My Testimony

For grade 12 English, I had a new young teacher. She had no idea how to handle out-of-control seniors. She was the smallest person in the classroom. She wore her dark hair pulled back but missing a few strands, and heavy, square, dark-rim glasses. She blew her hair up out of her face with a sideways mouth. Her fingernails were always painted meticulously. Her eyes always looked a moment away from giving up. 

Out of sympathy, I joined a creative writing club she started. I was the only one who came. I told her people maybe got the time wrong. I told her I’d ask around and text her when I got more people. Without thinking, she gave me her number. I didn’t think either, when I asked for it. 

I made a friend join up and texted Ms. Paulson right away. 

She texted back: “Um. Do you know the time right now?”

“Whoops,” I wrote. It was 9:15 PM. 

The next time I saw her in class, I stayed after everyone left and said “Sorry about that text.”

“Well not like anyone’s going to notice,” she said with a curt smile, bundling up her piles of paper. She stopped herself and said, “Sorry about that. Home life. Separate world.” 

I told her things were that way for me too: home life was a whole other world. 

Later that evening, I got a text from her. It said, “I meant what I said about separate worlds.” 

I wrote back: “I know. I understand.”

About 30 minutes passed before my phone pinged again. It was her: “I just wanted to make sure you did. Because we can’t be texting like this. We’re student and teacher.” 

“Got it,” I wrote. 

“Ok, great,” she texted again. “Goodnight.” 

I wasn’t sure if I should respond anymore. Her writing me “Goodnight” hit me a little more intimately than I think she meant. But I did: “Night.”

The next day, a Friday, I had to miss her class for a field trip that went over time. When we got back it was already 4. On my way home, I texted her: “Sorry I missed class today. Dumb field trip to courts went long.”

There was no reply all evening. I had to get up early Saturday for my job at the shoe store and I hit the sack early Friday night. It was just after 12 when my phone woke me up. Ms Paulson texted me: “Courts huh? I hope you weren’t arrested for something!! Lol.”

I stared at my phone a long time, blinking my eyes and unsure what to do. She texted again: “I know you’re looking at your phone right now.” 

I had to write back. “I was asleep.”

She took no time to reply. “Well I was drinking!”

I worried. If she was so reckless to text a student after midnight, I hoped she wasn’t about to drive home or do something else stupid. So I wrote her: “Where are you right now?”

“In bed,” she wrote back. 

I stared at that one a long time, too. She was hot, everybody said. Just really strict, really uptight, and never happy. She always wore heels and often black stockings under skirts, and bulky sweaters that made you wonder. She had a tiny serious mouth and big dark eyes. She looked like she really took her time to look good before she stepped out. She always had a bewildered look about her in the hallways, like those anime characters. 

She wrote again before I did: “And if you tell anyone about this, I would have to report you for abuse.”

“But you’re the teacher, I’m the student! Lol.” I wrote back. 

“And don’t you forget it! Hahaha,” she wrote right back. 

“Ok, Ms Paulson, glad you’re safe and happy you had such a good time tonight. Goodnight.”

“Who said I had a good time?” she wrote back again right away. “I just said I was drinking.” Then she added another text: “You can use Kate btw, seeing as we’re talking at 1 in the morning.”

“Ok Kate. Goodnight.” I felt my heart race when I used her name. Everything about this felt wrong. 

“It’s nice talking with you, Gordon,” she wrote again. “Even if you’re my student and I’m your teacher and we should never do what we’re doing right now.”

It was my turn to tease, even though I could tell it was her booze texting. “And what is it you think we’re doing right now, Kate?” 

This time there was a long pause and I wondered if I had crossed a line. She finally wrote back: “You’re keeping me company and helping me fall asleep at least somewhat happy for a change.”

I took a long time staring at that. Then I wrote her, “I like talking with you”. There was no further reply that night. 

Saturday night I was at a party but not having a good time and was standing outside getting fresh air. It was already after midnight when Kate wrote me: “Are you out there, sweet Romeo?”

I was worried about where this seemed to be going. But at the same time, she was so different in real life, so serious, so out of her element, and so afraid. In her texts to me, she was fun, loose and a real person. I wrote her back: “You’re quoting Shakespeare to me now?”

“Well, paraphrasing maybe, lol,” she wrote. “Where are you?”

I got bold. “Not in bed, if that was what you were hoping.”

“Touche!” She wrote. “Alas, I am.”

“Alone?” I asked. 

“I’m your teacher, Gordo. Out of bounds.”

