Mr. Flowers Ch. 01

Amy sat down just before the bell rang. She tucked her books underneath her, and pulled up a notebook and a pen, and was ready for class.

Mr. Flowers, or Hank as he insisted everyone he taught call him, because Mr. Flowers made him sound ridiculous, lounged at the front of the room. He was leaning against the whiteboard, his legs crossed over one another and his arms crossed in front of him. He watched with a bemused, I see this every day sort of look as the last few people ducked in from the hallway.

"He's wearing the pants today," Amy's friend Lizzie whispered. Amy had noticed. Of course she had noticed.

Mr. Flowers taught a senior English elective called The Contemporary Word, which was an amazing class dissecting how language and the use of language had changed, and comparing older texts to new ones in order to give an understanding of how they've changed, yet showing the merit of both. It was far and away the most interesting class she had taken in her four years in high school, and that wasn't even just because to her Mr. Flowers was so goddamn, mind-numbingly sexy.

He was a tall man, a little less than a foot taller than she, when she'd stand near him and look up at him. He was young for a teacher, maybe only in his mid to later 20s, he'd only started teaching at the school this year, but his hair was already a grey or almost white. Which just worked for him. He must have spent a fair amount of time outside because his skin tone was slightly darker, not orange tan, just darker, so he didn't come off as looking like an albino or something. He dressed well, generally sweaters or long sleeved shirts rolled up at the sleeves. Amy had dubbed the fashion, 'Working Poet Chic.' And he was smart, confident, and his voice made her want to curl up into a little ball and die. It just had this buttery richness to it; it effortlessly seemed to drip with knowledge and sexuality all at the same time, and she found herself having to fight the urge to adjust her dress every time he spoke.

"Good morning folks," Hank said as he scanned the classroom. Amy's heart buzzed when he made eye contact with her, holding it for a moment longer than she expected him to, and she broke it off, looking down at the desk, her cheeks burning red, "How is everyone today?"

There was a murmuring chorus of goods, and Mr. Flowers nodded.

"I'd be better if he fucked me," Lizzie whispered into Amy's ear. Amy slapped at Lizzie's shoulder, shocked.

"Lizzie!" she said back in a tight whisper. Lizzie just laughed. Amy wasn't sure why Lizzie was always saying things like that. She was super beautiful, one of the most effortlessly beautiful people Amy knew, yet Lizzie seemed to always crave more attention than she already received. If Amy had to deal with that many comments about her own ass, she figured she'd want to just cut it right the fuck off. But Lizzie couldn't get enough. Amy had a feeling it stemmed from Lizzie's parents working so much. She had to get her attention and love elsewhere. God, listen to her, she takes one psychology course and figures she's a shrink.

Lizzie grinned at Amy and gestured toward the front. She meant look at the pants.

God, the pants.

They were a pair of khakis he wore occasionally that were a little too tight, or, more correctly, just the right amount of tight. When he'd turn around they perfectly framed his butt, which Amy had never considered being in to, but when you saw this man's butt... she couldn't help herself. And sometimes, sometimes when he turned just right or when he sat just right and they rode up she could see the outline of him through those pants. It was right there, more than a bulge, a line snaking slightly down his leg, and the thought of it...

It hadn't happened yet today, but it gave Amy something to look forward to.

They were on 1984 right now, which Hank was making them compare to modern sources of 'news' like Reddit and Digg and Buzzfeed and comparing the idea of a dystopian dictatorship with the modern reality of what amounted to crowd-sourced news. Amy was amazed that this class was not constantly full because it was seriously the only interesting thing in the whole building.

Class went on, and she did a pretty good job of half listening, but she was also distracted. He went most of the class without the pants working their magic, she knew because she couldn't stop checking, and she was starting to get desperate for it. It was like a drug, and she needed her fix. Finally, toward the end they got to the free-write session he always had them do. He was an advocate of writers needing to read and readers needing to write, so he would have the class do both at the end. It didn't matter, he said, what they wrote, as long as it was something they cared about, and as long as they were putting words down on paper.

Hemmingway, he told them, used to write 500 words per day. Every day. No matter what. And even if they were shit, yes, he said shit in school because he was great and real, he would have them down. And there was always editing.

