Rendezvous

I had no reason for being there so late, not a legitimate one. The school day had ended two hours earlier, and the hallways were cleared by now, not even one student dragging his or her feet. Bus #253 – the late bus – was already gone, and so I was on my own. Home was close, but too far to walk.

Miss Dupre – my French teacher – spotted me in the corridor after locking her office door. She’d already driven me home countless times in previous weeks, and I was positioning myself for yet another late day ride with her.

My missed the bus stunt was an effective one. A game that I’d been playing intermittently for several weeks, when having the hankering for some one on one with Miss Dupre. And you could say that she exploited my game, using it as a means to her own end: teaching me conversational French. Others would perceive this as a punishment, but not me, the shy Isaac Finkler. I was smitten with the teacher, and would do anything for a bit of time with her.

“What are you doing here so late, Isaac?” she asked with a bemused exuberance, as if anticipating something extraordinary through my explanation, en français!

Miss Dupre was like this with other students as well. She loved teaching and was overjoyed when a student was able to communicate fluently via French. You could say it aroused her senses and heightened her emotions, transporting her to another place. You could see it written all over her delicate face. And so just like in class, I was expected to speak everything in French, even in the corridor. That is what the lady wanted, both for teaching purposes and her own love affair with the French language.

But this time, something was different. Her usual display of enthusiasm was over the top on this day, creating butterflies inside me, goosebumps upon me. I’d positioned myself for rides before, but maybe the tenth or eleventh time was a charm, pushing me over the edge into another category for her: maybe teacher’s pet, or being too cute for my own good, or something else that turned up the emotional volume inside of her.

The truth being that I’d been spending an inordinate amount of attention on her while others couldn’t care less. I’d been following her like a hawk around the classroom, always trying to catch a glimpse of her from every angle, not always appropriately to be honest, but nothing too bad. Sometimes, her peripheral vision caught me in the act, and she’d turn and give me a wry smile in response, sending a blush northward on me, from toes to ears, humiliating me in front of observant classmates who pointed me out.

But you know, I truly struggled to speak the language as well as others, maybe more for Miss Dupre’s sake, despite being laughed at by classmates. It was more than a childish crush. I wanted to bring her some happiness through the language, even though I’d been doing a lousy job at it. I think she was aware of my effort, considering it a noble cause of some kind, even romantic on some level, finally drawing her focus to me on this particular day, long ago.

I felt a vulnerability to her focused attention though, especially on this day. And once again, that flustered, uncontrollable blush had quickly spread from my neck to my ears, worse than ever, unintentionally baiting her maternal instinct and feminine wiles towards me. And before I could explain myself, she inquired, “Isaac, are you not feeling well today? Your neck and face are very flushed! I’m a bit concerned.”

“I feel okay, Miss Dupre, just a little warm.” I tried to look down at the floor, since the blush was progressing to a degree I’d never experienced before. My entire body was heating up and reddening out of control.

Miss Dupre quickly lowered her leather tote bag to the floor, unbuttoned her overcoat, and leaned in towards me, cradling my face between her soft, warm hands, and then quickly shifting her right hand flat against my forehead, leaving her left hand to gently fall upon my shoulder. I stood there helpless, fixated on her shifting facial expressions, which alternated between concern and compassion – a thing of beauty in itself. I’d become a nervous but willing hostage to this unanticipated moment of intimacy between us.

“You are a bit warm, Isaac. Not too warm though. I’m concerned about that flush though. What causes such a thing? How about a cold wet cloth to cool you down, young sir?”

“No, that is okay Miss Dupre. I flush like this often. It is no big deal. I’m sorry for worrying you.” I grinned sheepishly and unintentionally, giving myself away.

“Well, if it doesn’t bother you Isaac, then I’m okay with it too. No need to fret over it. How about that?”

