CRUSH

I was in my ripe teenage years, studying in a blue sea of thirteen hundred plus boys, who every weekday, would also look at this woman with lustful eyes as they pass by her along the hallways of our school or if they were to have  her a one of their teachers for the day. As if that many boys were not enough to contend with, I also had to deal with the few male teachers who existed within our tradition school society. They were without remorse. There was no shame in their game, no concern for criticism from anyone, even amongst their rank. 
Along with those issues was the fact that she was chauffeured each day, sitting next to a man who I can only think must have had the heavens on his side, for he was no prince as much as the eyes could see, and she hadn't any ring on her finger. He took great pleasure in watching her exit the vehicle each day, his eyes fixated on all that myself and others could only imagine and hoped to at least get a glimpse of, but was something that he seemingly knew all too well and have caressed. 	
She was sight to behold, not lacking in anyway. The unfamiliar would get wolf eyes, bedazzled, lost in a amazement at her presence. It was such that she could cause the blind see, the full hungry, and the moral tempted to become based. 
Neither petite nor big, neither fat nor skinny, neither tall nor short, she was well framed. Her black hair, never without sheen was of enough length just above her shoulders. The wind when blown sometimes would carry it to and fro, there and about, making it appear as a steady flow of water before it settles gently on her nape. Hardly was it ever in a knot. Her eyes, big and brown, were topped off with good nature and were eternal. Ask anyone who was lucky enough to make eye contact with them.  
Neatly thin, lightly moistened lips, enhanced her physiognomy. Her bosom appeared proportionate to her backside. If a sheer piece of fabric that she wore decided to hold her in too tight of an embrace,  what is being described would prove to be lacking in details.                                                                                               I made sure that I was a saint in her eyes. I did nothing that would leave a bad taste in her mouth. 
The years that I spent at  Jamaica College were interesting. Each day, each week, each month and each year was an all new adventure of itself. This especially applied to those days when I was seated in front of my crush in the classroom. I had her class twice weekly, having to look and hear the voice of my affection, without being able to say the words relating to how I felt, or being able to touch that smooth olive skin. Restitution laid in being in her presence on those days, a small comfort it was. 
It was during those times that I felt as if I had her to myself, even though there were thirty or so other boys in the classroom. However, the fact remained that the majority of boys and her male counterparts were all absent. Another plus was that we were behind closed doors, no outside interruption, even though I had the feeling that there were prying eyes outside the windows.  
	The little platform at the front of the class where the teacher’s desk laid was the reminder to the class that the teacher was above us. At least, for the time being, the teacher was our master and we were the teacher’s subjects. Our attention was one thing that she did not have to vie for, she amassed that well enough without action or words.  Her presence was always welcome and greatly accepted.
 Whenever she would sit on the chair, she applied formalities that protected her honor, and had never been caught in the snare of the architect’s bad design for that raised platform. I get the feeling that the architect was male and had foresight to the generation of boys that would sit in those classrooms, and also the youthfulness of the female ones who would be their instructors, and would sit in front of them. 
One such young-ing fell prey to that idea, and the outspoken personality of the only Guyanese in the entire school, made sure that it was known, when he kindly expressed, and with great delight to the whole class, that he could see color of the Young-ing’s underwear.
	
