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I was 25 when I returned home with my tail between my legs and feeling none to proud of moving back into my dad’s house. Six years in a college setting had had there affect on me and as I unpacked the last box of books and folded the it up to haul to the garage, I felt a pang of self-pity.

“Three degrees and you’re going to work at your old high school. Sorry sack of—” Anyway, with over $15,000 in loans to pay off, a recession in full swing, and my father’s health declining, it was my most viable option.

I tossed the folded box in the garage can and, seeing it was full, closed the lid and hefted it down the drive.

My parents’ place was technically in the country, with 19 acres, a pond, a barn and an orchard with apple and peach trees. In late summer the heat was just breaking and the burnt yellow landscape was beginning to green again at the edges, signifying the transition to the cool September season.

As I set the can down at the side of the dirt road I noticed a car parked in the ditch down near the orchard. I walked down to find the car was a small Honda civic, its door ajar and the engine running. Without hesitation I took the keys out of the ignition and wandered into the orchard. I came to a tree in which I detected movement and in a moment a few apples fell, landing neatly on a thin flannel shirt spread out on the ground.

I cleared my throat. The rustling in the tree stopped.

“Okay, I know you’re up there. Come on down.”

“Why? You own this place?” The voice was challenging and girlish. There was a shutter of branches as the figure dropped down, landing gracefully on her feet. She was about 5’5″ and athletic looking, though not scrawny by any means. Her hair was dirty blonde and her eyes were squinted against the sunlight. “How do you know I haven’t got permission to pick them?”

“Do you have permission?” I cocked my eyebrow dubiously.

She shrugged. “No, but I figure if the owner catches me he’ll be lenient.”

“Oh he will, huh?”

“Yes, I’m such a terribly nice girl. Anybody who talks to me for five minutes can tell that.” She put her hands on her hips confidently as she spoke. “And I’m also quite stubborn and independent and not about to put up with the miserly stance of a person who grows so many apples and doesn’t share them. Besides, I’ve driven by every day since these things started to ripen. Nobody’s picking them, they’ll just spoil anyway.” She picked up the shirt with the apples and bundled them up, keeping one out for herself to eat. “Anyway, there just apples. Not like I’m steeling Faberge eggs or anything.”

“No, I suppose not.” She was dressed for the end of summer, jean shorts and a faded blue tank top. When she bent over to bundle the apples a nice line of cleavage revealed itself. I did my best not to take much notice. The girl was young. “Still,” I said, looking off toward the house, which was barely visible through the trees. “It is rather impolite to just invite yourself into somebody else’s orchard.”

She polished her apple on the tattered hem of her jean shorts. “So call the cops. If you’re the farmer, though, I have to say you’re a bad one. Why haven’t you started picking yet?”

“I’m not the farmer. My dad is. And… well, he’s been sick.”

“So, why don’t you pick the apples for him? That’d be what a nice son would do. Got any siblings? You could make a family event out of it.”

I smirked. “I have two brothers, but they’re both in the service.”

“Oh, one of those families, huh? So what are you, like home from military school or something?”

It was at this point I realized that this girl had mistaken my age. “Actually, I’m going to be a teacher.”

“Oh,” she said, blinking as she reappraised me and then took a big bite of her apple. “I bet your daddy didn’t like that.”

“Like what?”

“You rebelling,” she paused, munching loudly. “Going off to become something other than a farmer or a soldier.”

“Actually, he liked the idea.”

She nodded, swallowing. “See, I could be Sherlock-effing-Holmes.”

“I think you’re closer to Nancy Drew.”

“Ooh, a burn from the old man. You want a bite?” She offered the apple to me casually.

“No thanks.”

“It’s good.” She held it closer to my mouth. I could smell the sweetness of the fruit and pushed it away.

“I was raised on them.”

“Overloaded, huh?”

“Yep.”

She sighed and turned, slinging the shirt with the apples over her shoulder and walking idly in the general direction of the road. “They say you can have too much of a good thing. But then again, I don’t think I’d ever get tired of apples. They’re my favorite fruit, you know. After breadfruit, that is.”

“Breadfruit?”

“Yeah, have you ever had breadfruit?”

“No.”

“Neither have I. I bet I’d like it though. Something about the name tells me as much. Speaking of which, I’m Rosie.” She whirled and extended her hand, leaving the apple core in her mouth as she did so.

