Story Time With Miss Z

Part One

I pantsed Miss Ziegenberg in front of the entire sixth-hour AP English class three weeks before graduation. "Pantsed" isn't the word; "skirted" is more like it, because on that day like all others, she wore a full-length skirt. The one I yanked to her ankles happened to be dark green with navy stripes and gold trim at the waist and at the bottom.

But it wasn't a big deal because I already knew something: Miss Z always wore a slip. She wasn't going to be standing there in her panties or anything. I saw the satiny white fabric sometimes, peeking out from underneath the bottoms of her skirts during roundtable book discussions.

And it wasn't a big thing either because she loved our group. She even said it. "Scholars," she would stop and say after someone produced some great evidence or answered a tough question, "I love this class." Having had her as our teacher for two straight years, we joked with and teased Miss Z good-naturedly. She could laugh at herself. "No class has ever said that to me!" she would offer, grinning widely and hooting, red-faced and joyful.

She was red-faced after I pantsed her.

Not joyful, though.

Every time she presented, she had someone pull the projector screen down over the whiteboard while she rolled out her cart. I volunteered on that day three weeks before graduation.

"Thank you, Ben," she replied, kindly and sincerely.

I rose, walked to the front, and pulled down the screen. Almost everyone knew what was coming next because I told them during lunch. The idea had been in my mind for a few months. When I found out from my girlfriend--she had the same class during second hour--that Miss Z was presenting, I decided today was the day. So, when I turned to face the group, the faces were all wide-eyed or smiling. An air of thrill infused the room.

Miss Z heard me pull down the screen. Plugging her laptop into the projector on the cart, she said, "Thank you, Ben. Now, will you turn off the lights, please?"

"Sure thing," I replied, tip-toeing behind her and stretching out my fingers. I couldn't suppress the grin stretching across my face.

When my fingertips pinched wads of fabric on both sides of her thighs, I heard a few muted gasps. Mrs. Z heard the sounds, too. She looked up from her work. "What is it?" she asked the class.

Nothing inside me said, "Don't. She won't like it." I never doubted myself for a second. She would scream--yes. She would turn pink, yank up her skirt, and the class would enjoy several long minutes of belly laughter with Miss Z leading the way. She would chide me, yes. But, she knew I loved her. We all loved Miss Z once we got over the fear factor of her being the toughest English teacher in the high school. So, yeah, she would get after me a little. She might even tell me, through fits of embarrassed laughter, "Never again, Ben, or next time I will be very upset."

In that trembling, heavy lull after she asked her question to the class, I confidently yanked.

The skirt dropped with ease, straight down to her heels in a limp, green pile. And no, I was very careful; I did not pull her slip or panties down with her skirt.

There were two loud bursts. The first came from my classmates. A half of a second's worth of surprised screams and guffaws. Delighted shock, call it. The second came from Miss Z. It was different. Came and went almost instantaneously. It sounded like a person's throat was slashed the moment they began to shriek. The sound resonated, slicing across the classroom and cutting off every other sound.

I had risen and stepped back from Miss Z, but I knew from the expressions on my classmates' faces that my little joke had nose-dived hard into the ground.

I could not see Miss Z's expression. I saw pink rising to the surface of her neck and ears. I watched her squat down and pull up her skirt with careful deliberation. When she rose, her head didn't move. It looked like she was staring at the back wall of her classroom. A new burst came out from her, one full of shock and sadness.

The silence that followed that noise was even more hollow and terrifying than the first.

She wrapped her arms around her tummy. Her back rose and fell jerkily. Then, she turned and walked toward the door without another utterance. She glanced at me on the way out. Her dark eyes were red, puffy, and wet. The message in them was undeniable: betrayal.

When the door shut behind her, every set of eyes in the room went to me. I stood--unmoving, rattled, and ashamed.

"Holy shit, dude," someone uttered.

"She--she had on a slip," I told the group, as if that forgave everything. Then, I shrugged hopelessly.

When the classroom door next opened, I was back at my desk, whispering with friends--everyone was quietly chatting in little groups. The vice-principal, Mr. Spangler, the school's duty officer, and another teacher came into the room. The vice-principal said, "Mr. Childs," and he curled his finger at me. I rose. He led me out; the duty officer followed. Before the door closed, I heard the teacher who remained tell the class that it was to be a study hall for the remainder of the period.

