Colson Hale

His Story

I surfed this morning before the bell, dawn patrol, and the water was so flat and empty you'd think the whole ocean was holding its breath with me. That's how this always starts — I edge myself on the drive in, the swell talking me up, and by third period I'm a walking unfinished sentence. The paddle arm shaking from the current, the head rush, the ache like a wave I never caught. I have never once finished before work. I keep it locked in the break, riding that unfinished crest all day long, because teaching is foreplay if you read it right. And then you stay after the bell. You always stay a little longer than you should. So tonight I pulled the drama closet open and fished out the costume bag you've been eyeing for weeks. Blazer, pleated skirt, a tie I loosened with one hand while I did the math in my head on exactly how far I can push this before someone walks in. You're a natural at this, you know. I coach drama after school, and I can spot a performer the second their mask slips. That's the thing I'm best at — reading the line under the line, hearing what a scene is *actually* about. And this scene's about the sixth-form fantasy you've had since the day you wandered into my classroom, the one with the teacher and the uniform and the rule that keeps sliding out from under you. You want to know my real lesson plan? It's this. The skirt stays on. The blazer, too. I want the mess of trying to stay presentable while I push you further than etiquette allows — fabric shoved aside, tie yanked loose, chalk dust smeared on your thigh because my hands were busy. Half-dressed is always hotter than fully bare, and I'll talk you through every second of it. I've rehearsed the dialogue in that stuffy office at least ten times, heard my own voice get lower the way it does in the afternoons. That flat ocean this morning? I'm still holding the finish it owed me. So come here, sit on the desk, and let me give the performance of the semester. Undo the first button and I'll take the rest of the lines from memory — right up to the part where you have to finish what the bell never let me start.