I took the hand, it was moist and sticky Büyükesat Escort from the apple. “John,” I said, casually whipping my hand on my shirt after the handshake was done.

She took a bite of the apple and talked around it. “Nice simple name,” she said. “I like simple names. My name’s simple. In fact, my mom named me Rosie because she didn’t like all these cookie-cutter names that girls have. You know, like Amanda or Ashley or Jessica. So many of those wondering around… Rose is unique, don’t you think.”

“I suppose.”

“Your last name isn’t something like Smith or Jones, is it?”

“Pollock,” I said.

“John Pollock.” She nodded at the name. “Sounds stout and square but friendly.” She stopped her idle sauntering as a thought struck her and when whirled around again, looking me up and down, I could see a flash of shock come over her cute little heart-shaped face. “Wait, Pollock? Oh my god, you’re the new drama teacher!”

“I… Uh… well, yes, but…”

She cut me off with a sudden squeal. “Holy shit, I’ve been flirting with my new teacher.” She dropped the shirt of apples and walked around in a circle making a few odd random gestures with her hands. “Oh, ewe! I can’t believe this. You must think I’m some kind of slutty weirdo, or something. I had absolutely no idea… I mean I knew the new teacher was named Mr. Pollock but I was expecting someone…” She stopped and thrust her hands out at me as if making a point.

“Someone what?”

“Old.”

“Well, I’m 25.” I smirked, picking up the bundle of apples and holding them out to her. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

She tentatively reached over and took her shirt and the apples. She cradled them against her torso just under her nice young breasts. She was suddenly very sheepish and demure. Not knowing what to say.

“You like theater?” I asked taking some steps past her toward the road.

She followed. “Uh-huh,” she said. I looked over, she was looking more at her feet now thaen at me.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” I said. “What do you like about theater? Acting, directing, tech?”

“I just like plays.”

I nodded. “Me too.” I reached in my pocket and took out her car keys. “Oh, by the way, you shouldn’t leave your car running at the side of the road. It wastes gas and someone could come along and steel it.”

She reached out and took the keys. “Thanks, Mr. Pollock.”

I smirked as she opened the passenger door of her civic and dumped the apples out of her shirt onto the car seat. As she did this she bent over and I did my best not to look at her cute little bottom. She straightened and pulled the shirt on over her faded blue tank-top. She walked around to the driver’s side door and opened it. She looked up and our eyes met. “So you’re in my class then, I imagine?”

She nodded. “Y-yes.”

“Okay then, see you Monday, Rosie.” I waved and turned walking back into the orchard. I didn’t look back as I heard the car door shut, assuming she would have taken her chance to escape quickly, but then I heard movement behind me and when I turned around she was right there, holding out an apple.

“You’re my teacher. You have to eat it.”

I laughed and took the apple. I wiped it on my jeans and took a big bight out of it. She giggled as juice ran down my chin and dribbled onto my tee-shirt. I’d only half finished the bight when she moved in close and kissed me. I was taken by surprise and stumbled back a bit, my back landing up against the trunk of one of the apple trees. I pushed her away after a second and then, with a giggle, she was gone, scampering off toward the road. In a few seconds I hear the engine of the civic whine to life and the tires kick up gravel as she sped away.

I stood, a bit shocked and confused by what had just happened. But then I found myself running my tongue over my lips, as if I were trying to saver the sensation of the apple-sodden kiss of the girl with the dirty-blonde hair. Her breasts had squashed up against my chest and her fingers had buried themselves in my hair and those lips had felt so warm and wet and wonderful… I bent down and picked up the apple where I had dropped it in the grass. I whipped it on the leg of my jeans and took a second bite, smiling and yet a bit terrified that I’d just been skillfully and yet awkwardly seduced by a student.

*****

The first day of classes came less than a week later. During the lapsed time I’d taken up Mrs. Hendricks’ old classroom off the auditorium, hung a few inspirational posters with quotes from Shakespeare and Tennessee Williams, and stocked the shelves with every book I owned on acting, theater, dramaturgy, and so on. I received the class rosters that Friday and sure enough, Rosie Alderson was in not one but two of my classes.

