The Math Teacher

“What should I write about? You know all my deepest, darkest secrets.” I sent the text to Alisha along with a screenshot of writing prompts. Prompt four, to be exact.

Her response came instantly. “What about Valentine’s day three years ago? That random you hooked up with?”

Oof. Did I want to relive the worst sexual experience of my life?

“Or that one coworker of yours that was cute and flirty. The skater boy.”

Oh, Mike. A scrawny guy two years younger than me whose immaturity somehow made him the most likable person I worked with until I quit.

I bit my lip and typed, “I’m pretty sure it was all in my head.”

“Hm. Eli?”

My chest tightened. “I’m taking that one to the grave. Not everyone cheers on poetic justice…or revenge.” I leaned back in my rollaway chair and stared at my work laptop, screen smudged with fingerprints. Then my eyes jumped to the calendar behind it opened to November eleventh. Eleven-eleven. What was something I wish ended differently? 

As if on cue, my phone buzzed. Alisha texted, “The math teacher?”

The Math Teacher. A wave of nostalgia and warmth pulsed through me from the title I could never use for any other person, any other teacher, despite there being thousands upon thousands in the world and a multitude of instances in which it could be used. It was a name that belonged to him, and him only.

I smiled and laughed out loud.

I typed, “Omg. I actually forgot about him. He was far from my type.”

She sent three laughing emojis. “Then it’s perfect.”

I remember she always called him a pervert. He wasn’t. He absolutely wasn’t my type, but he also wasn’t a pervert (which, for the record, was also not my type). Maybe it was the beard. Beards, if not properly maintained, had the potential of making any guy look like a pervert. I personally hated them and would never in any lifetime date a man with a beard. I just couldn’t associate them with anything other than alcoholics or Santa Claus. And his gave more…leprechaun. 

My feelings for him fizzled out the day he announced his engagement to a woman he and I worked with. A woman I never even knew he was dating until a few months before their wedding.

To this day, I still don’t know what I saw in him. He didn’t look like any of the guys I usually fall for, and we had near nothing in common. I just remember that around him, I felt…seen. Genuinely, wholeheartedly seen.

“Well, Alisha,” I typed, “time for a trip down memory lane.”

***

April 2019

If anyone tells you starting a teaching career at the tender age of twenty-two is a good idea, don’t believe them. You’re young, still dumb, broke as f*ck, and probably still living at home. (I was, anyway, and felt inadequate at the time because of it). Not to mention, the twenties are your most experimental party years. Pair that with your first breakup and you’re asking for a mid-life crisis by twenty-seven.

Did I mention it was a middle school teaching career?

I graduated college in December of 2018, and two months later, landed a long-term substitute role for a 6th grade English position. I didn’t plan on staying long, just till the end of the year. It’d give me a solid foundation for when I applied to high schools of my choice for the fall. This wasn’t my career yet. It was just a sub role. Practice.

I struggled. Hard. From February to May, I spent countless hours grading papers, planning lessons till midnight, and waking up with knots in my stomach wondering whether I really wanted this temporary job or not. My boyfriend of ten months did his best to support my new endeavor, but my after-work venting didn’t garner quite the understanding I so desperately sought, and he was my first boyfriend. I didn’t even know how to be a girlfriend. The last thing I needed in establishing my new career was the pressure of making time for my first relationship. 

The student behaviors were brutal. They disliked me from day one because I was 1) the sub, 2) the teacher who replaced the kind lady who only left because of a family emergency, and 3) shorter than them. (That could have been in my head, but being half-an-inch shy of five feet, I always felt that height meant power. Especially when it came to crowd control.)

The day I knew I sucked was the day another teacher walked in, studied my classroom as the bookshelves went up in figurative flames, and walked out without saying a single word. She was an older lady with long, gray hair who smiled often and spoke like one of those bedtime podcasters, calm and poised. But that day, her gaping mouth and wide blue eyes at the sight of my classroom was all the feedback I needed to question all my life choices and rethink the career I spent the last four-and-a-half years of college preparing for. 

I knew they’d never ask me to come back. I knew I didn’t want to come back. I just had to make it to the end of the day.

I tried once more: “Alright, everyone, we have two more questions. Jared, stop stacking those Gatorades, Allie it’s not time to leave yet!”

Allie said “fuck you” and walked out. I panicked. I just lost a child. Did I go after her? What about my class? Did I just yell down the hall for help? What if I just walked out myself? I never wanted to teach sixth grade. Let alone be cussed at by an eleven-year old. 

And that’s when he walked in.

