Page 21 of Forbidden Pregnancy
I start with a story to break the tension.Le Petit Nicolasis a classic for learning French, and Cosima loves the story. Within half an hour, she’s calm and writing a short essay about the differences between French boys and American boys – what they eat, where they live, that sort of thing.
While she writes, I try to stay focused on my lesson plan or her penmanship, but Michael’s persistent staring makes it nearly impossible to focus. Why does he keep looking at melike that? It honestly looks like the man wants to eat me or something and it’sverydistracting.
First, he touched my face three weeks ago. Then last week after he gave me the Toni Morrison book, we just mumbled awkward goodbyes and I didn’t think much of it except noting how strangely kind the gesture was for Michael.
Now, he’s just staring at me relentlessly and I don’t know if it’s flirting or… something else. Entitlement.
Michael wants me because I’m here and because he lives in a world where nobody says no to rich Italian men.
Cosima reluctantly switches her attention over from reading in French to her pre-algebra studies. She’sgoodat math, but she doesn’t enjoy it. Cosima exaggerates her scowl as she bitterly works on the problem sheet I printed out. Whenever I glance at the work, she’s correct, but she sighs every 2-3 problems as if the end game here is having nails driven into her palms.
“Keep going. Youcando this.”
Cosima gives me a dramatic, pleading expression, but I maintain firm kindness with her that strangely motivates her to continue. By her riding lesson, she’s reluctant to leave and engages me in conversation about whatherstory forpetit Nicolasmight be. Michael gives her sharp directions to head to the stables and Cosima sticks out her tongue before sprinting away.
Michael doesn’t chase after her. He leans back, staring at me with that terrifying, wolfish gaze. I clear my throat to draw attention to his creepy staring and open up my lesson planning binder to grade some of Cosima’s work and assess her progress for the weekly report I prepare as part of this whole tutoring gig.
“You need help with anything?”
“Are you a qualified teacher?” I ask him.
“No,” Michael says, unbothered by my clear desire to stop talking to him. “I’m a qualified assistant, though. I went to college.”
“Congratulations.”
“Played as a tight end at Syracuse.”
I roll my eyes. Everybody around here has this absolute obsession with the Buffalo Bills, including Michael Corsini. I’ve seen the signs all over him – the small tattoo, the C.J. Spiller merchandise, the phone case… But I don’t care much about football. The guys can be attractive sometimes, but it’s not worth it if they’re all assholes.
“What?” Michael asks, leaning over the table and gettingwaytoo close to me. “Don’t like football?”
“I would much rather read a book than watch a bunch of grown men play around on a field like little boys.”
“Jeez.”
“I’m entitled to my own opinion.”
“Sure,” Michael says. Then he grins, which annoys the hell out of me. “But you, Teacher Myra, just gave me some very valuable information with that opinion of yours.”
“What might that be?”
“You aren’t getting laid.”
Heat flushes all over me, spreading from my cheeks down to my neck. Michael has the cocky swagger of someone who sees women as conquests. I’ve never heard him (or Cosima for that matter) mention him having a girlfriend. Michael’s looks would work on most women too. He’s the worst type of asshole for that reason alone, honestly.
“That issoinappropriate, Michael.”
The anger behind my voice is 100% real, but Michael keeps smirking at me like he won some contest I wasn’t aware of.
“I’m right,” he says, continuing to eye me with that nerve-wracking hunger from before. “There’s no guy waiting for you athome to tongue fuck you into an orgasm after I piss you off all afternoon.”
“Please. Stop. Talking.”
I don’t break eye contact with him. I heard breaking eye contact with predators indicates fear and weakness, which is the last message I want to convey to Michael. My body begins responding like I’m under attack. He fixates his eyes on mine and then they drop inappropriately to my boobs. They’re as glassy and blue as cracked icicles, yet visibly dark in their intentions despite the otherwise beautiful color.
Michael sits between me and the only exit. Even if he wasn’t leaning back there with his dense slab of muscle blocking my access to an easy escape, he told me he played football in college. He could probably still throw me at least ten yards, even if I’m not exactly lightweight…
I just need to get out.
