Sixth period arrives, and I give the study hall monitor— a cranky, quirky dude named Mr. Christ (not pronounced like Jesus, but rather like it rhymes with mist)—my pass. He examines it closely, and he even smells the note.

“Hmm. Just so you know I’ll be checking with Mr. Samuels to make sure you arrived, and not only that but at what time you arrived and what time you leave his classroom.” Mr. Christ stares at me like I’m a criminal trying to impersonate someone else. God, dude, I’m leaving study hall not prison. He’s so weird. 

Slowing down as I approach Mr. Samuels’ classroom, I think about what it would be like for a teacher to date my mother. I’m no expert on dating, but Mom does need something. She works hard, and she sees some friends maybe one weekend a month. We used to be a lot closer when I was in grade school. It’s not that I don’t want to hang out with her. It’s just that I usually have other things on my mind.

Like watching Love, Simon over and over again. Or doing Google image searches of the actor (in incognito mode, of course), hoping he’ll be shirtless, and wondering what it would be like if he touched me.

Don’t start thinking about that now, or you’ll need to walk down the halls with a notebook over your crotch. 

Mom needs someone other than me, but does it have to be my teacher? God, what if he slept over? That would be so freaking awkward.

I open his classroom door. He sits at his desk and drinks a Diet Coke. “Afternoon,” he greets me.

“Hey,” I say.

“Want a soda?”

“Sure.”

“I’ve got Diet Coke and Mountain Dew. Most afternoons I have one Diet Coke. But when I need an extra kick, I reach for a Dew.” He smiles at me, and it’s weird having an adult who is my teacher trying to talk casually with me. He folds a red grading book shut and places it on top of a stack of papers. Pushing those to the side, he looks at me, waiting for a response. 

“Mountain Dew, please,” I say.

He hands me one, and I pop the can and take a big gulp. “You’re a very polite young man,” he says.

“Thank you, sir.” I don’t tell him why—Mom wanted to raise a son that wasn’t like his deadbeat father.

“How’s wrestling going?” he asks.

Is that what he wanted to talk to me about? 

“It’s rough.”

“It would appear so, by the looks of you,” he says. His lips form a tight line. 

“Yeah, and it’s only been two days.” I take another gulp of Dew. 

“Your mother clearly doesn’t like wrestling,” he says, lacing his hands together and putting them on the desk. It’s classic teacher-conference mode. Suddenly, I’m nervous like I’m being questioned for doing something bad. My leg bounces. 

“It sounds like you don’t either,” I add softly. 

He nods, unlaces his hands, and taps his fingers on the desk. “I enjoy wrestling for entertainment. I grew up in the days of Hulk Hogan, you know. That was story and show, just entertainment. But this kind of wrestling—well, it’s more about fighting than sport, it seems to me,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “And it’s certainly not about entertainment, unless—”

He doesn’t finish his thought, and I don’t understand the difference. “What do you mean? What’s the difference between fighting and sport?” I ask.

His forehead crinkles, and he scratches his chin. “Sport’s about discipline and growth.”

“Krake is all about discipline,” I say. 

“Yeah, not that kind of discipline. I guess, I would say discipline is about improving who you are without hurting anyone else.” He crosses his arms, and I realize that he’s nervous, too. It makes me relax a little, seeing his hands move from one position to another. “If you have to hurt someone to improve who you are, then that’s not sport. That’s another form of bullying.”

“Then how is wrestling a sport?” I ask.

“It is a sport. I don’t mean to say that.” He breathes heavily through his nose and takes a sip of his Diet Coke. “I’ve said too much already. Never mind that.”

“Do you mean—” I can’t think of the words, but I picture Tanner and the varsity team hurting Mateo and me, Logan laughing and then kicking me in the stomach. Coach Krake breathing like a bull, teaching us tricks to keep our opponents down on the mat, and ridiculing me. “Do you mean, like, it’s more about how the sport is coached? Like there are people who are in it for the wrong reasons? Not for sport, but to hurt people?”

“Exactly,” he says. “You’re a bright kid. I won’t tell you what to do, outside of this classroom anyway.” He cracks a smile. “But be careful. Kids become who their mentors are. You know what I mean?”

“I think so.” I finish my Mountain Dew.

“But I didn’t bring you here to talk about wrestling,” Mr. Samuels says.

My stomach drops. 

“I came here to make sure it’s not weird if I take your mother out,” he says. “On a date.” 

“It’s definitely weird.”

He chuckles. “Okay, maybe that was the wrong word choice.”

“It’s funny that even English teachers use the wrong words,” I joke.

He laughs harder at my comment than he should. “Yes. We are fallible, as much as I’d like to think otherwise.”

I don’t know what fallible means, but I smile.

“What I mean to say is—I’d like to take your mother out on a date. I know it will be weird. But I don’t want it to be—” His lips tighten and his eyes narrow. “—inappropriate. I know it will be strange, but will you be okay with it, Aiden?”

He didn’t have to ask how I feel about it at all, and it definitely earns him points. It seems that most adults do what they want without asking how others feel, especially teenagers. I think about everything. Mr. Samuels has been a nice teacher and a good guy. 

“It’s okay with me,” I tell him, thinking about all the extra time I may have to do internet searches in private.

“Excellent. So, what can you tell me about your Mom? Favorite foods, favorite things to do, that kind of stuff?”

“You tell me how much extra credit I get for answering, and then we’ll talk.”

Mr. Samuels tilts his head back and chuckles. It’s a nice, deep laugh. “How about I provide you with a Mountain Dew anytime you need one?”

“All right,” I say, and I tell him a bit about Mom.