“Can’t a student even ask if you’re married?” I wrote.

“I’m at least 8 years older than you,” she wrote. “Why would you care?”

“You seemed alone,” I texted her back, and immediately regretted it. She didn’t respond and I left things there. 

Except, when I got up that morning, I saw another text waiting. It was sent at 4:16 AM. 

“Ok. Yes. I am married. End of questions. I’m the teacher. Never forget!” 

Her text bugged me. It seemed angry and unfair. I wanted to tell her that, but instead I wrote, “Bored at Runners High. Stop by and say hello. Here til 6, ugh.” I pressed “send,” regretted it, and put my phone away. 

At 5:50, Kate sauntered into my store. I hid from view at first, disbelieving she actually came to the mall. The way she drifted down the aisle looking at the styles, I couldn’t even tell if it was coincidence. Before the other two clerks had a chance, I strolled up beside her like I would any customer. 

“What kind of activity are you looking for footwear for today?” I said, looking at the same shelves she was. 

“Maybe something for really fast running,” she said, touching one of the shoes. She didn’t even look at me. 

I gestured down toward the back corner where we had our high-end joggers. I took one down, flexed it, and said, “This one looks great. What size can I get for you?”

She sat down on one of our fitting chairs and crossed her legs. She was wearing a baby blue hoody, unzipped nearly all the way, and a white t-shirt that stretched across her chest. Below, she had on black tights and flat sandals. She looked up at me and said, “Looks don’t matter to me so much. But how they perform under pressure, and how long they last, does.” She didn’t stop looking at me. 

She was dangling her little purse in her thumb and forefinger when she said that, and let it drop in the seat beside her. “I’m a 6,” she added. And then she wiggled her foot. 

I looked around the store because I was sure everyone could see my face burning, my big gulp swallowing, and my hands shaking. I said to her, “Let me go get something I think you’d like,” and disappeared into the back to catch my breath and steady my nerves. 

When I was ready, I came back out and pulled up the fitter’s stool in front of her. She had her sunglasses up over her forehead and her forefinger pressed into her bottom lip. I pulled up and lifted her sandal off. Her toenails were painted as exquisitely as her fingernails, blazing pink with sparkles. There was the tiniest gold chain around her ankle. She pointed her foot straight out for me to put the store stocking on her. I rolled it in a donut and put it to her toes. She compressed them for me into a point. Slowly I unrolled the ankle stocking up her tiny slender foot. She let me take as long as it was going to take, and watched my work closely. 

I turned to open the box and breathed deep and methodically to steady myself. I felt as nervous as a surgeon doing an open heart. I fumbled stringing the laces. She dangled her foot like someone tapping their fingers. I turned to her and looked up her leg stretched out to me. She was biting on her index finger and stared right back down her leg and into my eyes. We held our stare for probably a second, which felt like at least 25. She was expressionless. Her teeth were perfect. 

I cupped her heel gently in my palm and pushed the shoe over her foot. I had to concentrate with all my power to tie her laces. She rotated her ankle and either said, “That feels nice,” or “That felt nice.” 

Then she startled even before I heard the male voice. “There you are! You gonna take all day? Chrissakes.” He was huge, at least 6-4. He was walking up the aisle toward us picking up women’s shoes, bending them, and tossing them back on other shelves. “We gotta go, let’s go,” he barked. 

She sat bolt upright, pulled her folded leg up hard and whipped the shoe off without undoing the laces. “Finished here,” she called up. She stood up and said to me, “I’ll take these, ring them up.” 

I said, “But you should try them both on, walk around. . . “

“Ring them up I said,” she cut me off, and walked to the register digging out her credit card. 

She was already tapping the counter with it when I got there with the boxed shoes. She had pulled her sunglasses down over her eyes. I swiped her card and noticed it said, “Craig Paulson Jr.” on it. The car dealer? 

He was finished fingering and tossing our stock and came up beside her. “Money money money,” he said. “Tsk, tsk.” He knocked his Porsche fob hard into the counter twice and looked at me. “Am I right?” His fingers were fat. 

I looked up at him unsure what he expected me to agree with. He couldn’t have been more than 28 himself, but he talked and walked like he was 58. 

“All they really do is cost you money,” he said. “All they really do in the end,” he repeated as he turned and walked away even before she had picked up her bag or put the card away. 

I handed her the bag but held it so she tugged twice and looked at me. Her mouth was that tiny tight mouth again, the kind she wore at school. She yanked the bag free and turned and strode away.