She craned her neck around a little, stretching and thinking about what she was going to write, and she glanced again up front. He was sitting on his desk, leafing through a copy of 1984, and there it was. Her heart threatened to jump out of her chest, and her stomach seemed to be in her throat. The pants had ridden up some when he sat down, his butt pulling the fabric up, tightening it in the front, and she could so perfectly see the outline of his dick through his pants, snaking slightly down his left leg, perfect and wonderful.

She started writing almost unconsciously.

He stood at the front of the room, his hair perfectly in place, a slight smile on his face, but his eyes burning right into mine. Everyone else had gone, it was just the two of us, and he nodded slightly toward me. I walked slowly toward him, and he didn't move, that bulge in his pants seemed to grow though as I approached. I stared at it perfectly framed in his pants, the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. 'Take off your clothes' he commanded in his perfect voice, and then I was naked in front of him, my hands across my chest and my va- all of me. 'You're beautiful,' he said, 'Show me.' And I moved my arms down to my sides and his piercing eyes looked me up and down, hungrily. I wanted to feel him touch me, and I wanted to take him right there. I wanted to take that bulge and let it free, take that beautiful, perfect dick in my hand and-

Suddenly, it seemed, he was actually right in front of her, and starting to look down at her paper. No! She scrambled to cover it up crumpling it up into a ball, and as she did she realized that class was over and most everyone had left. How had she gotten so distracted she'd missed that? Lizzie was sitting back in her chair, totally content to be waiting there.

"Amy, you really got in to that one. May I take a look?"

"No. Uh, no. You can't read it. It's personal."

"You can read mine Hank," Lizzie said in her best sultry voice. Amy flashed her a violent look, and she just grinned back.

"That's ok Lizzie, I'm sure it's great. Alright, well Amy did you hear the assignment for the weekend?"

"Um, no," Amy said, biting her lip. She felt like she was disappointing him and she didn't like it. She did like that he was standing over her right now though.

He started talking but she didn't hear because he twisted just right and here was that bulge again, but this time right in front of her face almost. She could even sort of see the outline of the head, and she thought she might pass out.

She looked up at him, and his gaze told her she'd been caught. Her cheeks burned red, and he just stared at her.

"Did you get that?"

"Finish 1984, ya," said Lizzie, "Come on Amy, we're gonna be late to gym."

Lizzie got up quickly, dragging Amy up and along with her. As they went out the door Amy snuck one more look back, and Hank was still staring at her. Hands in his pockets, and a look on his face which she really hoped wasn't disappointment.

"Did you see it today? Holy shit," Lizzie said, as they changed for gym. The locker room smelled like sweat and too much perfume, and it was helping to calm her down. Nothing sexual about that.

Lizzie, as usual, stripped down to nothing quickly and just flaunted her body. She rubbed her chest idly, "It looks like it's huge. I would kill for a real look at that cock."

Amy said nothing, she was trying to forget it so she could take off her clothes without Lizzie seeing how wet her panties had gotten. Was Hank going to be mad at her? Was she going to get in trouble? Was he going to think she was a pervert? Her head was spinning. She didn't want to ruin their relationship; she still had to take class with him for another two months, and she was actually truly interested in the subject matter.

"So are you still on for the party at mine tomorrow?" Lizzie asked as she pulled on a pair of boy-shorts, "Because you literally have no excuse. There are going to be some hot guys there. My family's friend's son from Bakersfield is coming and he's bringing some of his friends. Fresh meat."

"Fresh meat?"

"Yeah, that doesn't excite you you crazy girl?" Lizzie said, shaking her breasts in Amy's face. Amy pushed her away, and Lizzie smiled, "Now get changed, we're already late."

Lizzie pulled on the rest of her gym outfit, and when the t-shirt was over her head Amy ripped all her clothes off and threw her gym clothes on.

"So you're coming right?" Lizzie asked again, as they stepped into the gym.

"Yeah I'll be there, I'll be there," Amy said, still totally distracted and dismayed.

"Ok, well it's at 10, but come at 9. I need you to help me look great."

"You always look great, Lizzie," Amy said, sounding almost bored.

"Someone's a sass. Someone needs to get laid."

