pokello and stunner

We eventually pried ourselves out of bed, performing a much-needed changing of the sheets and then trooping into the bathroom together, taking care of the necessaries and enjoying a soft, playful shower. It was a little bit crowded, with all three of us in there at once, but I loved every moment of it, and we only came out again once we ran out of hot water and Mom and I had started to shiver from the cold. We dried each other off, snuggling and warming up, then climbed into bed, Mom insisting I take the middle.

“He—” I croaked, my throat dry and scratchy, a foreign, slightly bitter taste on my tongue. “Help!” My voice was so weak and thready, there was no way anyone would hear me, not through what I was now recognizing as sound-proof padding on the walls. What had happened to me? I couldn't remember. I didn't know where I was, had no idea why I was here.

Mrs. B. was a great teacher for 10th grade English. Funny, engaging, personable—and a bit flirty. She was in her late-20s, just a couple years out of The University of Michigan, cute, nice body and flaming red hair that cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. She knew the boys all lusted after her and she did nothing to discourage our interest. Students even gave her a nickname, “Bubbles.” The administration was not pleased, but Mrs. B. didn’t seem to mind. She liked the attention. Oh, and I think that we actually learned a lot of English Lit between the horsing around.