Finding Ms. Rennick and Ms. Barton here on vacation was a total surprise. I’d figured I’d just hang out, work on my tan, maybe meet some cute girls. Not lounge around the campsite with my folks, for sure.

And here were two of my teachers!

“Chris! What are you doing here?” Ms. Barton had laughed when we ran into each other on the path. “Holly -- Ms. Rennick, I mean -- and I are camping here, too.” The way she beamed, it was like Ms. Barton thought I was some sort of old-time friend. She was one of my favorite teachers, though. I’d heard her cheering in the stands when I made the three-pointer in the semifinals with Stanfield. Lost by 18, but it could have been 21.

“We’ll have to get together,” she suggested, which I figured to be a nicety. What would we do? Make a campfire and let her explain about carbon? I hardly even knew Ms. Rennick. I’d had her for English, but she was sort of strict about punctuation and made us read Shakespeare.

“What are you doing now?” she asked as we parted.

And not a half-hour later she and Ms. Rennick found me on the nature trail. “Let’s get a move on, Chris. This place has a million things to see,” Ms. Barton acting like this was summer school.

Ms. Rennick gave me a wink, as maybe not all teachers are that excited about biology, or whatever.

We only made it part way around the loop, Ms. Barton pointing out the eco-things before deciding we should explore where the sea-grass stops and the pines begin, a biological zone change, as if anybody but a science teacher actually cared.

Ms. Rennick had seen my three-pointer, too, and asked me all about it.

We found a dune high enough to block the wind and spread out their towels. As they had their suits on under their clothes, we could get a little tan. I didn’t have my suit, but as I was already burned anyway, my shorts and shirt were smarter.

Ms. Rennick produced some carrots and we shared their 7-Ups.

Ms. Barton’s suit was two-piece, violet, not one of those kind in Sports Illustrated, but pretty rad for a teacher. Less than a handful, more than a mouthful, as they say. That her nipples showed didn’t surprise me, her being pretty foxy. I’d seen inside her bra in lab when we were dissecting a bean. I think she caught me looking, but she’d just made a little smile and quit bending over.

Ms. Rennick, on the other hand, was more endowed. Her top showed more cleavage than I’d seen in English -- an over the shoulder boulder holder, we’d call it -- but also left more to guesswork.

They spread their towels side-by-side, Ms. Barton claiming one edge and Ms. Rennick, the opposite, me in the middle. It’s kind of neat, on our stomachs, shoulder to shoulder with your teachers. It was even neater when Ms. Barton pushed down her straps and reached across me to do Ms. Rennick’s. Ms. Rennick said it wasn’t necessary, as we wouldn’t be here that long, but Ms. Barton did it anyway.

Sitting up provided me an up-close of their behinds. Nothing you’d not see on anyone in a swimsuit, of course, but it’s different when they’ve been your teachers. It wasn’t that I could actually see anything, of course, but the way a swimsuit fits, it’s not like I couldn’t, either.

The same regarding the fronts of their legs, a suit not wrapping around much more than necessary. Ms. Barton, especially. Probably the same might be said of mine, but I didn’t catch them looking.

It turned out that both of them knew something about basketball. Not all the rules, or anything, but pretty good for teachers. Ms. Barton had been a cheerleader and Ms. Rennick was in the band. Who was in what didn’t surprise me, but you shouldn’t go by stereotypes.

But after about three minutes of tanning, Ms. Barton needed to run back to their campsite and took her towel. “Be right back, but maybe not for a while. Chris, make sure Holly doesn’t get burned, OK?”

I liked how she’d said “Holly” as if I’d know her by that name, myself. Plus it was neat being asked to watch out for a teacher. As some women don’t like to be alone in a place like this, sure.

“Chris here can massage your sore foot,” suggested Ms. Barton.

“My what?”

“You know, the one we talked about. See you later.”

I wasn’t a masseuse by any means, but nobody asked.

“Just a foot rub,” clarified Ms. Rennick, once Ms. Barton was gone. “Know how?”

“More or less,” truthful, it being an OR. It’s not that often that your teacher says she needs one.

“That’s the ticket,” once I started on her heel.

Finished with my assignment, l made designs in the sand. I like to draw. It wasn’t as if I’d other plans than walking around looking for girls.

Ms. Rennick sat up and looked around. Good thing she didn’t look down, though, as with her straps over her shoulders, her top had slipped to expose the beginnings of areola. Almost the color of the rest of her, actually, but most definitely that’s what it was. Nipples must have been pretty close, but her suit was too thick for them to show.

“Ever read Dune?” she asked. “Frank Herbert. You’d like it. Land of sand.”

I hadn’t and she told me to look in the library.

“Thinking about college?”

I said I guessed so, maybe sports training, which she thought a great idea.

“How about getting back to my foot rub?” this time lying on her back.

She hadn’t actually said above her feet, but didn’t seem to mind when I did. Her calves were pretty firm, more than I’d have thought for an English teacher, anyway. She must walk a lot. It didn’t take more than a minute to do them, me not knowing real massage.

“You must exercise, right?” figuring she’d like the compliment.

She must have because she laughed. That’s when I saw that her nipples had come out right where I’d thought they’d be.

Doing her knees got me thinking, “The knee bone connects to leg bone. The leg bone connects to the...” We learned the song at camp and everybody giggled.

I kneaded the lower part of her thighs, my knee against her calf. Not on purpose, just where it was.

You’d not normally rub your teacher’s legs, but we weren’t at school or anything. I worked toward the inside of her thigh where she was softer and she rustled herself a little more against my knee.

“Doing OK?” I wondered, a little unsure about being where I was. Not that I was unsure about my location, that is, but that she’d catch on. It’s one thing to put your hand on your girlfriend’s leg at the movies; it’s another to do it to a teacher.