"Is it you?"

"I mean, yes, but you too. I am going to hook you up with someone tomorrow if it's the last thing I do."

"Jesus. Can we just not please?"

"It has been so long. And the last time was with Todd Barker. Todd Barker. Yuck."

"Yeah yuck. God look at Coach Jordan, she looks so sad."

"Wouldn't you be sad if you just got dumped?"

Coach Jordan was the main gym teacher and Volleyball coach at the school, and the word around the school was she was currently going through a messy divorce. She didn't have any kids or anything, but pretty much the last two months she'd been in a terrible funk. Amy felt really bad for her, and thought about trying to console her or something most days, but didn't really know how to bridge that with a teacher, so she kept silent.

"Let's go ladies, you're late," Coach Jordan said, anger just barely beneath the surface of her voice.

"We're sorry, we were held up a little in an English class."

"Are you sure that doesn't mean lounging in the locker bays?"

Amy and Lizzie were silent.

"Alright, take a seat, stretches everyone."

The class was made up of mostly Juniors, it was another elective course called Racquet Sports where they mostly played tennis and Badminton, with some Volleyball thrown in which wasn't exactly on syllabus, but Amy enjoyed it anyway. She had a pretty mean serve from years of sports.

As they stretched Amy looked around some, at the boys. At their legs poking out from their basketball shorts, the white socks pulled up, the t-shirts billowing, or, for the jocks the tank tops that showed off their nipples when they leaned forward. It all just struck her as dull. She wondered if she was broken somehow. Lizzie talked about how she loved this show, the boys' pecs as they leaned over, a peek of their abs as they wiped their foreheads, and maybe even a small bulge from their shorts, but these boys just didn't do anything for Amy. She didn't get any spark, nothing like the electricity she felt when she even just made eye contact with Mr. Flowers.

Coach Jordan made them all run laps to start, and then she made them do 50 pushups. She'd become like a drill sergeant these last few weeks, and luckily Amy was in pretty good shape from Tennis and Softball, but Amy was thinking that soon she might start missing a fair amount of these classes too.

It was her senior year and she was getting what people called the Senioritis. Classes that didn't interest her fell to the wayside. She'd already gotten into college, so what did it matter? The short answer? It didn't. So she'd mostly go to the art room and hang out with Miss Foley, the art teacher, and they'd talk about painting and photography and Amy would use the school's supplies. Which was way cheaper than buying her own stuff. So maybe gym would become art class too. It was a shame because Amy had really liked Coach Jordan. She still did, but she wasn't interested in a teacher taking out her own stress on the students. Even if she understood it.

Amy didn't shower after class. She ducked into the locker room, changed quickly, and snuck out the back door that led to the fields. She cut up a paved hill toward the right, which led to a sort of loading dock area behind where the shop classes were held. Big green dumpsters with black, plastic covers lined one of the walls, and Amy hugged up next to one and fished a pack of cigarettes out of her purse. She lit it and enjoyed the moment of peace.

Smoking was off limits on school grounds even though it was legal for her to smoke now, so she'd sneak back here from time to time to get away from it all. She closed her eyes and leaned back and thought some more about Mr. Flowers.

He had definitely caught her looking at his crotch. Maybe he thought that she was just... no, she'd been caught red handed. She wondered if he was sickened by her now. If he thought she was a pervert. She inhaled deeply, and breathed out angrily. She was such an idiot.

"Smoking's against the rules you know," a buttery voice said. Her eyes popped open, and she hid the cigarette behind her back.

"I wasn't-"Hank Flowers was standing there, hands in his pockets again with that half smile on his face, "Mr. Flowers."

"Hank, please. Haven't you heard that smoking's bad for you Amy?"

"Um," she swallowed hard, she felt like she might cry. Not because she felt bad about smoking, but because he sounded like he was about to get mad at her again.

"If you don't share. It's bad for you if you don't share, that is."

"What? What are you doing out here?"

"This is the only spot without cameras and no one comes back here. What do you think I'm doing back here? Same thing as you. Mind if I bum one? Rather not open a new pack."

"Uh sure," she was a bit fazed, so she fumbled a cigarette out of her pocket and handed to him.

