In Geometry
by S. F. Wright
Devin would stare out the window or at Jeanine Holloway; she sat one desk in front, one to the right. Mrs. Gilbert was old and in her own world. Everyone cheated, no one did any work—which was why Devin liked this class: a perfect way to end the day.
Today, students in gym played soccer. Devin had an excellent view of a group of senior girls (most of whom were attired in tiny shorts) engaged in a semiserious five-on-five game, in which orange cones were used as makeshift goalposts. One of the girls, Katherine Rodriguez, was buxom and cute. Devin had jerked off to her more times than he could remember. Katherine wore a tight gray T-shirt; her bosom, as she trotted after the ball, caused a heavenly sensation to climb from Devin’s loins to his chest. Yet, to his front-right, Jeanine Holloway had her hair tied back; wore the short-sleeve black and violet flannel shirt that Devin thought she looked incredible in; and, to top it off, had dyed a streak of her hair pink, which Devin found especially appealing. It was all but impossible to look away from Jeanine—the nape of her neck, her chin, her skin glinting in the classroom’s light—except to glance at the senior girls playing soccer. He decided to play a game of control and discipline: he’d spend 20 seconds gazing at Jeanine, 20 seconds staring at Katherine.
He was imagining what it would be like to fondle Katherine’s naked breasts, having just fantasized about making out with Jeanine while slipping his hand down the front of her jeans (during which time he’d gotten an uncomfortable erection), when he heard his name.
“Devin?”
Mrs. Gilbert was looking at him.
Feeling guilty and exposed, and annoyed at feeling guilty and exposed, Devin said, a tad curtly yet still courteously, “Yes?”
“What would the slope of this line be?”
His mouth opened slightly. He sensed a few classmates looking at him—though most were surreptitiously texting, or daydreaming or sleeping. Devin considered making up a number, but just as quickly found this idea futile; so, he said (while somewhat sanctimoniously congratulating himself on his martyrlike honesty), “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” As often was the case, it was impossible to tell if Mrs. Gilbert was being sincere or wry.
Devin shook his head.
Mrs. Gilbert sighed. She then called on Jeanine Holloway, who said, “Negative three,” to which Mrs. Gilbert said, “Very good, Jeanine. Now, let’s take a look at the next set of . . .” Jeanine turned to Devin. She didn’t smile with her mouth, but she did so with her eyes—and then turned back and resumed paying attention to Mrs. Gilbert. Devin gazed at Jeanine—the nape of her neck, the pink streak of hair, her skin—and realized that he was in love. It hit him like a sack of bricks. Yet, despite the betrayal that he knew would sting him, he turned and stole another glance at Katherine: there she stood, with a group of other players, apparently getting ready for a penalty kick; her hands were behind her back, her chest pushed forward; and the way the sun shone on her breasts beneath her shirt all but murdered Devin.
He turned, despite how difficult, even painful it was, and once more, looked at Jeanine: the world became soft and peaceful. He wanted Mrs. Gilbert to call on him again so that he could show Jeanine that he knew the answer. But first, he’d have to pay attention.
S.F. Wright lives and teaches in New Jersey. His work has appeared in Hobart, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, and Elm Leaves Journal, among other places. His short story collection, The English Teacher, is forthcoming from Cerasus Poetry, and his website is sfwrightwriter.com.