The first thing I noticed was his height. He was close to six-foot and I thought, oh good, someone with authority. It was April and here in Colorado, that meant snow still covered the ground. Yet he wore…flip flops. The ugliest shoe in existence. And also not…professional? In addition, he sported khaki shorts and a white graphic tee. I didn’t think anyone who dressed so unprofessional and out-of-season could be respected any more than I, a person who wore a burgundy blazer, glasses, and pulled my hair into a bun so tight it screamed, ‘I’m not an amateur, I swear!’

Yet immediately, the class fell silent. They sat back in their chairs. They waited for his instructions. Somewhere off to the side, a student said, “Mr., thank God you’re here. We need our old teacher back.”

My cheeks burned and with my pale skin, I already knew I was red as a tomato. 

He looked at me. I looked at him. Is this the moment I’d be asked to grab my bag and find the exit?

Instead, his curious brown eyes reassured me I wasn’t going to get fired on the spot, and that feeling alone became the only one that mattered. 

He gestured for me to come to where he stood in the doorway of the classroom, and I obliged, relieved to no longer stand front and center where I felt like the subject of a cruel experiment led by thirty-or-so eleven-year-olds. 

“Hi,” I said once I reached him, clutching my stack of worksheets against myself to hopefully cover my blotchy-red neck, induced purely by embarrassment and nerves. “I’m so bad at this, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m really trying, but I don’t think I belong here.”

“Hey,” he nudged my arm playfully and lowered his voice, “it’s not you, it’s the change in routine. You’re doing the best you can.” Then he smiled.

I exhaled.

“And,” he said, “this is my off period. I can come in to support you, if you’d like.”

It felt as if I’d been thrown a life preserver. “That’d be amazing.”

He introduced himself. And I realized he shared the same name as my brother. At first, he truly felt like another brother to me. 

But when I caught feelings for him four months later, I refused to ever use his real name again. Especially whenever I talked about him to Alisha or my family. 

So, I called him The Math Teacher.

August 2019

Who would’ve thought the admin at the school would call in the middle of summer to offer me an official teaching position for the fall? 

Who would’ve thought I’d accept? And stay four years?

My boyfriend and I broke up at the end of April, just before our One Year, so August not only felt like the start of a fresh school year, but newfound freedom from the demands of an unnecessarily high-maintenance relationship. My only focus was improvement. I had a career! Two months out of college!

I had my first official class of sixth graders I could proudly call my own. I still worked late, but genuinely enjoyed it. I started attending happy hours to destress with my coworkers, and the feeling of sharing a unique experience with similar people filled my cup to the brim.

Of course, The Math Teacher went to all the happy hours. And he sat next to me for every. Single. One. He’d buy me shots. At first, it was friendly, but I started noticing how he’d scoot closer, knock his knees against my own. He touched my hand a lot. Asked me about my writing. We talked about our music tastes. Started sending each other our favorite songs. During a work retreat that month to the mountains, he and I went on a solo hike together where we continued sharing about our personal lives. He always checked on me at work, whether it was to say hi in my classroom or sit next to me in the workroom as we graded papers. And when I broke down crying after having a really bad day around October, he hugged me and offered to cover my class.

He was the first person who genuinely cared about my growth as a teacher when I was merely a sub, so we developed a special bond. He was my friend. I trusted him. And then…I liked him. 

For the longest time, no one knew. When we took pictures in an igloo at our winter staff party, I couldn't even show Alisha because I knew instantly she'd disapprove and say he looked homeless. When I finally did, she called him a pervert.

I liked guys who coordinated their outfits and dressed nice. Stubbled guys with tattoos and piercings who had a secret naughty side. Honestly, I liked your traditional fuckboy, the kind who’d never be found teaching middle schoolers in their mid-twenties. The Math Teacher had the tattoos and caramel skin I loved, but that was about it. 

I’ll never forget the day he asked me to “observe” him teaching so I could gain insight on how to manage a middle school classroom.

I sat at his desk with my notebook and pen handy, ready to “observe.” Each seat in the room was occupied, and his students studied me curiously. I smiled and waved, reassuring, “I’m just observing.” That was…until he set his pair of bulky headphones on my notebook. I looked up at him.

“Put these on,” he said. “I want you to hear some songs.”

“Oh…yeah, okay.” I set my pen down and placed the headphones over my ears. They were noise-canceling. How was I supposed to “observe?”

That’s when I realized that wasn’t what this was.

He connected his phone to the bluetooth, and started playing songs for me. 

And so, I sat and heard all his favorite songs. The one that stuck with me ever since was ‘Anything Can Happen’ by Saint Jhn. It wasn’t a love song--far from it--but the lyrics that never failed to thrum through my head each time he was around were, “trying not to mix the money up with emotions.” I hoped repeating that line over and over would keep the feelings at bay, but they instead became a mantra that summed up my rapid descent into the rabbit hole he led me to.

