Is this a dream?

Being good at maths is a good thing. Most people aren’t. That’s why. And this means there are a lot of junior high and high school kids who need some extra help with maths. I’m not really interested in teaching, but teaching maths to such students was what brought me my first income, since I was in my second year in University. I say, “income”, but, by no means was it a “living”.

It has been an interesting experience, nonetheless. Irregular, maybe. Surely nothing like what I was expecting. It taught me many things, too. And foremost amongst them: I’m not going to become a maths teacher.

Teaching, in itself, wasn’t that difficult, or disheartening. It seems I have some talents that were proved to be very helpful with it. Private teaching has some benefits school teaching can’t provide, too. So, to be fair and frank, I had an easy time doing it. But the whole thing annoys me in ways not really related to teaching.

My first student was the son of a friend of my aunt. Last year junior high, average to bad marks in all lessons, awful marks in maths for the first two trimesters. At that point, his mother finally decided he needed someone to help him with maths, in order to pass the year.

Let me explain here how the system works. For each lesson, the average of the three trimesters and the final exam (which counts as another two “trimesters”) give the final mark. If all lessons have marks 10 or higher, then you can go on to the next grade. In his case, to high school. If not, it gets complicated. If you fail in only one lesson and the average of all lessons is 13 or higher, then you are safe. If you fail in up to three lessons and the total average is over ten, then you get the chance to sit another exam in September for each of those lessons, and if you get at least 10 for each one, then you pass the grade. Otherwise, you repeat the year.

At least that’s how it was when I was in school and when I was teaching. I think, minor changes have been made to the system, but more or less, that’s how it works, even now, and surely that’s how it worked while I was tutoring my first student. And his total average wasn’t promising. A 12 so far. And exams usually lower the average rather than getting it better. His maths marks? 10 and 10. And if half of what his mother said was true about his test marks, it was the teacher the one who was trying to keep him on the base mark, to give him a chance to not repeat the year.

So, anyway, my aunt suggested to her I’d do the job. “He is a genius!” Not really. I’m not. That’s what she said. She even arranged how much I would get paid. Which was okay. Better than okay actually. Judging by the usual charges, that’s how much I would be asking had I finished University, which, as I’ve said, I hadn’t.

Contrary to how my aunt advertised me, John’s mother described her son to me as a helpless, “not at all bright” kid. Right! That’s one of the reasons I came to hate teaching. No kid is stupid. They might be bad at maths, or any and every subject taught in school, but that doesn’t mean they are stupid. I saw this discrimination even while I was still a schoolboy, and it annoyed me even back then. Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t the one being discriminated against. Teachers don’t call nerds, “stupid”. They call them, “good kids”. And I was more of a nerd than I’d like to admit. Not a 100% of a nerd. Maybe 75%, though. God, I love maths!

But I was on friendly terms with some of those “stupid” kids, and those “bad” kids a “good kid” like me shouldn’t be around because they are “bad influence” and, you know what? Most of them are good kids. Disinterested in school. Maybe even (rightfully?) disappointed by the whole educational system, but good, clever, interesting kids with a heart and emotions. And despite their brave face, being called stupid was hurting them.

And for teachers to do that, it was bad. Something they should never do. For a parent to do that, for her own son… Thankfully, I’ve been practising my ever-smiling poker face since late primary school, so she didn’t suspect what I was thinking at the moment. She was also all too happy a “trustworthy, bright” lad would be tutoring her son. I was both, but she didn’t know me well enough – or at all, actually – to say those things. But I would have taken them as “politeness”, had she not called her son stupid, in a “polite” way.

Maths wise… John scored a 14 for the third trimester and a 16 in the final exams. Rightfully, he should have gotten a higher mark in the last trimester. His teacher probably thought that John had somehow cheated and got high marks in the tests, but since he had no proof, he gave him a higher mark than 10, but not the one he deserved, in case he were to write awfully in the final exams. That’s understandable. Had he raised John’s mark from 10 to 18 (20 is the perfect score) and then John had written his usual 5 to 6, the teacher’s integrity would be the one to be questioned. So, the teacher played safe. Were I in his place, I would have done the same.

