Chapter 33

When I wasa junior in high school, I found myself in danger of failing trigonometry.

Trigonometry is hard. The entire concept of sines and cosines just didn't make a lot of sense to me. My parents hired a tutor, some eighty-year-old walking skeleton of a woman, but each session just confused me further. What can I say—I suck at math. I kept getting my exams back full of red pen marks, and I started to worry about how I was going to get into a decent college with an F in trig.

Harvey Pritchett was my trigonometry teacher. Mr. Pritchett was a short, balding, unattractive, middle-aged man who waddled instead of walking. He was married, probably to a short, unattractive, middle-aged woman. He left a sticky note on my second midterm exam (with my spectacular grade of thirty-eight out of one hundred), saying, "See me after class."

When I saw the note, I cried. I was not exactly a picture of confidence back then. I had zero friends, sucked at sports, and wasn't really into extracurricular activities. I dressed in frumpy sweaters and baggy jeans and grew my hair out to hide the zits on my face. I had tiny little mosquito bites for breasts, and I was so skinny that you could make out every single one of my ribs and pelvic bones. I was the kind of girl that the popular girls would point at and laugh.

Anyway, trig was the last class of the day, so after the other students filed out of the room, I trudged up to the front of the classroom to face Mr. Pritchett. I was terrified. I hugged my textbook to my chest, my dark hair nearly obscuring my eyes.

Mr. Pritchett sat atop his desk in a gesture that I guessed was supposed to seem casual and friendly. Perspiration stained his armpits and formed a little line on his brow.

"Rachel, I've noticed you're struggling in the class," he said.

"I guess so," I said quietly, hanging my head.

"Is there anything in particular that you're having trouble with?" Mr. Pritchett asked.

Yeah, everything.

"I don't know."

"I'd like to try to help you, Rachel," he said, "but I feel like you're not trying yourself. I hate to tell you this, but if you don't bring up your grades significantly, I… I'm going to have to fail you."

I had never failed a class before in my life. As much as I tried to stop them, a minute later, I had tears streaming down my face. Mr. Pritchett, looking very uncomfortable, patted my shoulder in a lame "there, there" gesture. It wasn't enough. I collapsed against his desk, sobbing into my hands. His arms slid around my shoulders and then…

Later on, Mr. Pritchett tried to say that I initiated the kiss. But that's total bullshit. After all, I was just a shy, innocent young girl. In any case, Mr. Pritchett couldn't argue that I added some excitement to his gray little life. After all, how many other short, balding, middle-aged teachers got to make it on their desk with nubile sixteen-year-old girls?

Before Mr. Pritchett, I had never even kissed a boy before. I had a few very mild crushes on boys, but nothing to write home about. There were times when I thought I might be a lesbian, although I realized I didn't have much interest in girls either. But my relationship with Mr. Pritchett was never about love—I never had an ounce of feelings for him, aside from perhaps pity and disgust. Physically, he was repugnant. He had a beer belly, he was sweaty everywhere, and he was covered in a thick layer of graying hair. When he was inside me, there were a few moments when I was so disgusted, I thought I might vomit.

But I did what I had to do. I couldn't fail trig. My next exam came back with an A circled on the top, even though most of the answers were still wrong.

I wish I could say that was the last time I slept with a teacher for a grade, but it wasn't. Once I did it and got away with it, it was hard to stop. You'd think most professors would be protective of their reputations and their marriages, but it's scary how easy it is to seduce them.

Some of them know my game right from the start—that's the easiest. But some of them think that I really like them, that I honestly have feelings for them. One or two pathetic losers even cried when I threatened to turn them in. But eventually, every single one of them gave me what I wanted.

And so will Dr. Matthew Conlon, even though he doesn't know it yet.