By November that year, he invited me to a kickback at his place, in which I happily said yes to. Other coworkers were invited, and we all talked about carpooling since there’d be alcohol. That was when one of my coworkers dropped the biggest bomb of the year:

“Blaire will be there,” she said.

“Oh, sweet!” I liked Blaire. She was a Special Education teacher with cropped brown hair and green eyes. The sweetest, kindest soul who always supplied the kids with snacks.

“Yeah. Well, she lives with him, so.”

“Wait, what?” Something churned in my stomach.

“Yeah…they’re dating, didn’t you know? College sweethearts?”

That couldn’t be right. There was no way.

“Yeah, when we go, you’ll see.”

All I remember was later that night, I did see.

They had an apartment and shared pets together. Pictures of Blaire and The Math Teacher five years prior hung on the fridge, back when she dyed her hair blue. Them in college. Them traveling. Them…kissing. Together.

I hate that back then, being young, dumb, and newly single, I still held onto the naive hope that it was temporary. I’d wait. It was only a matter of time. The last few months weren’t in my head. There’s no way I fell for that. They never even interacted at work. Maybe it was to be professional, but I learned since day one, ‘professional’ meant nothing to him. 

But a few months later, during a staff meeting, he announced to everyone that he had asked her to marry him. Considering I always fell for emotionally unavailable--or unavailable--men, I couldn’t help but feel that maybe he was more my type than I originally thought.

October 2020

The last time I ever hung out with The Math Teacher outside of work was for his and his fiancee's housewarming party. I didn't even plan to go.

Around twenty other coworkers of mine ended up going. Instead, I went on a date with a guy I’d been talking to from Tinder. We went to a steakhouse and ended the night walking around downtown.

But once the date ended, I remember checking my phone and seeing a text from The Math Teacher: “Are you coming? We’re still partying.”

I replied, “It's late. Might go to sleep.”

He replied, “Come on. The party’s not complete without you.”

Against my better judgment, I ended up outside his new house around 8PM. 

Everyone was already drunk. I remember him getting me a shot as soon as I walked in to “catch up.” So I drank, we partied, laughed, played games, and all the while I kept texting back my date to distract myself. That was when he stepped in.

“Stop texting him,” The Math Teacher said, leaning against the kitchen counter next to me. “You’re with us.” And then he reached into my back pocket and took my phone. 

I hate that I liked him doing that. I hate that I laughed and simply said, “Okay, keep it. I won’t text him anymore.”

Then he said, “So tell me about this date of yours.”

“Well,” I tilted my head. Music drowned out our conversation as everyone else laughed and played Flip Cup in the living room. “He was Hispanic.”

“Hispanics are your type, huh?” he inquired.

“You noticed,” I said. I told him about all the dates since my breakup, after all.

“You know I'm half?" he said. "I like Hispanics, too. I know you’re Asian, but you could pass.”

Did I hear him right? I raised a brow. 

He cleared his throat and quickly pivoted. “I mean,” he said, “my fiancee’s white, so I guess she’s the exception.”

I...couldn't believe what I was hearing. It definitely wasn't in my head.

I noticed how the rest of the night, he stayed by my side instead of his fiancee’s. How he kept watching me when I'd talk to other coworkers. How he used every opportunity he could to ‘bump’ into me. And how his fiancee also noticed, but continued smiling at me.

When I eventually left, I vowed to replace my attraction with hate. I had to lose feelings. I'd avoid him at all costs. We'd never hang out again.

A few weeks later, I remember us having to virtually present slideshows about our ‘Why’s’ for becoming a teacher over Teams. I remember his slideshow was all about how his wife was his ‘why.’ I remember turning my camera off to hide my disgusted facial expressions. How could you lie so confidently? 

Fortunately, school was virtual. But when we finally returned in person a few months later and he said hi to me in the halls, I kept it to a simple ‘hi’ and kept walking. 

Attraction soon became repulsion. I stopped attending happy hours. I sat with others during planning time. And when I found out he had his wedding over one of the breaks and I wasn’t invited, I knew we weren’t even friends anymore. 

Then he transferred out of his math role and became a dean. Ironic. His new position involved enforcing and regulating rules. Ha.

The new math teacher was a nice skater boy named Mike who was fresh out of college and just beginning his teaching career. He was inexperienced and disorganized, but confident. He reminded me of myself. But I never gave him the title. He was just...Mike.

Eventually, I quit and went on to teach high school. And I forgot The Math Teacher even existed. He lost his title. To me, he simply became A Memory.