*** MR. BAIRD

The thing about teaching middle school math is that your students are all over the place, and it’s not just mathematical acumen to which I refer. To my girls, I’m old, boring Mr. Baird, a nice nerd who thinks everything’s an equation. Maybe some truth to it, as I do think math is important for life, even if you never see another equation, ever. It’s about figuring out what’s known and what’s unknown and going from one to the other.

Where they’re more all over the place is their maturity. Face it, a bunch of them are probably already sexually active. There are statistics. Then there’s another bunch who still like their dolls, though they’d never say they “played” with them. Just keep them around for decorations. A male teacher knows -- more than knows, as he’s told under threat of incarceration -- to be careful with that first group. Their teacher would be their plumb. They’d want him to raise their grades. The second group isn’t going to lead to anything unless he’s a pervert. They’d probably sit on his lap while he shows them how to substitute values for terms, and not even know what of his is under them.

Those with not much yet up front don’t care a whit about brushing against me in the hall. Those with more are the ones to worry about. I try to dodge, but they still drop their books from a football carry to a by-the-hip hold and pull it off. Only a time or two has Jill slid past me, but that was when I was in the doorway, so it wasn’t my fault. Hers are firm.

A teacher’s going to see their bras -- every size -- and recognizes the ones that probably cost more. Jill’s I’ve seen. Nothing special, but then again, I maybe tend to notice what kind of neckline she has on and situate myself with that in mind. Never for more than a second or two, though, as I’d be looking.

A teacher’s going to see a nipple now and then, particularly those of girls who don’t quite fill their bra and don’t cinch their strap. I’ve never actually seen Jill’s, just where she sometimes bumps out what she’s wearing. It’s just part of their developmental process. A teacher can’t not notice.

I sometimes see panties in the first row. As Jill’s in the row behind, it’s only when the front empties and she’s finishing something up, but it’s not that often, as she tends to get done early. A teacher who stares shouldn’t be a teacher.

So why do I say all this? Because Jill’s becoming a distraction.

Do you have another of those worksheets, Mr. Baird? she asks.

Stop by my desk on your way out, I tell her.

She comes up to get it and wonders about one of the problems. To see what I’m showing her, she moves behind me, leaning over my shoulder, and for the remainder of my explanation, she’s against me. When she leaves, her nipples are out.

Nothing wrong with her asking about a math problem and me explaining. My job.

The next day, I’m by the doorway as the girls leave as a herd, talking away. She’s at the edge, my side, and when she passes, I’ve no room to step back as this time, both hemispheres, firm like apples, crossing my arm, See you tomorrow, Mr. Baird, she says.

*** JILL

She put me up to it, Holly. Mr. Baird’s a new teacher, single -- but we don’t think gay -- clueless, an easy mark. It won’t go anywhere, why she suggests him. He’s probably as virgin as us. Too busy doing algebra, or whatever math teachers do for recreation. He’s big into “knowns” and “unknowns,” he’s such a known, what Holly says you want when you try things out. She’s the one who says to try a rub-by.

For sure Mr. Baird checks out my bra, sometimes even ushering me past him, his hand on my back. Absolutely no reason to make sure I’m wearing one, as he can see my straps, but he may just like knowing. There’s a law about touching students, but like I’d go to the counselor?

It’s not like my bras are special, but under my beige blouse, I can show a little nipple, I’m thinking the reason that Mr. Baird has me stop by his desk for my next assignment, us divided by level, me in the top one. He’s sitting and the assignment’s such that for me to read it, I lean from behind over his shoulder – what Holly told me to do – him explaining things about the solutions that he knows I already know. There’s no way he doesn’t feel me there.

*** MR. BAIRD

The thing about Jill is that not only does she have a knack for numbers, but that I find her interesting in a different sort of way. She’s not the only girl to squeeze by me in the doorway – I’ve got to stand somewhere – but at my desk, how she looks over my shoulder at what I’m showing her, her breast against me, and I must admit that sometimes it takes me a while to show her what I’m showing her.

If she’s last to leave, I give her a pat on the back as she leaves.