As the first hour bell rang at 8:40 A.M. the 17 students trudged into the classroom, looking very much like zombies. The boys were all dressed in dark clothing, probably taking the class Beşevler Escort as an elective so they could avoid gym. The girls ran the gambit from small to large, thin to fat, pretty to not-so pretty, but one thing I noticed was that all of them were looking to the front of the classroom as I turned around from writing my name on the board.

“I’m Mr. Pollock,” I said, holding my hand up to my printed name. “This is introduction to advanced drama. You will find a copy of the class syllabus on your desks along with a reading list. There are 13 plays on the list, you and a partner will pick one of the plays and over the course of the next week the two of you will rehearse together a selected scene from that play. On Tuesday next we will start performances, the acting pairs taking turns, and the rest of us watching and taking notes.”

As I spoke I walked carefully down one aisle and up another, talking in my best authoritarian tone, trying very hard to sound like old Mrs. Hendricks had sounded on my first day of classes… “After each performance there will be a five minute critique period and we will, fuck, this is boring isn’t it?”

I was at the front of the classroom when I uttered the expletive and immediately the classroom perked up and took notice. I leaned against the blackboard and smiled at them. “What do you say we screw all that shit and just have fun, huh?”

A few smiles bloomed, one of them at the back looked particularly familiar. “Okay, you have a list of plays. Read them. That’s all I ask. Read one, read five, read all of them, I don’t care. But find one you like, find one you love and then try and figure out why you like it, love it, can’t get enough of it… Then write, a paragraph, a page, a spiral notebook, write it down for me. The goal of this class isn’t an A, it’s to explore. If any of you find you like a play enough to want to try and put it on, let me know. If not, that’s fine, but I will expect you to help out with productions and do your part to help you peers. Now, let’s play a getting to know you game…”

Though the class was fun and by the end of it, I was pretty sure I’d secured myself at least a few devout followers, when it ended and the kids rushed out I felt a slight pang of disappointment that Rosie had stayed towards the back of the class most of the time. Of course, I shouldn’t have been surprised. She was probably embarrassed, or maybe she thought I would have some stern words to say to her should the opportunity present itself.

The day passed by, 1st hour advanced drama gave way to 2nd hour acting. 3rd hour was my planning period followed by lunch and then after lunch came English Composition 1 and Advanced English Literature. These classes were both college preparatory courses and therefore had a more serious tone to them. In Comp 1, I gave out a list of textbooks, including Strunk & White’s Elements of Style and the Everyday Writer as well as information on the MLA website. I then handed out photocopies of Hemingway’s “Hills Like White Elephants” and “The Snows of Kilimanjaro” saying that the class should have them read by the end of the week and that on the subsequent Monday, they should have a one page parody of one of the stories ready to turn in.

“The goal of this class is to teach each of you to write efficiently and precisely. I’ll try to make it as fun as possible, but I’ll be honest, this is a class where grades are determined by hard work and heavy reading…”

I’d never liked composition courses in College or High School, and now that I was teaching one I felt like the world’s biggest hypocrite. When the bell rang signaling the end of the hour the kids trudged out under the mountain of homework I’d assigned them, giving me dirty looks as they went. I went into my little office at the back of the room and collapsed in the seat. My mind was suddenly mush.

“You know, in this light you do look a lot older.”

I looked up to find Rosie leaning on the door frame, shaking her head in mock pity.

“So you’re one of my nine-brave hearts taking Literature 101, huh?”

“Girl’s got to expand her mind, right? And pot just doesn’t do it for me, much as I’ve tried.”

I smirked and took a pencil from the jar on my desk. “I could right you up for mentioning drug use,” I said, mockingly.

“You do that I’ll tell them you touched me inappropriately.”

“Really?”

“You kissed me in the orchard, remember?”

“Did I? I thought it was the other way around?”

“Who they gonna believe, the innocent young girl or the lecherous old teacher?”

I put the pencil down, defeated. “Just don’t think I’m under your thumb or anything.”

“Tell you what, you let me pick apples with a clear conscience, I’ll behave myself in class and be a star pupil. What do you say?”

“Deal.” I stuck out my hand to seal it, but to my surprise she stepped into the office, leaned down and kissed me, gently.

“Seal it with a kiss, that’s a real Cebeci Escort deal.”