And, once the results came out, John’s mother called me and invited me for a celebratory coffee. Well, she suggested a dinner, which I avoided, and turned it to a coffee.

“You are a genius, indeed! You’ve done a great job! You’ve got John from 6 to 16!!!”

No, you silly woman! I wasn’t the one who did it! It was your son! You know, the one sitting here with us, hoping to hear your well-deserved congratulations for his enormous effort, all this time, and not a reminder that you think he is stupid!

“Thank you, but truth is, John is the one who deserves all the bravos. Congratulations, John. You did it!”

“But without you-”

“Had he not studied as much as he did, even God himself wouldn’t have gotten him a 16.” And I laughed, politely. But you know what I meant to say. You get now why I came to hate teaching. Right?

His father wasn’t any better, either. I met with him only a few times during the next few years, and he had the audacity to tell me – while John was listening – that his son didn’t need a teacher, for he wouldn’t finish high school no matter what. Which wasn’t the case. I tutored John in the following years, too, but those from the beginning of each year, and, so, I know.

But teaching John maths, as it turned out, was not to be my only role. After our few first, a bit awkward, meetings, when all the time was spent in maths, he came to like and trust me. And he started asking me what he couldn’t ask his parents. That is, about sex, venereal diseases and relationship advice.

Now, John was the only child of an in fact broken marriage, of two people still legally married, determined to remain together, and living under the same roof, although they hated each other, and didn’t care to hide that, even in front of a stranger – me. And, they didn’t pay much attention to their son. He had “everything he might want”. That was everything their money could buy. But a kid – any human actually – needs more than that.

So, it was easy for him to feel more at ease while with a mostly calm person, who not even once acted as if he thought he was stupid. I actually told him many times, and honestly so, I thought he was a very clever boy. On top of that, sex is not a topic that Greek parents talk about to their kids, and they usually make it so that the kid won’t feel it’s acceptable to ask about it. And that includes things like the changes happening in the kid’s body during puberty. Therefore, I accepted his need to talk about such matters with me as a natural one. And it was a natural one, of course.

I wouldn’t have thought that this might be one of the talents I mentioned earlier, but my second student, Bill, did the same. My second student came to me the next year, and he was a friend and classmate of John. A better student overall, but still weak at maths. Of a much better family, with a sister, but, regardless, equally eager to talk with me about sex and love related matters.

Other than them, I’ve tutored four more students. Three of them came to me after either John’s, or Bill’s parents had suggested me to their parents. Coincidently, all of them boys, but not friends with either Bill, or John. Yet, equally easily, they started talking to me about such matters. I guess I radiated some kind of an older-brother aura and they felt comfortable with me. Whatever the reason, I liked it that I had this effect on them.

But, similarly, more or less, their parents would actually say, or at least insinuate that their kids weren’t “bright enough”. It’s true that, were they good students, they wouldn’t have needed a private teacher to help them, but the 100% probability of the parents thinking like this for their own kids was enough to persuade me to stop teaching.

So, yes, I haven’t done that for quite a few years now. But, to my surprise, my father announced to me last night that not only will I be tutoring the son of a friend of his, not only will I be doing that without getting paid, but, also, that I’ll be starting today. Yes, announced. He didn’t ask if I can. It’s Saturday, for heaven’s sake! I might have wanted to sleep in late, or I might have made other plans, you know!

And so, here I am, walking to his friend’s home, in a freezing cold January’s morning to do what I had decided never to do again. Not to mention that this guy I’m going to meet might well be the most difficult case I have come across.

He actually shouldn’t be a high-school student, this year, but he is repeating the last year. And his parents have only now, after half the school year has already passed – the second time their son is doing that year, too – decided to find some help for him. And… me? There are very many teachers out there, up to date ones, available. Why me?

You might think because I won’t be getting paid for it, but, my guess is, that was my father’s decision. So, I won’t blame them for that. Therefore, I’m trying not to become certain before meeting with them that they think their son is a hopeless fool.