*** JILL

Holly says it’s only a matter of time. It’s only a short matter of time, actually.

It’s School Spirit Day and we’re in assembly, those of us who arrive last, having to stand at the back because those up front leave too many seats unfilled. The teachers are behind us, Mr. Baird happening to be behind me. Happening to be? Not according to Holly.

It’s crowded with cheering students where we’re standing, and when everybody does that, I let myself trip backward -- just a stumble, is all -- and he catches me, his hand is on my front. Nobody sees that last part and I say, thanks, Mr. Baird, and he says that these rallies get so loud. On the front of my front, even!

The thing is, I’m sure he knows I caught what happened, but more than that, he knows that I don’t jump right back up.

*** MR. BAIRD

There’s no way I could have set it up. Well actually, my being behind her isn’t entirely random, but there’s no way I could have anticipated her tripping. It’s good that everybody’s cheering. Probably she didn’t even notice, me being just her math teacher.

Pretty surprising, though, my hand where it ended up. As I knew from her passing me in my doorway, she’s a very firm girl.

*** JILL

Holly says he wants to know my unknown. Strike while the iron’s hot, she tells me, probably referring to Mr. Baird’s penis, which is ridiculous. She and I just talked about me trying out a few minor things, not everything.

Holly’s full of ideas regarding giving him feedback, but I’ve a few of my own. Rather than just leaning over his shoulder, I move a little to the side and my leg brushes him as I’m leaving. Or was it him brushing my leg? Difficult to say.

Another time, I rest my hand on his shoulder when behind him at his desk. That’s my far hand, me leaning over his near shoulder. Nobody’s looking, except for Holly, who flutters her fingers at me, grins, and distracts those who might be looking.

And now comes the awards assembly, me getting a Future Woman Mathematician certificate. We’re behind the stage, Mr. Baird and I, as he’s going to present it after my friend Holly gets her Future Writer award. And what happens? Pretty much like she predicted, he’s behind me and reaches around.

It’s pretty quick, him feeling me, but there’s no question that’s what he’s doing. I’m wearing my blue sweater and it slides as he does it. I wish Holly were back here, not out there getting her award, so she could see that I’m not fibbing, but she knows I’m trustworthy.

Maybe he’s just not thinking, I wonder. But more positively, maybe he’s indeed aware, but thinks I don’t notice. But even more positively, maybe he’s picked up that have noticed and am letting him get away with it...

He just does one side, not that long, and then we’re up.

It’s nice to be known.

After Mr. Baird presents my certificate, he shakes my hand. The school’s bored spitless -- Future Writer, Future Woman Mathematician, etc. -- but Holly will get a kick out of it when I report what happened backstage.

*** MR. BAIRD

Am I a total idiot? She reports this and I’m history!

But she doesn’t.

*** JILL

I’m where I need to get to, Holly tells me, baiting Mr. Baird to the point of getting himself in trouble. The rest is up to me, making him give me an A, which I say I already have, me being a Future Woman Mathematician. Take a picture of his dick with his driver’s license beside it for blackmail purposes, another of her ideas, but we agree that it’s a bad one because we don’t want to ruin Mr. Baird’s reputation.

In any case, she points out, not the school. Brushing in the doorway, leaning over his shoulder at his desk, waiting together behind the stage, somebody’s going to notice.

I ask him if he has any odd jobs a girl could do around his place, say provide him some ideas about decorating. Everybody says I have a good eye.

He looks oddly at me, but really has no choice or I’ll blow the whistle, what Holly says, and she’s been right so far.

I stop by that weekend. Holly will cover for me if my folks ask. Mr. Baird’s place is about what you’d expect a math teacher’s place to be. Stacks of magazines. Not much in the cupboards. An exercise bike. In need of decorations.

After working into the conversation that my folks don’t know that I’m here, we always start with our client’s bedroom when redecorating, I inform him. We’re in there maybe 8.5 hours per day unless we read in bed, then maybe 9.25, depending on the book. Plus maybe another 0.25, depending if we do something else, I don’t add. Holly says that teachers who aren’t married or dating do it as much as us.