***

The duty officer sat in the chair beside me. Mr. Spangler sat behind his desk. I could hear Miss Z's balling in the principal's office next door. Spangler didn't say a word; neither did the cop. They let me listen.

After I don't know how long, the sobbing abated, and I heard the principal's door open. A minute later, the door closed again, and the vice-principal said, "That's my cue." He left. Five minutes later, he was back in his office with me.

"Mr. Childs, due to Miss Ziegenberg's kind heart and fierce love for kids, she will not support sexual assault charges against you." Here, Spangler glanced at the duty officer. "Officer Bratcher will not be arresting you and taking you to jail, thanks to her."

Outwardly, I nodded; inside, I churned in turmoil. Sexual fucking assault! Pantsing a person was sexual assault? My heart raced. I was eighteen. No juvie for me. Lock-up might have been my fate.

"Instead," Spangler went on, "you are hereby suspended in-school for the next five school days. You will not report again to regular classes until a week from next Monday. Between now and then, you will be here in the office with me, doing your schoolwork and thinking hard about what you've done."

I nodded. Best shut up when you fuck up.

"You will not look for Miss Ziegenberg. You will not contact her. You will not attend her class for the duration of the school year. You are permanently banned."

Ouch. I quit nodding.

"Due to the flagrant egregiousness of your thoughtless prank, Miss Ziegenberg has, in addition to your regular AP English-12 schoolwork, decided to give you two additional assignments. The first is a letter of apology, no fewer than three pages and formatted and written according to MLA standards. It will be given a weight of twenty-five percent of your semester grade."

I swallowed. Twenty-five-percent!

"The letter is due next Friday before the start of seventh period. The second assignment is a spoken apology, to be graded as a formal speech of no fewer than three minutes. It will be delivered after school next Friday. It will be given a weight of seventy percent of your semester grade."

My jaw fell open.

"The remainder of your AP work is now weighted at five percent. Failure to finish all of it will result in an 'Incomplete' for the class, and you will not graduate. If you fail the paper or the speech or both, you will not graduate. Do you have any questions?"

Blinking, I could no longer make an utterance even if I wanted to. I shook my head.

Spangler said, "Okay, let's call your mother and father."

***

I got grounded by my parents. No big deal. What stung was their disappointment.

Coach suspended me from the school baseball team. We were not having a banner season. Still, I wouldn't be there for the district tournament, and if you're not on the team for districts, you can't play at state--assuming the team qualified, which was doubtful. That sucked, too.

One other consequence--my girlfriend, Kacey, broke up with me. She told me it showed a lack of respect for women. I think she was more trying to save face in front of Miss Z. My girlfriend had Miss Z's early AP 12 class, and Miss Z knew we were a thing.

***

Ashley Ziegenberg--Miss Z--was fucking sexy. A lot of the boys would disagree with me, say maybe she's okay. A few would agree. She was in her forties and had never been married as far as we could tell, looking at faculty photos in the old yearbooks the library kept. Always with the last name Ziegenberg, always "Miss," no ring, no husband. Nieces and nephews, yes; kids, no.

She was tall for a woman--almost as tall as me. She had long, wavy, and light blonde hair with strikingly dark, navy blue eyes. She had a big butt and big boobs on a more motherly, 40-something-year-old frame--not skinny, but certainly not obese. She wore big, round glasses. She had a dime-width gap between her two front teeth and a longish, cherry-tipped nose, but other than those two so-called flaws, her face was alluring and feminine.

She made me hard. Every day, no kidding. I went to 6th hour AP English-12 excited by the prospect of a thrumming boner and terrified at the thought of her, or the class, ever finding out.

What we came to love about Miss Z was her love for us. She cared. She wanted us to succeed. A lot of teachers you never saw outside of school; Miss Z was there for everything--sporting events, band, chorus, drama, speech, robotics, you name it. She supported us. No teacher was more proud when we won the state football championship back in the fall. No teacher sympathized more for me at the end of winter sports when I was disqualified during the finals of the state wrestling tourney at my weight class--185lb--on a stupid technicality.