"Thanks Amy," her stomach jumped at the way he said her name, "I've been dying for one, but I've been trying to quit. But you know, sometimes you just have to treat yourself. Match?"

"Shit, I mean, shoot, uh, I used the last one. I kinda, there was some wind," she said, gesturing up.

He stuck the cigarette in his mouth, and from around the filter he said, "Here, make a coal."

Her heart raced as he brought his beautiful face close to hers, cigarette in mouth. She thought about what it would be like if both the cigarettes just dropped from their mouths and they kept moving in and what his lips would feel like pressed against hers. What those velvet lips would feel like against hers, and would his tongue sneak out and brush against her lips...

But instead she breathed in sharply, drawing a coal, and he pressed his tip against the coal and lit it. He breathed in deeply, and stretched upward as he exhaled. She used the opportunity to quickly check out the rift of lean stomach that peeked out as his shirt rode up, and she noticed a few dark pieces of stubble where the top of his pants met flesh.

"So, college? What are you doing for it?"

"Sorry?" She shook herself out of her own head. It was going to dangerous places. No cameras he said. No one was back here.

"College, you have one all picked out?"

"I don't. I've gotten in to a few places, but I don't know if I actually want to go to college.

"College was fun, but I hear you. I mean, do you have any inklings toward a future?"

"Well I'd like to have one," she said. He laughed, and it filled her up with a warm pride. She found herself pushing out her chest, and unconsciously leaning toward him as they smoked.

"There are definitely worse things to have. Do you want to write? I think you could. I like your stuff. Between you and me, being a high school English teacher isn't exactly the fairy tale everyone sells it as. Most of the crap I have to read is just that. And keep this confidential, but," he said, leaning in as if this were a big secret, "I always look forward to reading your work."

He leaned back again and took another long drag on the cigarette.

"My advice, find your passion and go with it."

"What's your passion?" Amy asked, her nerves making her voice crack just a tiny amount. He cocked his head slightly at the sound and the edges of his mouth perked up in a smile. He knows, she thought. He has to know the way he makes me... the way he makes me feel. She wanted to rip his clothes off, she wanted him to rip her clothes off.

"My students," he said. Was he flirting? Was that... what was that? "Kidding, kidding. Half these kids don't know which end of a book is up. I'm a literature guy. I'm a better reader than a writer, and unfortunately there aren't that many great jobs for people who just love books. So, you know. Those who can't do, teach."

He finished his cigarette and tossed the butt onto the ground, stomping it out with his foot. She looked down watching him, and as his foot twisted she caught another glimpse of his dick, outlined through his pants. This was torture. This was thrilling and exciting and frustrating and torture and goddamn it. She looked up. He was looking right at her.

"Thanks for the cigarette. And hey, if you ever need someone to talk to about writing or you know, any of that sort of stuff, I've been there. I can't imagine the guidance councilors are worth a damn."

"No they're insane people. Mr. Dodge literally just showed me a picture of the state with the colleges highlighted and said, 'Look, you can go to any single one of these.' As if the whole rest of the country didn't exist."

"Is he the guy with the glasses?"

"Yeah and the mustache."

"That dude gives me the creeps. Don't tell him I said that though. Actually, this whole thing was confidential right? Keep it that way, and maybe I can steal a cigarette from you again sometime.

He started to walk away, his butt in the pants, and then he turned back. He reached out and put a gentle hand on her arm.

"I mean, you can keep a secret, right Amy?"

He ran his hand through his white hair, smiled when she nodded a nervous yes, and then sauntered away. He didn't look back as he closed the door behind him.

She couldn't concentrate for the rest of school. She just sat in front of an empty canvas for all of Advanced Painting, and for what should have been AP US History, but they'd already taken the AP test, so what did it matter? She just sat in the art room.

She was kicking herself for not showering. They'd shared that moment, she and Mr. Flowers, and she was all gross and a mess from gym. He probably just looked at her like a sad little puppy. Didn't know what she wanted to do with her life, didn't know how to take care of herself, curled up in the garbage smoking. Although maybe he would be out there again. Maybe he'd enjoyed their talk. Maybe, god, what if he thought the same things about her that she thought about him? Yeah right. He was gorgeous and she was... she was young.