It never ceases to amaze me how freely students say things in my presence they presume I wouldn’t understand. As if teachers don’t have sex, as well? Or in my case, perhaps don’t, but at least know about it?

When I overheard Nora Bevins boast that she was going to sneak into the bedroom of her friend’s brother at a slumber party — “Another firsty!” — I picked up my ears. Having had her in class, I’d little doubt she knew the ropes.

Had I not caught his name, I’d not have acted, but there was only Tyce in our school, the Tyce in my fourth-period English, a nice kid whom I’d recruited to cover athletics for our school paper. Not that he was a great writer, but teaching’s about getting kids involved, and he was pleased to be asked.

Tyce would hang around after class with questions about writing, or maybe to get my thoughts about something he’d read. When he asked my help on a speech for the student council election, keep it short, I’d advised. He’d wondered about a career in the Navy. You can’t sail forever, I’d advised.

Basically, though, I suspected he hung around because he had a crush on me. Had I not seemed a little sexy, he’d not have agreed to help with the paper, but as I said before, they think we’re clueless. We’re safe. We probably don’t want to know their fantasies in detail — what they picked up from their buddies — but It’s good for our egos to think they notice us.

Standing by the doorway allows us to give students feedback in a more-conversational manner, maybe a nice word about their essay. We wouldn’t write “Sweet” at the bottom of a paper, but we can say it to a girl. We wouldn’t tell a boy that from how tight he crosses his legs, we can tell when he’s fantasizing, but we might say something about appreciating how he pays attention. It wasn’t as if I gave Tyce special notice, but I did move him to the front row for passing notes.

My standing in the doorway also provided an opportunity not lost to Tyce, his technique being where he’d be crowded in my direction enough to brush against me. No “Sorry, Ms. Rennick,” of course, as that would imply he’d noticed, and no “That’s OK” in reply, as that would imply the same for me.

As Nora’s designs on Tyce bothered me, the least I could do was to warn him. But thinking about it some more, why settle for the minimum?

FRIDAY

“You hang out with Nora Bevins?” my entree.

“Hardly. She’s in my sister’s class.”

“And your sister’s having a slumber party?”

“I guess.”

“There’s something I heard.”

“What?”

“I’m not trying to say what to do, but lock your door.” vague, but not too vague. This is when it pays to know how a boy thinks.

He thought for a moment, then looked at me. “Me?”

“My point. She’ll add your name to her list and brag about it. Better to do it with somebody who can keep a secret.”

“Thanks, Ms. Rennick,” hopefully seeing me as an ally in dealing with Nora.

I wondered that weekend about the slumber party.

MONDAY

Tyce hung around after class. “Thanks for the warning, Ms. Rennick,” looking out the window. “I locked my door like you told me,” and after a pause, “You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to.”

“Fire away, sailor,” picking up on our Navy discussion, but hoping he wasn’t asking for more advice about a military career.

“There’s this one person, though,” looking downward, not finishing.

“That you’d rather...” helping him out.

“I guess,” the subject understood. Progress!

“Older than you?” to which he nodded. As I’d hoped! A boy’s fantasies can be pretty unrealistic, but in some cases not totally so. We teachers joke about the former, of course, but that’s not to say that now and then the latter can’t pan out.

“And you think she’s cute?” to which he nodded, inflating my ego a bit.

“Think you could give me some advice?”

“About what?” playing dumb.

“You know, about getting her to do it.”

“Do what?” as I wanted the words to be his.

“You know, us going to bed,” biting the bullet. I liked the “us.”

You want me to advise you on how to get me to have sex with you, you mean to say? but of course I didn’t say it.

“We’d want to keep my advice off the record, like in journalism,” as I should sound objective, managing to get a button undone before he left.

TUESDAY

I made it a point to have him stop by after school.

“Mind helping me shelve some stuff?” when he stuck his head in. Newer schools don’t give us book rooms, but mine was old-style.

“OK, Tyce,” once we were at work. “Maybe I’ll mention a few things, but it’s up to you what you do with them,” rearranging the books on the lower shelf.

“Great, Ms. Rennick,” taking advantage of his position to sneak a peek, my blouse selected with that in mind.