****
THE YOUNG-ING and The Guyanese

Our school may have been her first paycheck. Still reticent, as a teenager girl would be, having come into being amongst the opposite sex, garnered all their attention, and is unsure of how to comport one’s self. Her poison was Math. It was such not because it was her subject taught, but by the way she would clutched onto the textbook she carried with her. 
It is the consensus that people hold closely that which is dear to them; and each time, as if for dear life, one set of her tentacles would be grabbing the text, supporting it against her bosom while she would speak or she would write unto the blackboard. The youthfulness, thirty minus several years well, was evident behind thicken rimed glasses. An agreeable physical structure, noted by childbearing hips and short legged-ness was complemented by a braces-less smile. 
The Guyanese on the other hand was lanky and dark with rumpled curly hair. His physiques gives off the air as one who is a perpetual ganja man. He never seemed to have gained an ounce during the whole time that I knew him. He was a carefree child of my age whom I failed to have found to have being serious about anything, and would always find something to joke about. He never had a book or any kind of literature on his desk, neither did he have a pen or pencil. I recall him only sometimes having a knapsack. However, when he did, it was an empty shell being carried around. Sometimes he would sit, all composed, staring off into a world unknown by others, as the teacher would teach. That usually happens until he would again become conscious to this world.This you would know by the disturbance to the class, often times, instigated by him. He hung out with three others, one of whom was an identical twin, who, along with his brother would play switch-n-tell on the Young-ing. The class and other students however, knew them apart, for they were more similar with their names than in looks or with the friends that they kept at school. The plausibility was such that one was a tad bit shorter than the other, the shorter one was more stocky, thus the taller one had a thinner face. Though they both were of lightened skin tone, the taller one had a slight sunk to one of his cheeks, and seems a bit lighter. They spoke differently and never kept each other’s company at school. They both had their own circle of friends. The second of the other two boys that the Guyanese student kept close was dark, round headed, stocky in a way that made him seem short, and he wore glasses, at least sometimes. He was more commanding in presence. The third was as tall as the Guyanese, medium built, and who in my mind had a head that was shaped like a gun’s trigger.
This native of Guyana, is father was a professor at the nearby university, and they housed nearby the school. More precisely, this student, when and if late, would  jump over the walls of his housing complex and land directly onto the school’s grounds. 
I could only think that he knew what he was worth, for all of the percolated trouble that ever involved our class, had those four names written beside it; more specifically, the Guyanese and the short stocky fellow. Yet, their work was always done, something that after all these years I still wonder about. 
	The Young-ing, an innocent feather she was, so happened to one day sit at the desk while she was teaching. Maybe it was the comfortableness of the chair itself, or that the chair presented some discomfort; maybe it was the warmth of country’s weather; or maybe it was the inability to, at that moment, be modest and not the ignorance of knowing how to be; or maybe she was enthralled by her topic at hand. Whatever the reason, she seated herself, and not too far long, fell to the snare left by the room’s designer. 
It was the Guyanese of course, who, as if he was laying in wait, caught sight of that fact. Not able to contain himself, with a yard wide smile and in a no still voice, mouthed “Nice colors Miss.â€ Her focus interrupted, she replied, “Excuse me?â€ “Underwear, nice color underwear,â€ he returned. Instantaneously she crossed her legs then momentarily stood up. “What color is itâ€ he continued; “red, purple?â€ The class began to giggle. She did not reply. Instead, on her face was a look that I am unsure of how to describe. Neither was it embarrassment or disdain nor was it surprise or glee. It seemed as if she was in that moment, quickly calculating what her response should be, (and that was to be expected of course), having been caught in such unfortunate situation. She quickly composed herself, for no long period had passed before she looked directly at the instigator, and without anger, but in a calm voice said, “I can’t believe that you did that,â€ and she continued to teach the class. 
That incident ended whatever notion we had had about the Young-ing right then and there. In an unspoken way, she had earned our respect and trust, and for herself, she had earned her strips. Why was it so, I am unsure. Maybe it had to do with the way that she handled the situation or that we had  came to like her off the bat. Maybe then we saw that she was cool and could role with us not just as students, but understand us as being teenage boys. After all, she was less than ten years older than us. She was fresh out of Teacher’s College. She became a teacher that we appreciated, one who  understood us, a teacher that we were glad to have. Her class was fun to be in. She was fun to have as a teacher.  
As the school year progressed, undoubtedly there were things that took place in and between and of course, the Guyanese was at the center of it all. They weren’t things that required intervention beyond the teacher him or herself. Nonetheless, the class with time had known which teacher we could toy with and who we could not.  As the saying goes, “Duppy know who to frighten. Monkey know which tree to climb.â€
The Young-ing had called the Guyanese’s home one evening concerning a matter we do not know, because he never said. However, he made it know that when he returned her call he spoke with her sister who made it known to him that she was taking a shower. There was no doubt that that statement had his brain working, for when he relate his story he kept emphasis on the fact that the teacher must have been very naked at that time. (If there was any other way to sensibly take a shower in your own home I did not know). As if fantasizing about the teacher was not enough, he copied her telephone number and then tried to offered it up for sale at fifty dollars a pop to the class. Whether anyone actually bought it, I do not know. 
If he ever got an offer, I do not know. What I do know is that he did not graduate with us. He returned to the country of his birth sometime during the year of nineteen hundred and ninety-five. As for the Young-ing, my last sighting of her was at graduation in the year nineteen hundred and ninety-eight. She still then had that sweet scent of innocence upon her, even though by then she was four years ripe with experience. By the time that I shook her hand coming off that stage at the ceremony, I knew for a fact that she had indeed became a Teacher, and I could honestly say that I appreciated her. 
Years later it came to my knowledge that she had ended up marrying one of the many male teachers from our school. That male teacher had taught me Geography during my first year of high school. 
****
THE LETTER

	I delight in literature and would pen those things that fascinated my imagination. I had dreams about being in print one day, but there was a laziness that would sometimes over take both my hand and my mind. During those times when both hand and mind did not betray me, I would bring to paper that which was of interest to myself. Many a paper I would end up ripping apart and throwing away when I thought that my writing lacked understanding. Yet, pen and paper were my outlet, my comfort zone, my "me  time." It had no fear, no identity, no boundaries and relieved the stress for as long and as comfortably as I would allow it.

I was the timid type, and I still am. Yet, I thought it necessary that my feelings be known to the one whom I had felt affection towards. I was too coward to lay wait her in order to express myself. Then again, my thoughts lingered on that supposed slapped across the face that might result from my expressing myself. It is something that I had often seen on tv. Also, if I were to muster the courage to speak to her in the hallways, and it rendered not a slapped across my cheeks, how long would it be before some other person were to pass by, and having to say “hiâ€ to her, interrupt the flow of my words?

