Chapter 1

Most married people have a story about how they met their spouses. About my ex-wife, the story isn't so interesting. But the story of how I met my fiancee is a little different. I had better start by explaining about Amy.

I had noticed her on the first day of class. Sitting in the front row of the classroom, looking very serious as she took notes, she had a certain attraction that was greater than the sum of any parts I could analyze. What was it about her? I generally prefer tall women, but she was the sort of young woman who I tended to think of in her absence as taller than her 5'5" frame. Her face was fresh and pretty, rather than beautiful, but without a single flaw in her complexion. Her figure was not the kind that made you do a double-take, yet when you analyzed it you could only conclude that it was perfectly proportioned: curvy but slim hips, and breasts that were medium sized or maybe just a bit smaller. Her hands were graceful; her eyes were bright and inquisitive; her shoulder length hair was straight and tidy; her teeth were white and straight. Kind of the girl-next-door look, not a flashy kind of beauty, but one that would wear well over a long period of time, I thought.

In one way, I have misled you in my description of Amy. While her eyes may give the impression of intelligence, in point of fact she was not a very successful student. I didn't feel she was actually stupid, but it didn't take long for it to become clear that she was not going to do well in this class.

Maybe she didn't work as hard as she needed to. Maybe she was missing some of the background material the other students already had. Maybe it was a full-blown case of math anxiety. Who knows, maybe it was simpler than that and she just wasn't very smart.

None of this made her any worse in my eyes, since there's more to a woman than just book learning. She had plenty going for her even if she wasn't another Cantor. Amy was not a flirt, during class or afterward, and on that first day there was nothing to make me think that anything unusual would happen during the quarter. My thoughts that day were directed toward giving a good introductory lecture.

Although I appreciate the decorative value of the female students in my classroom, I had never harbored any illusions that they were there for my entertainment. First, because sexual harrassment is wrong; second, because math is just not the greatest turn-on for most gals ("wanta come up to my place, have something to drink, and memorize some dynamite multiplication tables?"); and third because I'm too afraid of getting caught and losing my job. I don't think I'm a prude on the subject, but I know I've gotten some kidding from a couple of my friends about my somewhat oldfashioned attitude. Maybe I've missed out on some good times along the way as a result, but I have to believe I've missed out on a good deal of needless trouble as well. Better to take the safe course, I've always thought. A few weeks into the course I administered the quarter's first quiz. I graded it strictly, since that first quiz of the autumn is for some students the shock to their system necessary to get started working on the course material. I emphasized to everyone that a poor grade on the quiz did not mean that they couldn't get a good grade for the course, but as expected the looks on some of the students' faces indicated that a serious re-evaluation of their chances had taken place. It's at this point that usually ten percent of the class decides to drop the course, and a larger number decides that they had better schedule some office time with the instructor. That's the whole point, of course, to shake the sleepy ones out of their doldrums. This class was no exception, and I found myself overbooked with students wanting help. Amy was one of the students who signed up for office hours. She had never come up to talk with me after class, as many of the other students often did, so this was the first time we had spoken with each other. Based just on her looks and manner, I had her pegged as a Political Science major, or American Lit. Maybe even Art. I was mildly surprised when she told me that she was in the pre-med program. The College Algebra course she was taking from me was required in her program; more than that, she told me she had to earn at least a B. Although I didn't say so, I was dubious about her chances. I gave her my usual pep talk, tried to explain some topics she found confusing, and gave her references for further study. But as she left, I didn't get the feeling that I had done her much good. Maybe it was because she kept calling herself dumb the whole time she was there. Although some of the students came back for second or even third visits during my office hours the next two weeks, Amy did not. I didn't think anything about that fact, since many of the students in a given class aren't really that motivated, and with upwards of 80 students in the class I didn't have the luxury of looking after each one if they didn't seek out attention. Amy attended each lecture, but never asked questions, and her notetaking appeared to be an exercise in trying to take down each syllable I uttered and each symbol I wrote on the board. With some students, this would indicate a lack of real interest in the material, and a desire just to know the probable contents of the final exam, but looking back I now interpret Amy's methodology as sheer desperation. I can guess that Amy's reluctance to visit me again was more a reflection of her fear of failure than of a lack of motivation. Not surprisingly, when I gave the midterm exam, Amy's score was the lowest in the class. Sometimes a foreign student will do poorly in a class for a while, solely because of the language barrier, and will eventually catch on to the concepts and move up in the rankings. But when an American student like Amy finds herself near the bottom, it's much rarer for progress to be made as the quarter goes along.

What's more, she was a sophomore, whereas most of the students in this class were freshmen. I have seen many freshmen start out slowly, because of the new environment college represents, and then catch fire as the quarter goes along, but this is much less likely with a second-year student. Again, with perfect hindsight, I can speculate that Amy knew this would be a tough course for her, and she put it off until her advisor insisted she take it. I don't know a teacher who doesn't feel awful when a student tries and still fails. The worst part is returning the graded exam paper to the student, seeing her take it with low expectations in her eyes, and watching her face fall when she sees that she has failed to come up to even those low expectations. Amy didn't cry, but you could see she wanted to. I rather expected that she would visit during my office hours that day, and wasn't sure what I should or could say to help her. Honesty may be the best policy, but I also don't like to discourage a student who is willing to try-try-again. But once again I was busy enough with the students who did show up that I didn't have time to dwell upon the matter when she didn't.

