Chapter 12
Huxley
On Monday morning, I arrive extra early, hoping to run into Oliver before class.
Our text messages last night really helped ease my anxiety.
Oliver didn’t freak out after our make-out session, and he took the next step and asked me out on a date.
Closet cases and DLs don’t usually want to go on dates; they prefer secret hook-ups.
It seems Oliver is genuinely open and accepting of—possibly—being queer.
Today I have my pride flag badge pinned smack-bang over my heart.
I often wear pride merch in my daily life—socks or a T-shirt with a slogan, and I’ve got a pair of rainbow sneakers, too—but this is my first time being obvious about my sexuality in a place of employment.
It’s got me a little on edge, wondering what the reaction of both students and colleagues will be.
After getting myself organised for the first class of the day, I set off down the corridor towards the sports department.
There is a supply room near Oliver’s office, where teachers can stock up on stationery items. My plan is to pretend I need a few things before class as an excuse to casually walk by.
As I approach, I notice Oliver’s office door is open. Slowing to a stroll, I prepare myself for the possibility that he isn’t there.
“Morning, Mr. Sinclair.”
The student’s voice jolts me out of my thoughts. “Morning, Jessica,” I reply as I take the last few steps and peer into Oliver’s office. Empty. Damn!
“Looking for me?”
I gasp at the sound of Oliver’s voice behind me, his lips so close to my ear that his warm breath tickles my neck. Turning around, I’m met with a rather smug Oliver. “Actually, I was looking for the supply room.”
“Hmm, really? Don’t know if I believe you, Mr Sinclair. I, on the other hand, was just up at your classroom, looking for you.”
Oliver’s gaze flits between my eyes and my lips, my cheeks flushing like a schoolgirl. “And what were you doing there?”
He leans in closer and whispers, “Hoping to see you, of course.” Two students walk by and he quickly steps back. “You know, I have a lot of extra stationery items in my office. Why don’t we see if I’ve got what you need before you head off to the supply room?”
“Well, if you’ve got what I need, then that seems like the sensible thing to do,” I say.
Oliver walks past me and into his office, our shoulders brushing. Once the door is closed, Oliver gently pushes me back against the wall, holding me in place with a hand pressed to my chest. And damn, that hikes my temperature.
“Good morning, Mr. Sinclair,” Oliver purrs.
My heart rate soars as Oliver moves closer, eliminating the space between us. “Good morning, Mr. Turner.”
Oliver’s fingers caress my cheek, and then his lips are on mine.
The kiss is slow and sensual, and heat rushes to every surface of my skin.
Oliver is an incredible kisser: his full lips control the pace, and he knows exactly when to use his tongue.
Pleasure shoots down my spine, tingling in my cock and balls.
My hands are sliding around Oliver’s neck just as he pulls away, his eyes sparkling mischievously. “I’ll see you in the teacher’s lounge at lunch.”
“Yeah,” I mumble, still in a daze. Oliver opens the door and leaves, turning to smirk over his shoulder as he walks away.
Tease! The morning bell rings but I’m rooted to the spot—flustered and stupidly turned on.
If I was asked to answer the simplest of mathematic equations right now, I wouldn’t be able to.
When I finally get moving, I need to power walk down the corridor to make it to class on time. So much for the stationary supplies.
The morning is going great until the last class before lunch.
It’s a year twelve class that has half a dozen rowdy boys.
There are plenty of hard-working students too, but two boys in particular are becoming a problem.
They interrupt me when I speak, say stupid jokes to distract the class, and are not completing the assigned work.
These boys also heavily influence those around them. While some students seem intimidated, most of the boys idolise them, and many of the girls flirt to get their attention.
Anyone who’s been to high school knows these types of boys. They are dominant to the point of aggressive, entitled and narcissistic. While I’m old enough now to see them for what they truly are, these types of boys still unnerve me. Years of bullying will do that.
After twenty minutes of constantly reminding the class to work quietly, I decide to move onto another activity in hopes of better engagement.
The two troublemakers in question—Troy and Jake—are sitting at the back of the room.
I consider separating them or moving them up to the front but decide to tackle the problem next class if it continues.
“Okay, by the level of noise in this room, I guess everyone has finished those first five questions in chapter two. I need someone to come up and show me their answer for question one.”
