Walking down the hallway of the main building, I count down the seconds to when I will finally reach my office door. My legs move steady. Fast. But not too fast. I don’t want to draw any attention to my haste with an outright semi-jog.
The gold plate on the mahogany door up ahead details my position and my name. The calligraphy letters were getting more legible with each step I took. Soon I will be in the safety of my office. Safely away from…
The man in question is the new science teacher I hired two months ago at the high school where I am principal. The mocha-skinned man had more muscles than I have ever seen on anyone. Not even the gym teacher had that many muscles.
The man must pump iron in his sleep.
Okay, poor choice of words. I definitely don’t want to associate that particular verb and that particular noun with the science teacher. Doing so makes my body get hot all over again.
Is thirty-five too soon for menopause?
No, that can’t be it. Hormonal hot flashes don’t come with tingles. And I have plenty of them right now in my heightened state of arousal.
When I finally reach my office, I summon up a smile to give my secretary as I pass by and quickly slip into my inner chambers. I can only hope she didn’t notice how red my cheeks are.
Closing the door behind me, I lean against it for support. My breath comes in short bursts, as if I’d just run a marathon.
As I take in deep breaths to calm down, I can’t believe what just happened in the detached science building. I can’t believe that I allowed it to happen.
I’m a married woman for goodness sakes!
Yet I hadn’t acted like a married woman ten minutes ago. Nor a respected educator, responsible for fifteen hundred teenage minds, for that matter. Ten minutes ago I was kissing the science teacher…with gusto.
I couldn’t even remember my husband’s name ten minutes ago, much less my own. Now I remember his name in living color, along with the names of our three children. With those memories come shame and so much guilt.
How could I do that to my husband?
He is such a good man. A good husband. An exceptional father to our children. A strong provider and from a good family. Plus, I really do love him.
Not only that, but what about all the teenagers, support staff, and other educators that look up to me? How could I forget my esteemed position at this school? My upstanding reputation in society?
Because I’m still stuck in high school myself, I silently deduce as I make my way over to my black high-back chair and sit down with a plop.
Although I didn’t meet the science teacher until recently, I knew someone just like him during my own high school years. A highly intelligent mocha-skinned male someone with muscles galore. For privacy’s sake, I can only tell you that his first initial is a K.
K not only believed in me enough to encourage me to go after my dream of being a teacher, but he also overlooked our cultural differences when he pursued me romantically all those years ago. I willingly gave him my virginity in our twelfth grade year, albeit secretly since no one in our small southern town knew we were even dating at the time.
The science teacher hadn’t cared about me being white a few minutes ago either. All he’d seen was a desirable woman. A woman whose subtle, yet searing looks over the last two months had made him feel that it was all right to cross over into forbidden territory. A woman who didn’t back away or run away when he crossed those lines today, but instead crossed a few lines herself.
By now you must think I’m a bad person. I hope not. I hope you see that I’m human just like everybody else, thus subject to like passions and temptations.
I also hope that you are able to look past my flaws enough to help me today. I need advice on what I should do now that I’ve opened up this Pandora’s Box. I desperately don’t want things to turn out as bad as they did when everybody found out about K and I. I still hear nasty things from reluctant-forgetters whenever I visit my hometown now. And this is despite the fact that I am married to a white man and have done quite well for myself as a whole.
How can I keep history from repeating itself in totality? How can I keep from hurting my husband, my children (including the ones I didn’t give birth to), my colleagues and my career even further?
– ‘Polly’ the Principal
Photo Credit and link:
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Although this is a fictional story, it was inspired by a true sex scandal that rocked a small southern town. Click on the following link to read it for yourselves: http://www.wrdw.com/schools/headlines/35779494.html
When I first got wind of that scandal, I felt so bad for the students at the school, the principal’s husband (if she had one) and any children they might have had, and also the principal herself (who just so happens to be Caucasian).
Though I felt bad for the other woman (an African-American), who was also having an affair with the same black male staff member at the school, my sympathy for her didn’t linger for very long. Why? Because it was she who grew scornful and exposed everyone with malicious intent.
Now numerous lives are torn apart, careers are destroyed, including her own, the children at the school are devastated, and that local school system is currently being seen as a joke. All because of this woman’s scorn.
As I read various accounts of that story, I kept thinking that things didn’t have to turn out that way. That so much of what happened could have been avoided if the key players in the sex scandal had simply sought advice from WISE souls…and followed that advice.
Telling this fictional story from the Principal’s point of view was my way of trying to understand possible reasons behind her bad decision. It was also my attempt to keep stuff like this from happening again by offering sage advice (from myself and hopefully a myriad of others) to those in similar situations…BEFORE things spiral out of control like they did in the real account.
I can only hope and pray that the advice that is given for this post will be useful and timely to someone (regardless of gender, race, age, or sexual preference) who may find him/herself in the same sticky situation.
© 2008 by Suprina Frazier