The next class session two days later marked a change in Amy's manner. It was difficult to describe exactly, and someone watching her for the first time might not have thought anything of it. She was dressed the same, in her blouse and jeans. One odd thing was that she was taking hardly any notes, and another was that she had a very strange smile at times. Not a self-confident smile, certainly not a happy smile, one that was forced and seemed to be directed at me. But it was also hesitant, and anytime I really looked in her direction she dropped her gaze after a second. I couldn't have put the reason into words at the time, but I felt somewhat flustered, and found myself stumbling in my delivery to the class. After class, she walked down the hallway toward my office. For more than an hour she lurked in the hallway, wandering away for a few minutes, then returning to check if I was alone. I had seen this sort of behavior before, when a student is too embarrassed to let classmates see how badly she is doing. I was sure it was killing her to have her friends know her troubles. Pride goething before a fall, you know.

It was late in the afternoon before the last student left and she finally entered my cramped office. Quietly she said, "I need some help." I told her that I had a few minutes, and motioned for her to sit down with me at my desk. She listened as I went over her exam with her, nodding her head and murmuring "uh huh" when I would pause to see if she was following my explanations. But even more than the first time she visited, I got the feeling that I wasn't getting through to her. Unlike earlier in the classroom, her face was almost expressionless when I looked at her, and she rarely looked up from the exam paper. A couple of lightly humorous remarks I made evidently did not register. She seemed distracted by something. Finally, it was almost five o'clock, and I told her, "I have to leave soon. Perhaps you can come again during my office hours next Tuesday." She touched me lightly on the arm for a moment, and said "please, I need a lot of help. Could we schedule some make-up time before that?"

It was a hesitant yet determined touch, not quite seductive and yet something more than just an instinctive touch on the arm. I crossed my legs, my own instinctive reaction to hide the possibility of her seeing the beginnings of the erection that was stimulated by her touch. Was I imagining things? Was she coming on to me? With some girls I would have been sure, yet Amy seemed so innocent. She had not looked me in the eye when she spoke, which would have given me a better way to gauge her intentions. I certainly did not want to embarrass her, or myself, by making an inappropriate comment based on what was quite possibly my own imagination.

I managed to utter, "what do you mean, make-up? You haven't missed any lectures or exams."

She seemed embarrassed at her miswording, and mumbled, "I dunno, I mean some extra help. I really need to learn this material." I exhaled. Yeah, I guess I had read into her question something she hadn't meant. I hoped she hadn't noticed my reaction, or at least would forgive me if she had. It was an understandable mistake, after all. Except, she continued, "it's pretty hard for me. Or maybe I'm just making it harder than it needs to be. Sometimes I like to, y'know, make things hard. That's what my boyfriend says."

Was it just me, or did she also realize the double entendre she was making? She wasn't looking at me, and there was nothing else in her manner to suggest anything like that. I decided to try to back away from that line of conversation, just in case she was trying to lead me on.

I replied, "well, I suppose I could come in for a while tomorrow. How about 10?" She continued to look at the papers in front of her, and said, "I've got classes most of the day tomorrow. Would you have time sometime this evening?" I again wondered if I should read something between the lines in her request? Yet her delivery was so flat, and she seemed so introverted, that I had to doubt the conclusion I was drawing.

"No, I have to get to a meeting in a few minutes on the other side of town," I lied. "Anyway, maybe you should be trying to find a tutor, who could give you what you need." I mentally winced at the choice of phrase. Did she understand the double meaning that could be inferred? I was ashamed of myself for even worrying about the way to phrase an innocent question. My conscience was clean, after all. "There's a list of tutors on the wall opposite the department office," I went on.

"I've never had much luck with those guys. They always seem to be as confused as I am. I'd really, really appreciate it if you could find some time for me. What about after your meeting tonight?" She seemed sincere, yet how could she not know how personal her suggestion sounded? On the other hand, was I getting worked up over something entirely in my imagination? On the third hand, if she was trying to come on to me, couldn't she be more original than talking about 'appreciation'? On the fourth hand, how many hands do I have, anyway? I pointed out that they keep the building locked after hours.

"Maybe you have a friend who could help?" I suggested.

"My boyfriend took Calculus, but he just makes fun of me when I ask him questions about math. Could I come over to your house? What time will you get home?" she persisted. My hormones were working like they hadn't in a long time, not since I met the gal that had precipitated my divorce. I looked at Amy's face. She had for just a moment turned slightly toward me, but now quickly looked back at her papers, avoiding my eyes. I made the mistake of letting my eyes wander below her shoulders. Her words sounded so suggestive as to be laughable, yet her manner indicated that she was thinking about nothing but studying to raise her failing grade.

How simple it would be if I would just ask her, "are you proposing a lay-for-an-A, or what?", and tell her to forget it, but what if I was wrong? Embarrassment, at the least, possibly real trouble with the dean, if she complained to someone. No, best to play it cool. I should just tell her, "no, I don't think that would be a good idea." But she was so attractive to me, the horny part of my brain wanted to find out what she intended. And so innocent, that the logical part of my brain wanted to believe that she was completely unaware of the impact that her suggestions were having on me. With the two halves of my brain pre-occupied like that, I had no extra brainpower for talking, so I blurted, "you don't know where I live." Dumb. Or, maybe the horny part of a guy's mind will always win.