Except she’s not a woman.
As a senior, she’s at least seventeen, the legal age of consent. But she’s still a child, ten years my junior, and sexual conduct between teacher and student is punishable by imprisonment, regardless of age.
The notion is sobering, deflating my dick and making it a hell of a lot easier to keep my hands to myself.
Back in the classroom, the students bombard me with questions about the chromatic scale and the circle of fifths. Slowly, my fixation with Ivory slips into the recesses of my mind.
Until the door opens, and her dark eyes instantly find mine.
I continue the lecture as she slides behind her desk, her bottom lip glazed in a sheen of ointment. I don’t give her more than a half-second glance. I’m the adult here, the one in control of our interactions. Ignoring my fascination with her, pretending I don’t want to devour her with my gaze, sets appropriate boundaries. I’m here to teach her, and that doesn’t include instructions on how to properly suck my cock.
To be honest, despite my disgraceful end as Head of School in Shreveport, I’m excited to be back in the classroom. Nothing fills me with a sense of belonging like standing before a rapt audience and commanding attention with the sound of my voice. This isn’t a job. It’s a creditable use of my need to influence and dominate, a place where I can discipline weaknesses, mold trustful minds, and inspire students with my passion for music.
My veins thrum with energy as I listen to the class discuss the application of an invariant hexachord. I straddle a chair at the front of the room, nodding in encouragement and interjecting only when they stray off topic. They look to me for knowledge, shiver beneath my directives, and I get off on it.
This is why I didn’t fight to keep my job in Shreveport. I need this…this freedom to leave all the administrative bullshit behind and focus on my love of teaching.
The class discussion grows in volume, voices clashing, as a debate arises about the use of tone rows. I’m seconds from putting an end to it when Ivory jumps in.
“You guys, ordinary relations of tones are stereotypical.” She furrows her brow. “But you can still obtain an emotional thrill from the music.” She quickly backs up her points with valid examples in Schoenberg’s Concerto for Violin.
Not once does she reference the textbook. Not even as she cites ornamental compositions by opus number. The classroom listens quietly, and by the time the bell rings, she’s brilliantly persuaded the debate.
I find myself…impressed. She knows the material, almost as well as I do. If she plays piano with the same aptitude, I’ll have to punish her just for making me so goddamn enamored.
Her eyes catch mine as the classroom thins out. Five students remain, but I’m too focused on one to make note of the others. There’s something recognizable in her gaze. Distrust? Accusation? Abuse. Whatever she’s exposing is both offensive and haunting.
I harden my eyes, a silent reprimand. She looks away, her emollient-lathered lips rubbing together, as she surveys her peers.
Three boys and two girls make up the senior pianists at Le Moyne, including the hipster fuck, Sebastian Roth. He moved seats between classes, sitting closer to Ivory while leaving a row between them. I’ll let it go as long as he doesn’t look at her, not one fucking glance.
Since the student files didn’t land on my desk until lunchtime, I haven’t had a chance to read them. But I knew the final classes in my schedule would be an intimate group. The perquisites of forking out an expensive tuition are many, all illustrated in Le Moyne’s glossy brochure with an entire page dedicated to its 1:5 teacher-student ratio.
“So this is what Le Moyne’s top pianists look like?” I pitch my voice with doubt, making it clear they’ll have to prove themselves. “You think you have what it takes to become piano virtuosos, composers, professors…something other than privileged, snot-nosed brats?”
Except Ivory. Her tattered clothes and shoes, her inability to buy textbooks, nothing about her reeks of privilege. How does a girl from a poor neighborhood land a spot here? It’s bizarre. And distracting.
Forcing her out of my mind, I stroll along the rows, hands folded behind my back, and study each of the five students without registering individual features. I don’t give a shit what they look like. I’m searching for straight spines, parted lips, and alert gazes.