We also got a kick out of how hard her class was. No kidding. She made us relish the challenge, made us earn the hell out of As. I'd never written a paper worse than a straight B until I got my first one back from Miss Z junior year--a C-minus.

And Miss Z loved to laugh and have fun. Once she brought us under control as a class, she gave us the leeway to be spontaneous, crack jokes, and make school more fun. We worked hard and played hard in her classroom. To make her laugh wasn't difficult; to make her laugh hard--and no one did that better than me--was to feel like you had won the Super Bowl.

Knowing that she didn't want ever to see me again--except maybe for the speech, and I wasn't exactly sure if it was going to be filmed or live--knowing how deeply I had hurt her, fuck me, that hurt worse than my parents, the baseball team, and my new ex-girlfriend put together.

***

Despite in-school suspension to change my routine, the next week of school fell into a predictable pattern. With Spangler checking in on me regularly, I spent mornings in the office knocking out my homework and prepping for my three AP tests. The afternoons--almost every minute--were spent toiling way at my letter of apology and speech. In my heart, I knew this atonement was necessary and just. I wanted to do it and do it right. Miss Z deserved my best.

I didn't see her. My best friend, Trayvon, met up with me between school and baseball practice to tell me about AP English class. Miss Z was cool, apparently. Like nothing ever happened. Didn't mention it. Didn't talk about my absence. She "drove on like a rhino," he said.

I asked Spangler about the speech. He was unsure if it was to be in-person with her or filmed.

I worked my ass off on her two assignments, rewriting and revising to make them just right. Had Spangler read my paper--"not bad"--and listen to my speech--"okay." He was still pissed at me; my work was outstanding, and I knew it.

I spent Friday afternoon doing a final proofing of my paper, and then Spangler printed it off for me because Miss Z still liked getting hard copies. Then, I rehearsed my speech a few times.

Spangler delivered my paper to Miss Z during the pass period between sixth and seventh hour. When he came back, he told me she would be listening to my speech in person after school.

Fuck. I waited and thought, and an idea jumped into my head. It was something to add to my speech if I felt like it wasn't working--or if it seemed right. It would be a tremendous risk, but surely my honesty would be unmistakable. I worked on it until the ending bell rang.

Spangler opened the door. "Time, Mr. Childs."

***

Miss Z sat at a student desk in the front row of her classroom. She was wearing a pants suit! I was so astonished that I stopped mid-stride for a moment. A clipboard, red pen, and stopwatch sat on the desk. Her arms were crossed over her tummy, and her eyes looked red.

I thought it possible she might say something about my paper. She didn't. She waited, never looking me in the eyes. I didn't use the note card I was allowed; I knew I would be too nervous to hold it steady. Hands trembling, I stepped to the front of the classroom where I found I couldn't look her in the eyes, either. With a hard, dry gulp, I began.

She listened, unmoved through the first minute. Jotting down notes and occasionally checking the stopwatch, she looked around me, but never at me.

My mouth grew dry. Swallowing, which I tried twice, did not help. I came out from those instances sounding terribly nervous, and I was. This was new. I always grew nervous before I started a speech, but once underway, I had always settled in comfortably. Not this time. I felt worse and worse as I went on. Perhaps the audience's goodwill made that happen in previous speeches, but I had no stock of charity with Miss Z this time.

I reached the two-minute thirty-second point--the peak of my speech's attempt to tug at her heartstrings. "I hate that I caused you any pain, Miss Z, because from our first year together, you quickly became the best teacher I ever had--my favorite teacher. And I can say, without any hesitation, that I love you. I love you, Miss Z, and it breaks my heart to know I broke yours."

She sniffled. My heart leaped. This, I thought, was working. She looked toward the door and, momentarily taking off her glasses, she wiped her eyes.

Pour it on, my mind hollered. The new material!

Fuck it. I went for it. "You probably know students talk about their teachers," I said. "What you may not know is sometimes the boys talk about teachers they find most attractive, teachers they would most like to marry. From the minute I came to know you as a junior, my choice was always you. I think you're beautiful. Right now if I had to choose a woman to spend the rest of my life with, I would choose you."

Miss Z was stock-still, eyes riveted upon me. Her expression was a mystery, but my instinct told me she was appreciating what I said. Plus I was winging it a bit; I no longer sounded like I was giving a speech, and those moments are sometimes so authentic as to be gripping.

