The classroom was silent save for the rhythmic skritch-skritch-skritch of chalk against blackboard. The creeping late spring heat and the increasingly counterintuitive calculus concepts — not to mention the petite, milk-white body attached to the delicate hand writing out that calculus — all working in collusion to keep the students of Senior Calculus B too tired to goof off. The writing accelerated as the teacher broke the silence, “…which brings us back where we started, the integral of f-x-d-x.”
She placed the chalk down and turned to face the class, pausing quietly while tugging down the raw hem of your denim cutoffs. She looked out across the room, brushed aside a tuft of red hair that had fallen in front of her eyes, and watched as face after face went from an expression of confusion to one of understanding. A collective “Ohhh” made its way around the room.
She looked at the clock and saw some students start to pack up. “Wait!” She interrupted while adjusting the strap of her white tank top. “Even as we’re learning these last new concepts, you need to start reviewing everything you’ve worked on this semester. I’ve been making myself available twice a week after school and only one student has come to review.”