Teach Me Dirty(10)

“I’ve been a teacher a long time, and an artist for a lot longer. Little makes me uncomfortable.”

I took a breath and pulled up my bag from the footwell, and then I spat out the words in my throat. “It couldn’t be anyone, Mr Roberts. It’s never just anyone.” I dug out the sketchbook and held it between us. Contemplating the unthinkable. The whole scenario was unthinkable.

He stared at me for long seconds. “You want me to look?”

I nodded. “There is no other anyone. Only you. It’s always you.”

He took the sketchpad. I couldn’t watch as he flipped to the back. My stomach was churning, foot twitching, fingers twisting in my lap. I flinched as I finally heard the pages shut.

“These are very good. And very flattering on my part. Thank you. I maintain it’s about you, Helen, not about me.” He handed me back the book. “You have an incredible imagination, and a whole lifetime ahead of you to put it to good use.”

And it hurt. His tone hurt. The dismissal of my feelings as something that could ever be real and adult and viable hurt. “You think I’m a stupid kid, don’t you?”

His fingers shocked me, hot against my chin, his grip firm as he turned my face to his. “I’ve never for one second thought of you as a stupid kid. I think you are an incredible artist, and a vivacious, soulful, gifted young woman.”

And I said it. I just said it. “I like you, Mr Roberts. I really like you.”

“And I like you, Helen. Very much.”

My skin mourned the touch of his fingers as he pulled away, and tears were pricking my eyes, tears of frustration and shame and surrender to the inevitable rejection. “I draw the things I think about, the things I want, and I know you don’t like me back, and I know you may think I’m just a kid, but I’m not. I know how I feel, Mr Roberts. I know how I feel about you. And I want you to know, because next summer I’ll be gone, to university, and I may never get to tell you.” My lip quivered and I cursed myself for being such a blubberer. “I guess I’m in love with you.”

And this time the words seemed to hit him. His eyes softened and I watched him swallow. I swatted tears away with the back of my hand, and smiled at my own ridiculousness.

“Helen, I…”

I held up a hand. “It’s ok, you don’t have to say anything.”

“Oh, but I do. I very much need to say something.” He took my hand in his. “Helen, I’m your teacher. I have a responsibility towards you, a responsibility for your wellbeing, a responsibility for your education.”

“What if you weren’t my teacher?”

He sighed, and it sounded wistful. At least, I wanted it to sound that way.

“I am your teacher.”

“I know there are prettier girls, Mr Roberts, but maybe one day, when you’re not my teacher anymore…”

He squeezed my hand so hard it hurt. “You are a very beautiful young woman, Helen. Smart, and talented, and sweet and kind. You’re an artist. A real artist. You’re going to meet a lot of people when you get to university, and I’ll be just a memory, I promise. A good one, I hope.”

“You’ll never be just a memory.” My throat was tight and hot.

He leaned closer, as though he was going to share a secret. “This thing you’re feeling, it’s very powerful. It happens sometimes with a relationship like ours. We share creative vision, it’s a beautiful thing, and it can get… confusing…”

“Like transference? I don’t think this is transference, Mr Roberts. I think this is real.”

“I’m sure you do, Helen. I’m sure it may feel like everything in the world, and you can use that. You can use that to create something magical, something beautiful. You can use that to put you in touch with your very soul.”

I shrugged. “How? How can I use this? It consumes me, this feeling, these thoughts. These things I think about. I can’t escape them, I can’t stop them. It’s real.”

“It needs expression. It needs exploration. It needs transforming into creativity.”

Oh God, how I wanted him to understand. Spilling my troubled little heart out in the passenger seat was turning into nothing but poetic impotence. A big fat disaster.

I’m not a baby.

“Help me,” I whispered.

Two simple words changed everything. Two whispered words sucked the air from the car and set us on fire. He swallowed, and his eyes were darker, showing me his soul, churning like the river outside.

“Helen…”

“Teach me. Please. Help me express this thing. Teach me how.”

He cleared his throat. “This isn’t exactly on the national curriculum, Helen.”

“Does it matter?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Please…” My eyes pulled at his, drowning in my own frazzled emotions.

I stayed quiet until he spoke again.

“Do you keep a journal?” he asked. I shook my head. “You should. A journal is a private conversation, just the author and their unconscious. It helps make sense of things, helps transform raw emotion into something you can use.”

“I’ll get one.”

“You could share it with me. I’ll read it, and I’ll coach, if that’s what you want. I’ll help you transform raw power into artistic life. I’ll show you how.”