and my heart jumped into my throat.
Shit.
“Ughm, no, I’m cool, Mr. McPhee,” I replied in the most nonchalant manner possible. Nevertheless, he was walking right toward me, down the front of the row, and into the aisle I was sitting in. I squirmed nervously in my seat, trying to swallow my heart and calm my pulse. Next to me, Kristen stared at the developing situation in wide-eyed horror and pity. Her face mirrored what I already understood. I was so incredibly busted.
“Let’s see it,” he demanded.
“See what?” I implored shakily. “Here’s my homework. I did it.”
“I’m not talking about the homework, and you know it. Give me the note.”
His incredible brown eyes did not waver. In fact, they were the same eyes I was gushing over, to Kristen in the note that never reached it’s final destination. Mr. McPhee was the most gorgeous man I had ever laid eyes on; he was five years out of college, with short dark brown hair, a mustache and goatee, and those killer soft brown eyes. His button down oxford shirts covered strong shoulders and a muscular torso and arms. His slacks clung to his ass, which was rounded and looked to be the result of a life of athleticism. He was what I thought about in the bottom bunk of my bed, while my little sister slept above me, the face I fantasized about kissing as my hormones raged before bed; I had analyzed every aspect of my lust for him in the folded piece of notebook paper clutched in my now sweaty palm. His eyes were still glued upon me, hard and unyielding. Almost as if in slow motion, I reluctantly pressed the note into his outstretched hand.
The entire class leaned forward in their seats.
Slowly, he unfolded the paper, and to my absolute horror he dropped his eyes to the page and began to read it to himself. Everyone in the class smirked or sympathized with my situation silently. Kristen and I were the only ones hoping the note would not be read aloud. As Mr. McPhee folded the note and slipped it in his pocket, his eyes regarded me with no emotion, and the entire class vocalized their disappointment with a universal “awwww.”
“Quinn, I’m going to have to see you after school in the Social Studies office,” he stated.
“But I have dance team practice, I can’t,” I replied.
“I’ll write you a pass,” he responded coolly.
“Fine,” I retorted, looking away.
My face was already flushed, and burned from embarrassment; now not only was I going to have to face this teacher later this afternoon, but everyday in class and my extra-curricular life for my entire Senior year. I was going to be late for practice today, too, and we had check-offs for our first football performance. Mrs. Wallace, our coach, was such an incredible tyrant to top it all off. I couldn’t imagine how many laps she would assign for a senior being tardy to the first check-offs of a season.
Mr. McPhee returned to the board for five more minutes, detailing the importance of the Concordat of Bologna. I dared not even look at Kristen, until the bell rang. I quickly shoved my notebook and pencil into my backpack, slung it over both my shoulders, and bolted for the door. Kristen was in hot pursuit.
“Oh, my God, that sucked hardcore!” She blurted out as we weaved in and out of our peers in the hall.
I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. “Yeah, no shit.”
“I’d help you if I could,” she offered, “but it’s not like Mrs. Wallace ever listens to me,” she said. I knew she was right. Mrs. Wallace never listened to any of the captains. All Kristen was good for to her was coming up with routines.
“Maybe it will help that I’ll have that pass,” I suggested halfheartedly.
“Maybe,” she replied doubtfully, as we turned into our English class.
I spent the rest of the school day trying in vain to come up with a reasonable excuse or explanation for that note. My head was starting to hurt.
By the last bell of the day, I was feeling slightly nauseous at the thought of having to face Mr. McPhee. It wasn’t as if I didn’t really know him as a teacher or mentor, either. Not only was I a tutor at the History Center, but I had him for study hall twice in my high school career. I held the position of Secretary in the National Honors Society, and he was the advisor. I had fostered a crush on him since the first day I had seen him. It was so painful to think of it all culminating into a final moment of humiliation lasting for the next nine months.
By the time I was able to go to my locker, grab my dance bag, letter jacket, and books, and make it downstairs to the bottom floor where the history office was located, barely anyone remained in the school. If anyone was around they were in the main office two floors above or the gym area on the other side of the school. It was eerie to be in the halls while they were so quiet. All that could be heard was the soft sound my clunky black shoes made with the swishing of my blue and white plaid uniform skirt and backpack. Turning the corner, I faced the history office with an incredible amount of apprehension. I had no idea how he planned on punishing me, but the embarrassment was more than enough for me.
I pulled the large handle of the windowless door marked “History Offices” and slipped inside. I went straight forward and found the office that he shared with Mrs. Wilson, an eighty year old Economics teacher. She apparently had left during eighth period, as she often did on Wednesdays. His desk was on the right hand side of the room, neatly organized with several books stacked on his left, and a manila folder filled with ungraded tests awaiting his red pen.
He was leaning back in his chair, holding my note in his hand. His eyes lifted from the paper and he studied me closely. His eyes were strangely warm now, and the way he regarded me sent shivers up my spine. I shifted my weight slightly from one foot to the other, and looked down. His eyes were focused on me so intently, and so silently, I felt instantly self-conscious. It was as if he was trying to memorize how I looked in that moment. My crisp white blouse, which I buttoned lower than was generally permitted in a private school, my pleated navy blue and white skirt which I hemmed short over the summer after I took Home Ec, the white socks, and the clunky black shoes that were technically not permitted for uniform. My hair was a soft brown of mid-back length at that time, held back by a low ponytail that always ended up over my shoulder, with a white ribbon tied in a bow around the hair band. My hazel eyes were downcast as he studied me, and I felt ashamed.
I didn’t even feel I was much to study anyway. While most of the white girls in school that were considered pretty were busty, with hips that matched those of young teenage boys, my body was the exact opposite. I was a 34B with a tiny little waist and a whole lot of ass. I always joked, telling the girls on the dance team that song by Sir Mixalot, “Baby Got Back,” was my anthem. I really wasn’t all that confident about my body, though. I just faked the confidence in order to feel confident most of the time. It wasn’t working now.
Mr. McPhee broke the silence.
