“Blood, sex, and death.” The holy trinity of every Gothic horror novel, according to Mr. Fitzgerald. He was the high school literature teacher I hopelessly crushed on, and I couldn’t help but notice his eyes lingering on me when he said that second word.
I was a senior back then, about to graduate. The spring when my classmates were perpetually tuned out during class, with only the summer ahead and college on their minds. But I still had unfinished business here, and this day in May he wore a light blue button-up and chinos just snug enough to drive my imagination wild. When he perched on the edge of his desk reading from The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, I let my eyes wander up and down his body, picturing his skin on mine. By then I’d dreamt up this sultry side to him, one he hid away at work, but which made him all the more irresistible . . .
He was the new cute teacher this year, fresh out of college, the one the girls whispered about between classes. For a while, I tried to pretend I wasn’t one of them – after all, how cliched is it to have the same crush as everyone else? Yet his charm was undeniable. Intimidating, even. And by God, who else could make the classics so sexy?