On top of that, this kid is now in his last year in high school, again, and this time with classmates he didn’t know until the year started, while those classmates have been together for at least two years now. In other words, difficult to socialise with, even in school. Classmates who are “schooled” to believe somebody like him is not someone they should be friends with. And he is a kid that his teachers, who thought he was stupid even simply because he had bad marks, now think he is a complete moron, because he repeats the year.

You might think I’m exaggerating. Maybe I am. A bit. I don’t know. Well… actually, that’s the truth. I don’t have a clue! It’s almost ten years since I finished high-school, so things might have changed. And, also, not every teacher is the same as my teachers were. Maybe this kid has very decent, caring and supportive teachers. I don’t know. But, I’m a bit angry, and very annoyed and that’s what I’m thinking, arriving at his home. And that’s good. I’m proud of these thoughts. And I repeat them “aloud” in my mind. Screaming them, without a voice, if you know what I mean. Why?

Because, there is another thought; one I’m ashamed I have, one I want to cover and hide from my own self, that this kid, who legally isn’t a kid any more, but an adult, might actually be a pain in the ass. And I ring the intercom.

“Yes?”

“Good morning Mr Ford. It’s Chris Taylor.”

*****

Mr Ford, alone, opened the door and rushed me through to the living room and asked me what he could offer me, smiling uncomfortably. I know this scene. I have seen it many times before. His son woke up late, and he is probably having his breakfast while his wife is tiding up and airing the room. I’m not looking forward to the frost I’ll have to deal with, in a little while.

“How is your father?” As if he didn’t talk with him yesterday, but he is trying to keep a conversation to distract me from the fact I’m wasting my time. On the bright side, it’s unlikely he’ll think to talk about how much not-bright his son is, because he is too stressed by the situation. They always think that only their kid would do that. On the other hand, no matter how long I’ll be waiting for his son, I won’t get paid extra, because, of course, I’m not getting paid at all. I’m not really happy, but my smile is unwavering.

Finally his wife appears, which means the room is ready and the son will also appear at any moment. Just to humour you, I haven’t yet learned the boy’s name.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience. We woke up a bit late.”

Good mother! She tried to take the blame. Were her make-up not as perfectly done, I might have believed her. Not really! But, it was really a pleasant surprise she did that.

I hear steps closing in and I turn in their direction. I wasn’t expecting to see what I saw. Think of a normal nerd. Not the exaggerated humorous edition you see in comedies, but a realistic, cute edition of a nerd. Take off the glasses and add an earring on the left ear and you’ll get the picture. Nothing fancy, just a simple, small ring. And once he smiled, I lost my poker face. Regained it quickly enough, and, hopefully, nobody noticed my jaw hitting the floor.

I surely was expecting an at least a bit wilder appearance, and I certainly wasn’t expecting my heartbeat to go on a rampage.

So, after the introductions – finally learned he is called Michael – we headed to where we were to be studying: his bedroom. The coffee I had asked for from his father was waiting there. That’s good. We’ll have fewer distractions.

There is a kitchen chair where his desk’s chair should have been, and his desk chair where my coffee is. I told him to exchange them as I stand up most of the time, but he refused politely. I tried then to do it myself, and he stopped me by holding my hands down on the back of the chair, looking at my eyes, smiling cutely, “Please!”

Holy shit! Remember Chris! His parents and yours are friends!!!

Yes, yes, I know! I can’t make a move. I can’t even let him suspect what is happening inside me, but… I can insist, a bit, about the subject of chairs? I mean… his eyes, his smile, his hands on top of mine… There is no need to hastily agree. Right?

But I don’t want to insist for too long and disappoint this smile, so I give up after a few seconds. And he grins! Which is breath-taking, but he takes his hands from mine. I know I’m imagining things, but did he hesitate before doing that? Nah!

And so, he sits down, with me standing next to him, to start the lesson. This is my usual teaching style and it’s never felt at all uncomfortable before. Right now, though it might have been wiser for me to sit down, too, because my crotch is bulging… and right in front of his eyes.

