Sam was this dashing man, who looked good in almost everything he wore, even in his work uniform. We met in school, he was on the security detail at the school where l I taught French. Police officers are rarely my type, but something about Sam just fascinated me beyond imagination.
“Mademoiselle…” he said before flashing me one of his infectious smiles. It’s pretty obvious that he had heard my students call me that.
“You don’t speak French, do you?” I ask, hiding a smile. My face instantly went flat as I tried to remember if I had properly applied blush. The girls giggled too much today and I knew my make-up must be a miss.
Teaching French wasn’t my ideal job. My professor had made it seem like we’d all land jobs at the embassy or at reputable organizations but none of that has been forthcoming. So when Papa got me this teaching job, I took it with a lot of resentment but it’s been very rewarding.
The flattery from my students got into my head and before I realized it, I had become a little monster. They drag their feet to my lessons, look terrified half of the time and are always looking at their watches. Some of them, Ella for example like me regardless. She thinks that I’m fierce, intelligent and beautiful. She wants to be like me, a French department head, oblivion to the fact that I’m the only French teacher in school.
“No, but I would like to be taught. By You,” he adds. His addition is what distracted me from my self-indulgent thoughts.
“Why me?” I ask, smiling.
“You want to drown in flattery huh?” He asks as he adjusts his grip on his rifle.
“Not so much. I do a lot of that on my own. But I’d like to see you try,” I answer.
The girls are staring at me through the windows. They are unusually quiet, which means that they are most certainly eavesdropping. While we have a respectful teacher-student relationship, I wish we’d have an adorable sisterly relationship, but that would blur the boundaries. So in subtle ways, I initiate these relations through the practical classes we organize.
My lesson today is shooting a make-up tutorial in French. I always have to be the most French I can be. We celebrate the French holidays, I’ve bought perfumes and clothes that are French-y to draw their imagination closer. Undisclosed, is also my intention to learn some make-up tricks from the girls without really asking. I love the thought that I’m the best and they learn from me. They ought to be flattered by how French I make them seem.
“I have a class, we talk later?” I ask hoping that he gives me the answer I want to hear.
“Sure. Can I have your number?” He quips.
“Ooh, I don’t have my phone here!”
“Me neither. I don’t bring my phone to class.” I plucked out a piece of paper from my notebook, scribbled my number and gave it to him. My relationship with Sam started like a high school love on a trip. In the full glare of my students, on school grounds, with cheesy lines.
We started off as friends, meeting up occasionally, pretending to be only interested in French and not the interests of our hearts. This didn’t last any longer, especially after he picked me up from the airport one time when I had travelled, drove me to my house and spent the night. He asked me to be his girlfriend a month after our sexual encounters and it was a bit odd. I guess, being old school, I assumed that by the virtue that we left things at each other’s places, had sex and said sweet nothings to each other, we had automatically become a thing.
I was elated by his gesture and went to share the details of our relationship with my family and close family friends. My parents were particularly pleased by this information and immediately wanted him to come home. See, I don’t know about your culture, but mine forbids a younger sibling from marrying before the older ones. So basically, my baby sister welcomed this information with so much joy, because it was light at the end of the tunnel for her relationship. Her fiancée’ had grown impatient over the years because my family had been asking him to wait.
Sam seemed to want it all; a wife, kids and a home. He talked about it enthusiastically and five months in, I thought we could talk about moving in together. I had changed so much about myself, and broken most of my rules because I wanted to make this work. I wanted this to end in marriage. So that morning, when I decided to surprise Sam at his house just near the police camp, I thought I was making a step in the right direction.
Sam was standing by the door defensively and I thought that we were playing games, until he adamantly stated, “No, you can’t come in. Go back home, I’ll come by later.”
“Why?” I asked, surprised.
“Trust me, you don’t want to see this.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
He looked at me briefly, then moved away from the door. I stuck my head in and I regretted it instantly. One of the girls from the school, who had been suspended was sitting in the chair. The school suspends pregnant students and reconsiders admission after delivery.
“Are you responsible for that?” I ask my hand in my mouth.
“Yes.”
“You are a police officer! Do you know you can be charged for defilement?”
“No, it’s never that serious,” He answers.
“What do you mean?”
“This has happened before, that’s why I was given a transfer. I’ll just sort things out financially with her parents, promise to marry her and all this will be water under the bridge.”
“Sam what? Are you insane?”
“It’s just a minor setback. Besides, you really need me. This relationship means a lot to you, you can overlook any other things.”
“Why do you think I need you, Sam?”
“You are not growing any younger.”
“I’m never marrying a paedophile. To hell with you!”
My family was rather disappointed with the news when I broke it to them, but they all understood my viewpoint. My baby sister had a big, beautiful wedding in December and it’s important to understand that we are all running different races in life. Sam was transferred again because another girl got pregnant by him and they threatened to press charges. Some of my students know about my affair with him, but the respect I command, makes them question the rumours.
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