The bell rang, startling us both. She rushed out of the office to her desk just as the nine other students burst into the room from the hallway. I ran the back of my hand over my lips, hoping to god she hadn’t been wearing lipstick and then moved to the front of the room, trying my best to look calm, collected, and very much in control of things.

*****

After class was done, they all left together, Rosie pairing up with another girl with short dark red hair, giggling together as they went out. I cleaned up the room a bit, went over and finished up a few more learning plans and then grabbed my jacket and hit the lights.

The school was only a brief walk from my dad’s place and as the weather was nice, I walked home along the sidewalk of main street and then in the dry ditch along the side of our old dirt road. When I came to the mouth of the drive I saw the little civic parked there at the mouth. She was sitting on the hood, sunning herself, waiting.

“You like Tennessee Williams, Jack?”

I smirked. Nobody had called my Jack since my grandmother had died. “I do. Why?”

“Just making conversation. Me, I like him a lot. And I like Wilde and Shaw and what’s that guy’s name who wrote about the five characters in search of something…”

“Luigi Pirandello. And it’s Six Characters in Search of An Author.”

“Yeah, that one’s good.” She climbed down off the hood of the car and walked up to me. She was so short she only came up to about my collarbone. She reached up and played with my tie. “Why haven’t you yelled at me for being so forward with you?”

“I’m not very good at yelling at people.”

“But you do know it’s wrong, right? The way I’m acting.”

“You know it, too. Why aren’t you stopping yourself?”

She stopped fiddling with my tie and let a hand rest on my chest. “Want to help me pick apples?”

“Haven’t you got homework?”

She buried her face in my chest, laughing at me as she nuzzled her nose against my chest gently through the cotton fabric.

“I do, actually, this asshole English teacher gave use reading assignments on the first day, can you believe it?”

“The nerve.”

“You want to help me?”

I nodded and she went to the car, grabbing her book bag and tossing it over a shoulder. She locked the car and began walking toward the orchard. I watched her until she turned and looked at me. I ambled along behind her slowly, watching her as she turned down a row and walked between the trees. She came to a tree in about the middle of the orchard and dropped her book bag on the ground beside the trunk. She then kicked off her tennis shoes and leapt at the trunk, gripping it firmly with her hands and using her feet to walk up to the crotch. She straddled the crotch of the tree and then bringing a knee up to her chest, she stood and reached up into the high recesses of the tree to extract a large red apple.

I watched this simple ballet with fascination, for today she was not wearing the jean shorts but a blue pleated skirt that allowed brief flashes of her pale blue panties. She looked down at me, smirking up at her and instantly knew what I’d been staring at. She threw and apple at my head and I dodged it quickly as she laughed and then picked another apple and another, letting them drop to the ground next to her bag. When she had about six, she sat down on the crotch of the tree, demurely, and held out her arms to me. I sat my briefcase down with my jacket and then reached up to grip her waist with my hands and heft her down. She wasn’t as light as I’d expected, nor was her figure as soft as one might have imagined. There was a toned firmness to her body that was a bit of a pleasing shock and when her feet touched the ground, she stumbled on purpose into me.

Her hair smelled as if it had been recently washed and I found my lips brushing against the straight strands of it as my own hands ran up from her hips up to her ribcage. Her right leg was pressed into my groin and I felt a slight stiring there as my member began to harden. She shied away then, going over to her backpack, opening it and taking out her English textbook.

“So, Hamlet…” she said, settling down with her legs crossed on the grass.

“What about him?”

“Well, I’ve been leafing trough it and I’m wondering what it’s really all about.”

“People have been wondering for 400 years. I guess it’s about conflict, the nature of struggle, doing what you can when the world’s collapsing around you. Sometimes we can’t help complications, but that doesn’t mean we should give in to a sea of troubles.”

She considered this and then walked once around the tree, circling me and thinking. “Do you like Hamlet?” She asked as she came back around to look me in the eye.

“The play or the character?”

“The play.”

“Oh, very much. I played Horatio once.”

“Really, I would have cast you as Hamlet, myself?”

“I don’t look sad enough. At least that’s what the actress playing Ophelia said.”

“You and Ophelia, huh?” She smirked. “Maybe she was right, you don’t seem the depressed type. I bet you don’t even think about death all that much?”

“What’s the point in thinking about it?”

“I don’t know. Lots of people do, though. Must be important for some reason.”

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