We start with what he has to do for Monday. I’m not solving the problems for him. I let him solve them and I simply explain how he should be thinking. At the same time, I’m trying to spot the “gaps” in his mathematical knowledge.

You see, that’s the greatest difficulty with maths. Studying “this” year’s maths won’t be of any help if there are things from previous years you haven’t understood and haven’t made yours. To give a very exaggerated example, no matter how much effort you put into understanding integral calculus, if you don’t know how to multiply, there isn’t much you can achieve.

So, I need to spot what Michael doesn’t know from previous years, to teach him that. The answer is apparently a lot! But it’s okay. We’ll start “filling in the gaps” from bottom to top. If he bothers to do the learning, I don’t mind doing the teaching. Even if I need to explain things again and again.

It would be better – for him; not for me – if he were looking at what I was writing down, whenever I needed to write something to explain what I was saying, instead of at my eyes, but I won’t complain. I can’t. Never before have I lost my words, while explaining plain old maths, but, still, I won’t complain.

Usually, when I used to teach, I kept track of time by regularly looking at my watch. When you get paid by the hour, you don’t want to force yourself for longer than the one paying you agreed to. But now I’m not getting paid, so I don’t need to check the time. That’s good. I don’t want to avert my eyes from him more than I really need to. And he looks at me more than he looks at his notebook and book, so he might have thought I got bored otherwise. Right? I can’t let him think that!!!

At one point, he turns and look at me. His pen on the desk. His right hand supporting his cheek. Smiling.

“Don’t you want to sit down, for a bit?”

And I obey.

“Thank you,” he says, still smiling at me and he rubs my knee. “I need a break, and, probably, so do you.”

If by break you mean caressing my knee, I sure do! A long one, too! But he didn’t keep his hand there for long. Not even for a short while, if you ask me. But, surely accidentally, he squeezed my knee a bit, before taking his hand away.

His eyes fixed in mine. I know I’m blushing. I look down to escape his gaze, only to hungrily look back at him, scared he may look elsewhere. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t stop smiling either. And, eventually, I allow myself to rejoice in his look and smile. Still embarrassed, but unwilling to look away.

He lays his arm on the back of his chair. Rests his chin in his hand. Leans over. Nearer. His face closer. I can see nothing else.

“You teach really well. With you, even I can understand maths.”

“I’m not doing anything special. And why wouldn’t you? You are-”

“A fool?”

“No!”

He laughs. “I’m repeating the year. Remember?”

I kick myself, and try to find the right words to respond. He bloody enjoys it! And I don’t know if I should be worried for unwillingly rubbing salt in his wounds, or I should be happy I gave him some entertainment.

“School teachers have been nothing like you,” and as naturally as this, he starts talking about his school experience. His teachers, his previous classmates, and the new ones.

He jokes and makes witty comments. He describes, more or less, what I had assumed – less drama, but still a similar situation – but he doesn’t complain. He isn’t angry. I am. At everyone, but him.

Him? Him I can only admire, more and more, with every word.

He doesn’t talk for long. As naturally as he started, he stops. Without a question mark at the end. Without any hint he expects encouragement, or any reaction from me. Just a pause.

And then, “I wasted much of your time. Shall we continue?”

“No you didn’t! Not at all!” And I get up from my chair to resume. My hand almost pats his back, but I realise in time what I was going to do and I stop it.

His father opens the door some time later to check, “Everything okay? You need anything?”

“Yes, everything is okay.” What would we need? It’s just a lesson. And he leaves. Only then, by chance, I glimpse the time on my watch. Ten to one!?! That’s why he came to check! “Do you know what time it is?”

“You need to leave?”

“No! Not at all!” Hey! Watch your high-pitch! “But you must be bored to death!”

“Oh, well… to be frank, even with you, four hours of maths is excessive.” Grabbing my knee, he rises from his seat. His body bent. His nose almost touching mine. “But not too excessive!” And he grins. Still there!