No one puts their hand up. “Okay, Jake, you can come up.” I’ve picked Jake on purpose, hoping the boy will see he can’t get away with whatever he wants. I turn to the whiteboard and quickly write the algebra question.
“Mr Sinclair, why don’t you get one of the nerds to come up?” Jake yells from his seat.
I roll my eyes before turning back to face the class. I’m not surprised Jake is back-chatting me. In fact, I expected it. “I’d rather you do it Jake, since you seem to have wasted your class time. Let’s go.” I motion for him to come up.
Jake pulls a stupid face, getting a laugh out of everyone, but drags himself up to the front of the room.
Handing him the whiteboard marker, I step back.
It’s only then that I realise Jake is staring at the pride pin on my chest, the corners of his mouth turning down as understanding dawns.
My chest tightens as heat flushes my face.
I could be fourteen again, standing in front of the class bully who used to shove my head in a toilet and post shit about me on Insta.
“Are you gay, Mr. Sinclair?” Jake’s voice booms across the room, mocking and smug.
The class erupts into laughter. I know I can’t afford to show any weakness, and I mustn’t appear as if I’m embarrassed. If I do, Jake, and Troy, and the rest of the football team will never let it go.
Taking a deep breath, I lift my chin and glare at him. “Yes, I am, Jake. How very observant of you. Now complete the question on the board.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Jake asks, his shoulders shaking with laughter. “What about old Mr. Henderson? He seems a bit queer.” Jake flops his wrist and purses his lips.
The class laughs louder, along with a few claps and hands slapping on tables.
I’m not a violent person, but, right now, I’d like to punch the cocky smile right off Jake’s face.
Mr. Henderson is about sixty-five years old and due to retire, and he certainly doesn’t deserve to be the butt of anyone’s jokes.
Scanning the room, my eyes fall on Amber, the shy girl I helped after class last Friday. Her head is down, body hunched over, as if trying to make herself invisible. I had already suspected she was queer, but now I’m almost certain I was right.
“Jake, I’m glad you find my personal life so interesting. I assume you can’t answer this question and don’t want everyone to know how challenging it is for you. You can now take yourself off to Principal Williams office and explain your disrespectful behaviour to him.”
“Oh, come on, Mr. Sinclair. I was only joking!” Jake throws his arms up.
“Get your things, Jake. You’re wasting everyone’s time.” I glower at him, daring him to take this further.
After a brief silence, Jake makes his way to the back of the class, collects his books, then leaves. The students whisper to each other, and there are some stifled giggles. Nausea swirls in my stomach. “Okay, who can answer question one?” I ask.
Amber hesitantly raises her hand. “Thank you, Amber. Come on up.”
“I’m not sure if I’ve got it right,” she says as she approaches the whiteboard.
“That’s okay, just have a go. I’m sure you’re not the only one—it’s not an easy equation.”
For the remainder of the lesson, I teach on automatic pilot. My body is here, but my mind is elsewhere. I just need to make it to the end of class.
When the bell rings and I dismiss the students, Amber remains. “Everything okay?” I ask, walking over to her table.
“Yeah. I just wanted to say that I think you’re brave. And that you shouldn’t listen to those idiots. They’re known for being homophobic. And racist, too. I don’t know why anyone even likes them.”
“Because they’re the star players on the footy team,” I say.
She stands, picking up her books. “Doesn’t make them special. Or good people.”
“No, it doesn’t,” I agree. “You did great work today. Well done.”
Amber gives me a little smile, her eyes lifting to mine, then flittering away. She’s very introverted and I can’t help but worry if she’s doing okay.
“Thanks, Mr. Sinclair. See you later.”
Once Amber closes the door behind her, my body slumps. “Fucking hell,” I whisper.
Taking a seat, I rest my head on the desk, wanting nothing more than to go home and sleep.
Be alone. I shouldn’t fucking care if one rich kid gives me shit for wearing a pride pin.
It’s stupid to focus on him when all the other students I taught this morning couldn’t have cared less.
There was zero chance of having all positive responses, and I knew that. So why does this cut so deep?
The last thing I feel like doing is socialising in the teachers’ lounge. Not even to see Oliver. Maybe especially Oliver. I certainly don’t want to tell him about what happened. Jake and Troy are the star players on his beloved team.
Imagine if those two boys found out about Oliver. I take out my lunch, but I feel too ill to eat. Instead, I call my psychologist’s office and make that appointment.