I Just Don't Understand

The words are twisting. All over the page, letters are jumping like frogs. I can barely understand what’s going on in the book, and I can’t concentrate on Mr. Rodgers’ voice as he reads aloud as well as read along. Giving up, I focus on him, discarding the book o the edge of my desk, open and face down bending the spine open. Hearing the words read out loud makes it all seem so easy: why can’t I read fluently like everyone else? I’m too stupid to manage simple words, how the hell am I in a high level class?

“Dylan, why aren’t you reading?” I say nothing, hoping he’ll carry on reading and leave me alone. It’s too embarrassing explain in front of the whole class. I mean, I can’t read. “Dylan!”
“I don’t want to.” Speak for yourself, mouth. “It’s boring.” Why am I still talking? There’s something wrong with this picture. Namely Mr. Rodgers’ frowning face looming above me. This is one sure-fire way to get me chucked out of English.

“You just need to experience the words for yourself. You can read for us Dylan; it will help
you pay attention.”

Fuck. My hand is trembling as I pick up the book, which makes the words spin worse than ever before. I take my time turning to the right page, but we’re only at chapter two and it makes barely any difference. Should I explain? Should I refuse? It sounds stupid now, but I don’t want to give in. I want to try. Inside I’m hoping for a miracle, that suddenly I’ll see the words clearly and read them out in a loud, confident voice. I can imagine myself doing it; I can hear it in my head.

But it’s all in my imagination. My breath slows, and I begin to pick the words out of the page like a dainty horse dancing through mud. “The.” Pause. “Day was.” Pause. This word is woefully long. “Blinking. Blistering.” I’m not sure how many more sniggers I can take, and Mr. Rodgers' face has softened into a look of pity. I hate him; my anger is growing into a ball of rage I can’t control. “And John didn’t. Didn’t wait for. The river to... slow.”

Sentence one down. Only about a few hundred more to go. “It was still... overflying. Overflowing. And gushing. Because. Because of last night’s ran. Rain.” The class is full out laughing now. I can’t stand this.

“Thank you, Dylan. Nicely read. Megan, you can read next.”

-

Class was over and I was trying to leave without any more laughter. The bravest of the class had begun to imitate me as they were chosen to read. Trying desperately not to let the tears in my eyes fall, I shoved my way past everyone and tried for a mad dash home.

“Dylan!” Brilliant. I stop, and head back to Mr. Rodgers. There’s a glint of steel in my eyes as I glare hard at him and hope he sees it. He obviously does, as he flinches.

"I don't want to read out loud again." My voice is cold, and I'm no longer worried about being chucked out of class. I'd almost enjoy it.

"I won't make you. But you would find it easier if you practiced." Mr. Rodgers' smile is easy and his eyes are shining happily. "I'd love to make it up to you, Dylan. I'll help you practice if you want."

"You've helped enough, thanks." Again mouth, speak for yourself. I should be saying yes and thanking him. Not acting like there's a fish in my jeans.

"Well, I'm here until six on Mondays if you change your mind."

-

I stood outside the classroom door, and I can see him hard at work inside. Its quarter past four and classes have been over for a while now. I shouldn't be here. My parents tried to help me, and they failed. Why should this be any different?

I'm knocking on the door. Knuckles, have you betrayed me too?

Mr. Rodgers looked up, and smiled. "Hey, Dylan. I thought we could start with the book we're reading in class."

"Sure," I sat down in the nearest chair, and allowed him to grab the book from the back of the class. He came back and sat next to me, holding the book between us. His breath was minty and fresh as it brushed past my ear. Slowly I turned to face the book, and stumbled over the first sentence.

It was simple at first really. A brush of hand on hand contact, and I paused in my reading. It was purely accidental, but suddenly my mind was racing. Struggling through the last sentence, my imagination was creating images of us, Mr. Rodgers and me. Lips on lips, bodies pressed together against his classroom wall.

He turned to face me. "What is it that you find difficult?" Concentrating, my traitorous mind thought. Your body is distracting me.

Without thought, I leaned across the table and kissed him. Never softly. Hard and deep, my tongue slipping in to his mouth and running itself across the inside of his cheeks. A quiet moan escaped me, but as quickly as it had began, the kiss was stopped.

Mr. Rodgers pushed me away, leaping from his chair. Glasses askew, he exclaimed, "What the hell do you think you're doing, Dylan?" He stood behind his desk, as if for protection.

"It's hard to concentrate, sir." I did my best to school my face into a relatively neutral face; I was beginning to wonder if I'd ever think before I spoke.

"What the bloody hell made you think you'd get away with that?" His voice was getting angry, and he stood tall and rigid. I couldn't answer. I'd just fucking kissed a teacher, what was I supposed to say?

So I didn't say anything. I simply smiled lightly, and pressed myself against him. "This," I whispered, cupping the large bulge in the front of his trousers. A look of pain crossed his face, but I didn't give him time to think about backing away.

I kissed him deeply for a moment, and then walked calmly out of the room.