And then he goes and sits on his bed, leaning back, against the wall. He taps the sheets next to him. Does he invite me? No! There must have been something on them.

“So, am I as much of an asshole as you thought?”

“I didn’t think you-”

“Yeah, right! Well, I thought you’d be one. Until I saw you, that is.” He tidies the sheets, again, next to him. I don’t move. “And I know now for sure you are not. Won’t you at least come closer?”

He was inviting me?!? I go and sit next to him. Sit. But he pulls me back against the wall. He turns and looks into my eyes. So very close! I feel his breath against my skin.

“That’s better!” He grins.

I must be as red as I can get and he must have already noticed that. So, I get rid of any thought of looking away. I won’t waste my chance of admiring him. He doesn’t look away, either. He, too, enjoys the pleasant silence, or so I think.

“You know, you are very good at maths and at teaching,” he finally softly speaks. “Of course, you know, but you really are.”

If I could, I would blush even more. “Thank you.”

“And thank you, for today. Chris, I know you are not getting paid, and this surely sucks, so… if you don’t want to come again, just tell me. I’ll say I don’t want any more lessons, and nobody will blame you.”

“What? No! I mean, thank you, but no! I want to come again. I mean, if you want me to?”

“Yeah?”

“Gladly!”

Without taking his eyes from mine, his hand finds my hand and squeeze it gently. “Thank you!” He relaxes his hold, but he doesn’t let go of my hand. “Not only you are very clever, but you also are very beautiful. And cute. And sweet. And tender.”

I know I should reply. I know I should return the complements, but I can’t. I’m not used to hearing such things. Let alone from a guy like him. A guy so amazing that he stole my heart at first glance. So, I’m shocked. Pleasantly, of course, but at a loss for words. My hand, still in his.

“By the way, how old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“What? Really? You are much older than I thought!”

I take my hand from his and cross my arms. I turn my face away. Not even in front of me, but right to the other side. “Yes. Really.” I’m overreacting, but this really hurt. More than it should.

“Chris? Sorry! I didn’t mean-”

“Of course. Look, if that’s a problem, I can’t do anything.” What the fuck am I saying? I’m supposed to be his tutor. Not his friend, not his b… Yeah, as if this could ever happen!

And, at that awkward moment, the door opens, and his father enters.

“Oh, you finished?”

I turn to him. My professional smile back on my face. “Yes, we finished.”

“Everything is alright?”

“Yes,” I reply, but he looks at his son. A bit intensively, or so I think.

“Yes, Dad. Everything is okay. You need something else?”

One more stare and he leaves.

I turn my head, again, away from Michael. He kneels on the bed. He pulls my face from my chin and, gently, he turns me toward him. He doesn’t force me, and I don’t resist. His face so very close; it covers my view. He smiles again. Not brightly, but still sweetly.

“Chris, really. I didn’t mean it the way you got it. I just was surprised. I’m sorry. All this time I felt we were in the same wavelength. I couldn’t imagine you were…”

“A museum piece,” I smirk.

He grins. “Fuck off!” And he kisses me. I don’t retract. I kiss him back. Without stopping, he grabs my head and presses my lips against his. I feel his tongue, and open my mouth to welcome it. His eyes sparkle and that’s the only thing that matters to me.

The kiss eventually ends. Not soon, but too soon for me. His forehead rests on mine. His hand, still holds my head in place. I wouldn’t even think about moving it away. All of his face is bright. His eyes, fixed in mine. I love his eyes, but I long for his lips. I try to reach them and – oh, holy fuck! – his father, yet again, enters the room.

Michael, calmly, barely separates his forehead from mine. Only then, he slowly lowers his hand down just under my neck. His father doesn’t speak. He takes something from the closet – I can’t see what – and he leaves. Michael, not even for a moment, did he look at anywhere but me. His face still so close. His smile still so happy.

“I… I’m sorry. I have just caused you huge trouble,” I say.

“Why?”

“Your father?”

“He’ll simply think we made up.”

