“Miss Marsh?” Ellen raises her hand at her desk.

“That’s looking good,” I tell her when I come around the room to her seat.

“I can’t find a mouse. I looked through all these.”

At her feet there’s a pile of mangled magazines and torn loose pages. All month Mrs. Gardner and I scoured Hastings for unwanted magazines. Doctors’ offices, libraries, used bookstores. Thankfully there’s always someone trying to pawn off thirty years of National Geographics and Highlights. Trouble is, when you’ve got more than twenty kids all reading about a mouse, the rodent supply tends to get a bit thin.

“What if we draw a mouse on some colored paper?” I suggest.

“I’m not good at drawing.” She pouts, shoving another stack of loose pages to the floor.

I know the feeling. As a kid I was a high-strung type-A perfectionist who tended toward the self-critical. I’d get a grand design in my head and then lose my shit when I couldn’t materialize it into being. I’ve been banned from several pottery-painting places in Cambridge, in fact.

Not my greatest moment.

“Everyone can be good at drawing,” I lie. “The best thing about art is that everyone’s is different. There are no rules.” I pull out some fresh sheets of colored paper and draw a few simple shapes as an example. “See, you can draw a triangle head, and an oval body with some little feet and ears, then cut those out and paste them together to make a collage mouse. It’s called abstract—they hang stuff like that in museums.”

“Can I make it a purple mouse?” Ellen, the girl wearing a purple hair scrunchie and purple overalls with matching purple shoes, asks. Shocking.

“You can make it any color you want.”

Delighted, she gets to work with her crayons. I’m moving to another desk when a knock sounds on the classroom door.

I look over to see Conor peeking through the window. He’s picking me up today, but he’s still a few minutes early.

He pokes his head inside as I walk over. “Sorry,” he says, glancing around. “I was just curious what you looked like in a classroom.”

There’s been a lightness to him this week. He’s smiling again, always energetic and in a good mood. It’s a nice side of Conor, even if I know it can’t last. No one is this happy all the time. And that’s okay. I don’t mind grumpy Conor, either. I just can’t help taking pleasure in knowing some part of his positive attitude is because of me. And sex. Maybe mostly sex.

“Am I different?” I ask him.

Conor gives me a lingering examination, from top to bottom. “I like your teacher clothes.”

I won’t lie, I did go a bit overboard at the start of the semester with a whole Zooey Deschanel vibe. Lots of retro skirts and primary colors. I guess in my head that was the part I wanted to play, because it’s important when you walk into a room where you’re outnumbered by tiny creatures twenty-to-one that you display confidence. Or they’ll eat you alive.

“Yeah?” I say, doing a little twirl and curtsy.

“Mmm-hmm.” He licks his lips and shoves his hands in his pockets, which I’ve come to learn is his way of trying to hide a semi while he’s thinking dirty thoughts. “You’re keeping that on when we get home.”

That’s another thing that’s crept into our vocabulary. Home. His place or mine, when we’re going to either one, or spending the night, it’s always home. The distinction between them has blurred.

“Miss Marsh,” one of the girls calls to me. “Is that your boooooyyyyyyfriend?”

The rest of the class answers with oohs and laughter. Fortunately, Mrs. Gardner is out of the room or I would’ve made Conor leave, asap. This close to my final evaluation I can’t have her thinking I’m not focused on the kids.

“Okay,” I tell him, “get out of here before Ms. Caruthers next door calls security on you.”

“See you outside.” He plants a kiss on my cheek and winks at the kids watching us.

“Go.” I all but slam the door in his face, smothering a smile.

“Miss Marsh has a boyfriend, Miss Marsh has a boyfriend,” the kids chant, growing louder and more excited in their taunting.

Dammit, if they keep this up, Ms. Caruthers will come storming in to complain about the noise. I hold my index finger to my lips and raise my other hand. One by one each student mimics the pose until they’re all silent again. Just call me the kid whisperer.

“Mrs. Gardner will be back soon and the bell’s about to ring,” I remind the class. “You better be done with your collages or there won’t be any smiley faces going on the chart today.”

At that, their heads snap down and they furiously return to cutting and pasting. They’re only a few days away from earning a pizza party if they maintain their positive behavior streak. And I’m only a few days from passing my co-op evaluation if I can keep them docile. We’re all slaves to the system.

I don’t know what’s gotten into Conor today, but even on the drive to his place he can’t keep his paws to himself. Driving with one hand, his other finds its way under my skirt, up my thigh, and then he’s rubbing my pussy while I clench my teeth and try not to alert the dude on a motorcycle who pulls up next to us at a red light.

“Pay attention to the road,” I tell him, even as I open my legs wider and slouch in my seat.

“I am.” He presses his fingers against my clit, rubbing through my panties.

“Pretty sure this counts as distracted driving.” I want his fingers inside me. So badly that my chest aches with the tightness growing in my muscles. My eyes fall closed as I imagine grinding on his hand while his teeth tug on my nipples.

“I’m always distracted when you’re sitting there.”

When we make it to his house it’s a mad dash to his room. His roommates aren’t home yet, so hopefully we have some time to play before they show up.

Conor barely shuts his door behind us before he’s pushing me up against the wall and prying open my cardigan. He doesn’t open it all the way, just leaves the last few buttons intact to spread my sweater around my cleavage.

Fine. Maybe I wore this today just because I know he likes it.

Conor licks and kisses across my collarbone, then slowly pulls down one bra cup to expose my breast, while squeezing and massaging the other. He licks my nipple, sucking. My thighs squirm with the need to feel him inside me. I wrap one leg around his hips and grind on his thick erection.

“You’re so damn hot,” he mutters, yanking my bra farther down to suck on my other nipple.

He presses himself against me, urgent and hungry. Then I feel him working to free himself from his jeans. He opens them just enough to pull out his cock, which he holds in one hand while rubbing the tip against my pussy.

“There’s a condom in my pocket,” he mumbles.

I find it and rip it open, then roll it down on his dick. Bringing his mouth to mine, he kisses me deeply as he tugs my panties to the side. A happy, relieved moan escapes my throat when he enters me.

Conor fucks me against the wall. Gently at first, letting both of us get used to this position. Then harder, deeper. My hands tangle in his hair, nails digging into the back of his neck to hold on. He wraps one arm under my leg to bring it up higher and open me wider for him. Every thrust causes a burst of pleasure to cascade through my body. I lose control of my voice, overcome by the intensity.