 I decided to do the only thing that I knew I was good at, and that was to putting pen to paper. I wrote my heart away, at least, I thought I did; and I did it in the best penmanship that I could. I rechecked every letter, every syllable, every word, every phrase and every sentences. I doted my I’s, crossed all my T’s and curved all my S’s. I wanted to get it all right. The result of my efforts are left below for you to read.

For your eyes only,
This maybe the last time that I might see your face after these long five years. Yet in my heart, time has gone by so quickly, as the years have passed. The fresh scent of shampoo in your hair, from that first day, (when you had stooped next to my desk to pick up the fallen chalk from the floor), still lingers in my senses. The angelic sound of your voice, still echoes in my ear from the first time you had said, “Good morning,â€ and you introduced yourself to the class. Your beauty has not faded with each passing day, each season nor with each passing year. Instead, you have aged backwards; beauty unmatched, unsullied, unflawed, and innocent. 
Though I may look at you, I am careful to not stare directly into your eyes, (for as I am already captured by your whole being), I fear that I may become breathless, actually forget to breath; my breath indeed bequeathing my body, leaving me to slumber in a pit for my bed. 
I often wonder how I could get to know you, not as how teenage boys would think, but as the one to whom you would take his name, and also make it your children namesake. 
	This is as much as I can muster words to say, but I am incline to believe that you will see though the brevity of my words, that which I am showing you, and that is my heart. I am in love with you dearly.

Sincerely.

	I had the confidence to put my initials at the end, but lacked the courage to deliver it myself, on the last day of classes as I had intended to do. My problem got solved when student S decided to pass by me in front of the school’s administrative building.
For one reason or another, he was always either near or found inside of the teacher’s office building. He presented the perfect opportunity, since my timidity had me lingering in front of the building and when not in front, inside its hallways. When I handed him the envelope, I told him who it was meant for. He accepted the task and disappeared behind the office doors. I walked away, fear and joy at the same time both boiled within me. I was fearful that I might be reprimanded on the last day of classes (even though it would not have mattered), and joyed that I was finally able to release the burden from my heart. 
The end of the school day was drawing neigh, and the end of my entire high school years were but a mere hour to its end, except for the graduating ceremony a week later. It was at such time that I was summoned to face the consequences of my actions. Of course the news was delivered by none other than the office lingerer. My beloved was waiting for in on the path that runs from the remodeled and unused tennis court that leads to the administrative building. It was hardy ever used since the majority who walked that way never actually uses the path itself. Rather, they would walked across the grass grounds which proved to be much shorter. I felt numbed in the knees as I stood there facing here, too shy to hold my head up. 
At two in the afternoon, the sun had barely left its high place, moving to settle else where in the sky. Though it was warm, it was not humid. A gentle breeze blew intermittently from the Puncy tree that stood directly across from the front of the office building, old in its architecture, something from the Victorian age. The other flowers and bushes that were about seem to follow the every move of the old Puncy tree. 
	I managed to mumbled the words. “Miss, you called for me?â€ Her back was turned towards the sun and facing me, her faced incandescent. I wondered and was hoping if I was the cause of such radiance. Then again, she was always that way before me. “I wanted you to know that I received your letter,â€ she said, with her head low. “I,â€ she hesitated, as if trying to find the right words to say. “I can see that you have put much thought into it,â€ this time her head was a little higher, “and I appreciate everything that you have said.â€ I stood motionless and silent listening to her melodious and angelic voice. Then that same voice in the next instant, became like a thunderous gong, when she mention that three letter word, “BUT,â€ using it unfavorably towards me. “But, you will find someone your age . . .â€ I heard nothing else that she said after that. Might as well that I had covered my ears or had gone deaf. Neither did I see her then standing in front of me anymore, as if I had succumbed to blindness. Her hand on my shoulder, brought me back to reality, the awareness to where I was and who was before me. How long she had spoken for, I know not. “Ok?â€ she said questioningly, summoning an end to her soliloquy. As if I had swallowed Hemlock, my voice and everything within me was frozen dead. I hardly managed to murmur, “hmmm.â€ She walked off in the direction which she was facing and I did the same in the direction that I was facing, with no where specific to go to. I walked off into the sun on high. I never looked back, and if she did, I do not know. What reason did she have to look back anyways? 
	I tried to reason with myself, telling myself that it was her mistake, that it was her lost. It took time for me to realized that she was being a professional, and a realists. In truth, it was not just the age or wisdom that separated us. It was the reality of things as they were. Our positions did not allow for us to be together. Even if the feelings were mutual, it would be a breaking of the rules. For as the sun never breaks the rule and not shine when it is lit, a charge should never break the rules and go beyond the scope of their practice. As a student, she was charged. Her scope of practice were lessons designed to be taught in the classroom.
Whatever happened to my beloved, I know not. I have not seen her since that day nor have I heard any stories about her. The school still stands, that I know for sure. However, since her name is not on the list of faculty, I will say that she had became like the dust in the wind and blew on by, much like our days as boys at that 




Written in Haven 