“I don’t think that will be all. He…” He silences my argument with a kiss.

“More importantly, Chris, I want you to do me a favour. From now on, you’ll believe every good thing I say for you. And! If I ever again say something that sounds bad, you’ll know it was simply me being a fool and that I didn’t mean anything bad at all. Will you do this for me?”

“Okay,” I mutter.

“Liar!” And he kisses me again.

Well, he is right. I am. But how could I have ever said no to him?

*****

“Michael?” His father, surprisingly, knocks the door and doesn’t open it.

Michael sits, normally, on the bed. “Yes, Dad?”

Mr Ford enters the room.

“Can you go get some pizzas? We invited Chris’ parents for dinner. We need to thank him properly for his time.”

“Can’t we just order?”

“Just go. It’s not far.”

“Ugh! Okay… I’ll go. Hey, Chris? Are you coming with me?”

“Sure!”

His father closes his mouth before any objection had the chance to come out from it. Michael grins. Mr Ford leaves.

Michael stands and pulls me up, to his hug and gives me another kiss. He goes to his closet to find something warmer to wear on top of his shirt. I look out of the window.

“It’s snowing!”

He comes and hugs me from behind. “Then, we need to stick close together to warm each other.” And he kisses my nape.

It seems he meant what he said, for he clings onto my arm, as soon, as we are on the street.

“I’m just making sure you won’t fall.”

There is no ice, yet, but I don’t care. I wouldn’t dare do what he does, but I am so very happy he is braver than me. As for falling? I think, with him holding me so tightly and bouncing more than walking, we have a better chance of falling – together – than if I were to walk alone. Therefore, Ground? Do your best to be soft!

He smiles. He squeezes me. He teases me. He kisses my arm. Again and again, and not necessarily in this particular order. I’m somewhat aware of the people around us, but, that’s not enough to make me stop him.

“You want us to make a deal, Chris?”

“What deal?” Although his mischievous smile gives me a hint.

“Each time you come, if I have studied well, do I get a blowjob?”

Hell, yeah! I giggle embarrassed, to not scream this.

“Oh, come on! Don’t I deserve that much?”

He looks at me with purposely-fake puppy eyes, and a smirk. As if I could resist this, even if I wanted to.

“Much, much more than just that.”

He grins and jumps on the spot. Cute!

“Then, it’s a deal?”

“Yes.”

“And, in exchange, if I don’t study, I’ll have to give you one.”

“No! That… that’s a no.”

“You don’t like receiving a blowjob?”

“Not when you hate it!”

“Are you crazy? I’ll love doing it, at least as much as receiving yours!”

“Then… wouldn’t it be an anti-motive?”

“Oops! Busted! But… you’ll let me do it. Right?”

“Yes… whenever you want. But not when you don’t study.”

“Yes! Thank you!” His smile, so bright!

He leaves my arm and jumps in front of me, stopping me. Gently he takes hold of my hands.

“Chris… I just want you to know, I’m not just horny for you. I love you! It’s not the impulsive craziness of a horny teen. I mean it. And you don’t need to believe me. You’ll come to believe I mean this, in time. And, of course, you don’t need to say you love me. I don’t care if you say you only want me for sex.”

It takes me some moments to proceed what I’ve just heard. Can I really be that lucky?

“I love you, too!”

And he kisses me. Right there. In the middle of a street. And what the hell do I care! I hug him as hard as I can, and kiss him back.

“Thank you, Chris. I know you do. That’s why I didn’t care what you’d say. But, boy! Am I happy you said that you love me!”

He knew! And I’m so happy he did. There was no vanity in what he said. He said it so plainly, yet, hearing it, I felt so safe… so welcomed… as if… yes! As if I have found my real “home”.

Reluctantly he leaves my hug, and returns to my side, and, once again, clings onto my arm.

We are almost out of the pizzeria when he talks again.

“So, baby, when I finish school, do you want us to find a place to move in together?”

I’m so overwhelmed with joy, I can only laugh.

He grins. “I take this as a yes!”

Yes!