chapter 1

"Abbot," he stated in his deep roll-call voice. The way he said my last name sent shivers down my spine. His voice was authoritative, yet calm. I'd do anything he told me to.

"Here," I said excitedly, raising my hand so he could see me, even though I was in the front row. I could tell he smiled at me.

"Anderson," he continued.

"Here," Harold Anderson said sleepily.

English was the best 50 minutes of my day. I knew all the material, wrote really good essays, and enjoyed analyzing whatever the assigned readings were. The icing on the cake would have to have been Mr. Beckham. He was a younger teacher, at 24, and a graduate of St. Josephine's School for Boys. That was where I went to school; I was a senior.

Mr. Beckham began to discuss the book we'd be reading next. It was a classic text, considered a part of the standard high school literary canon. William Faulkner's As I Lay Dying was a novel known for its stream of consciousness style of prose and multiple narrators. I had read some of his short stories for my English project last year, and I definitely was not looking forward to this novel. Faulkner, in my opinion, was a total snooze fest.

I watched as he continued to highlight themes we should be aware of while reading. Looking at Mr. Beckham talk was wonderful and it never bored me. He had stubble and most often wore sweaters over button down shirts. His khakis hugged his legs in a sexy way. He had a nice butt too. I hated to say I looked at it, but when he wrote on the chalkboard I could barely take notes. The way his hips swiveled with each letter he wrote, his but cheeks stretching the khaki fabric taut. I could tell he'd put on a little bit of "adult weight" following his time in college. His face a little fuller than in the yearbook picture I'd found of him in the alumi library, his stomach protruding a little more than when he rocked a St. Jo's football jersey.

"Well guys, my time is almost up." He glanced over at the clock. There were only two minutes left until lunch. I would've totally taken another class with him if he taught an elective. I wouldn't even know what to do with myself if I had him for more than one period a day.

"Ugh, I bet we have homework," one of my classmates groaned from the back of the room.

"Yeah, Ken, we do," Mr. Beckham said, rolling his eyes at Ken's laziness. I took out my assignment pad, pen posed to catch the prompt. "You are to write a two-page essay on why you think Faulkner uses stream of consciousness in his writing. You need two sources." Easy. "If anyone needs help, I'll be here until four after school." The bell rang. I gathered up my books and headed to lunch.

I was standing in the lunch line, craving fries with loads of ketchup. I was stressed about my language class, which would be directly after lunch. I noticed Mr. Beckham was in line too. He had the lunch special, a pretty big plate of penne pasta and meat sauce. It also came with two breadsticks.

I walked to the register to pay for my fries and Mr. Beckham walked up behind me. I could feel his presence behind me and it was making me hard. I couldn't believe how riled up he made me. "That's all you're getting Ethan?" he asked. I turned to face him. I wanted him to take me in the lunch line, to make an honest man out of me.

I had to remember we were at school and he was my English teacher. He'd probably get fired and that'd suck.

"Oh, yeah," I said. "I'm not all that hungry."

"That wouldn't even fill me up a fifth of the way." I laughed. Mr. Beckham was taller than me. He was around 6'3" and maybe 220 pounds. He had played football here, and he had mentioned offhandedly in class before that he played in college too. The line moved and I walked forward to fill in the gap. "I scarf down my sack-lunch right after you guys leave my room and have to come grab food from here. Teaching makes me hungry, I guess," he said with a laugh. Try as I might to stifle my hard-on, I could feel myself getting a full-fledged erection.

"Uh, that--that book sounds really good," I lied, trying to kill my arousal. If anything was a turn-off, it was Faulkner.

"Yeah, I've read it multiple times. I think you'll enjoy it." He smiled, his slight double chin becoming more prominent. I already knew I'd hate it, but for Mr. Beckham I'd make it my new favorite book.

"I do too." It was my turn in line. I paid the dollar fifty.

"See you later, Ethan," he called as I walked towards the sitting area.

"Se--see you later, Mr. Beckham!" I went to go sit down. I was praying nobody noticed how hard I was.

After school I packed my bag and ran up to Mr. Beckham's room. I was going to talk to him about my paper. It was two forty, and we had just gotten out five minutes ago. "Hi, uh, I'm here about the paper." He laughed. "Oh, am I, uh, too early?"

"No, it's just that--you weren't someone I was addressing when I arranged this. You're probably my best student." I could suck his dick right here. That's all I could think about. Then I'd really be his best student. I took a deep breath.

"Oh, well, uh--," I said, unsure of what to say. My face was so hot. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"You can stay. Although I'm not sure I can help you with much. I'm sure your essay will be perfect."

"Thanks." The heat my face was experiencing intensified. I sat in a chair next to him at his desk and we began to talk about the essay. Funnily enough, that lasted only about ten minutes, before the discussion turned to other things. Once four-thirty rolled around, we realized nobody else had shown up. I thanked him and went out to my car.