So, I went for broke. "Maybe what I'm about to add is crazy to admit, but it's true. Almost every day in your class I get erections. Not the passing ones that vanish in a few minutes, either. The uncomfortable ones that feel like they can tear through my pants. You might not remember this, but last fall you asked me to stand up and read the dagger soliloquy from Macbeth. I read the speech, but I never stood up like you asked because I had a massive erection from watching you."

Miss Z stared at me, unblinking. She seemed enthralled or, I admitted, so deeply offended that she couldn't respond.

"You bring out my best," I said, beginning the transition to my conclusion.

Miss Z suddenly choked on laughter.

I hesitated. What, I asked myself, had been funny? Was my speech a joke to her? Then, it dawned upon me. I had been talking about the boners I got in her class, and I transitioned by telling her she "brought out my best." Oh, shit.

My face turned bright pink, but I found a way to continue.

"But last Friday," I said, "I brought my worst to you." The heart of my conclusion was a quick story about the first time I had made her laugh really hard. I had been having a bad day, and her joy made it one of my best. When I finished the story, I told her that the worst part of my betrayal was knowing I couldn't finish my high school career attending her class. I told her I missed her, but that I understood if she never wanted to see me again. I explained that even in betraying her, she had taught me one final lesson.

Miss Z was unabashedly crying. I had her.

Ending, I thanked her for making me a better person, I told her I loved her, and I said that if I could have one wish, it's that I could go back and be a junior all over again next fall, just starting her Honors English 11 class for the first time.

She pushed a button on the stopwatch, jotted down a note on her clipboard, and rose out of the desk. Pink of face and teary-eyed, she walked toward me, throwing out her arms. We hugged. She laughed and cried, turning me back and forth.

"Oh, Jem, that was beautiful! And your paper, too!" she cried.

Jem? I ignored the mistake, telling her I was so very sorry. Then, swallowing, I asked if I could rejoin her class for the last two weeks of senior year.

"Of course you can, Jem," she replied with gusto, laughing and hugging me some more. When she drew back, I turned away from her a bit because, damn it, my tears were flowing, too--even if she was calling me by some other name. "Oh, you sweet, sweet boy!" she cooed, drawing me back in for a third hug and squashing her surging chest into me.

When she broke that final hug, she drew a tissue from the box on her desk and, wiping her eyes, she said, "Now, Jem, some of the parts of your speech were not fit for school."

"I know. I just wanted to be--."

"You were being honest, and I appreciate it, but Jem, please do not go around telling people that part of your speech, and especially that you said those things to me. People wouldn't understand without the context, you see?"

"Yeah."

"Thank you, dear. You've passed my class, but I don't want you limping into the end zone. Sprint, Je--excuse me! Ben! Sprint right through the goal line, Ben."

"I will."

Her face had turned almost red with embarrassment at mistaking my name, but she cleared her throat and said, "Good. You may report to Mr. Spangler that you are completely forgiven, and then I hope you have a happy weekend--and know that mine will be lovely, remembering your beautiful words."

***

If that moment--and spending the final two weeks of school back in Miss Z's classroom--had been the end, it would have been a bittersweet ending to her part in my life. The truth, though, is that it was only a kind of beginning.

My father owns a fundraising company in town. Your school's band needs money to fly out and perform in the Rose Parade? Hire my dad's company. Your church looking to replace its old pews? Again, my dad's company. It does both event and sales-type fundraising

One of the contracts he regularly obtained was the school district's annual end-of-year carnival, which raised money for the district's foundation. It took place on the last day of school, which was always a half day on the first Friday after graduation. There would be inflatables, carnival games, raffles, and food. Dad, having subcontracted vendors for a few years, decided a while back he'd make a hell of a lot more money if he just owned all that stuff. So, he bought out the vendors.

Seeing as I wasn't playing baseball after my suspension, Dad made me work for him. I did a lot of jobs, and the one I absolutely hated was putting away the inflatables. We had eight of them--bounce houses, slides, climbing walls, and obstacle courses. Big ones. They set up easily enough. Getting those massive things back in their transfer cases? Pain in the fucking ass.