She kept a straight face, which was a kindness to me, causing me to ache for her gentle compassion even more. I was beyond embarrassed though, since I knew that she’d connected my flushed appearance to my emotional state. My feelings for her had been outed, probably because of that stupid sheepish grin, but she quickly changed the subject, which I thought cleared the space for me to recover a bit of dignity.

“Okay then Isaac, let us get back to some French. Please tell me, why are you always missing your bus?”

I looked up with my red face, noticing that her straight face had transformed into a mischievous smirk. I was so outed, and now she wanted me to out myself further, en français! I began mumbling in English that I had no timepiece, confusion over the bus schedules, and a jumble of other excuses before she stopped me mid-sentence with, “en français, Isaac!” Her smirk lingered and her eyes were now fully animated, like being both amused and romanced by a display of fireworks.

Oh Miss Dupre, I’m too confused to speak French like the other students. I need special attention, extra help. After school help! A ride home everyday too!

That is what I wanted to say, but those words never left my mouth. Instead, I continued my poor, confused, helpless student routine: nervously babbling and stuttering something that remotely resembled French, sometimes choking on my words, while the late day shadows slithered up the corridor, about to cover us like a blanket, making the moment feel even more intimate or dangerous. In fact, both of our shadows had almost merged together on the floor, making us look as if we were in an embrace. We simultaneously caught the sight of it.

“How about that?” she said. And when I turned towards her, her smile was fully engaged, with all the warmth she could muster through it. And I spontaneously smiled back, from ear to ear. No sheepishness this time.

I could have kept staring at her without speaking anything more, French or otherwise. But Miss Dupre continuously prodded me for a complete, grammatically correct sentence, en français, sometimes gesticulating with her mouth, as if lip reading would take me there.

“You can do this, Isaac,” she said two or three times, nodding affirmatively.

So much positivity and support on her end, but this was no time to take shortcuts by giving in too quickly. The ride was the goal. Calling mom to pick me up wasn’t. And so I stopped mid-sentence, feigning complete defeat, appearing frustrated by my inability to articulate, en français. Two teardrops glistened upon me, one for each cheek: crocodile tears I suppose, but maybe not, since I was feeling so emotionally stirred up.

“Oh Isaac, don’t cry,” she said. “You are an intelligent young man who needs a bit more faith in himself. You can do this!”

“Okay Miss Dupre, I will keep trying.”

“Not today,Isaac. It is late, time for both of us to head home. Tomorrow is a new day for us to work on your French.”

I nodded in agreement, keeping my head hung low for effect and out of embarrassment, as the blushing had not fully worn off just yet.

And Once again, Miss Dupre offered to drive me home, and I accepted, knowing full well that she would lure me into conversational French during the ride, as failure was never an option for her, and that was the unstated deal between us: an exchange of education for a ride with my gorgeous French teacher whom I was crushing on. A good deal for 20 minutes of unimpeded viewing of her long, shapely legs; inhaling her soft fragrance; and being within an intimate earshot of her playful French accent, something the other students were not privy to. Although, like I said, it was more than just infatuation, or that is what I thought back then. I wanted to be with my French teacher, even if doing nothing but sitting with her, watching our shadows merge together, or whatever.

Miraculously, my French speaking skills dramatically improved by leaps and bounds, especially by the halfway mark of our short ride. The experience of this day had transformed me, unlike past rides with Miss Dupre. And the improvements to my language skills accumulated with each successive ride we would take together. She’d become my French muse, inspiring me to speak like a Laureate of French poetry, my progress becoming the envy of my classmates. Poetic justice I suppose – no pun intended.

Our rides together became quite regular for the remainder of the school year, and full of smiles, giggles, flirtatious adjectives, and more blushing – sometimes on both ends! And all of this en français! The teacher/pupil relationship had crossed into another category altogether, something akin to a French suitor courting a French madame through the magic of language itself. So much fodder for the fantasy life of a young man, and no better way to learn a foreign language and get a lift home!

© 2021 David M. Rubin. All rights reserved.