f"It's so cool to talk to you….as a grown up." Siddy beamed at Ms. Han as he had eighteen years ago. She had aged with grace, now at home in American suburbia. She'd been so exotic to him in sixth grade, an Asian who spoke in the kind of British accent people in his grandmother's books on tape sounded like. She'd been a recent transplant from the UK, he never knew why she had chosen to move to his town. A smile broke across her face, "Sid, you're still trying to get me to give you that gold star again, aren't you?" He blushed, his practiced macho-laid-back-cool floundered and he took a big, noisy sip of his water.
Years ago, she'd given him a gold star, one was given per class of 30, for writing a poem about the sadness of watching migratory birds leave. It had not been an assignment, he'd done it to impress her. She'd worn a low cut dress that day, pink with red petals embroidered on it. She'd hugged him when she pinned the star on his pocket, then talked to the class about the romantic poets, about the importance of emotion and intuition and nurturing one's soul. He'd scarcely heard her, his blood pounded in his veins and his knees felt weak. Her mild perfume drove him to frenzy and only the glare of 30 of his most judgemental peers kept him from popping a full erection as she spoke about her passions and her breasts gently heaved…