Mr Peppermint Tea (Teacher x Student oneshot)

Mr Peppermint Tea

Sporadic plops of rain patter against the tin roof of the temporary classroom that's stood next to the old canteen for as long as anybody can remember. I lean my forehead against the cold metal wall – I've been waiting for at least thirty seconds since I knocked, and I'm nervous. Mr Pembrooke must not have heard me. Drumming harder against the door, I yell, "Mr Pembrooke! Let me in, for God's sake."

While I wait, I hug my arms to my chest and stare down at my knees poking out from under my stiff tartan skirt, over my high grey woolen socks. They're knobbly and blotched purple, and shaking a little. For a moment, I feel embarrassed... What could I ask for from a guy like him? A man like him? I'm awkward, nervous, bony-limbed and pimply. I'm seventeen years old. And he's...

Well, Mr Jack Pembrooke is perfect.

Slim and pink-lipped and supple. Curly hair the colour of rich earth. Eyes which, when they look at you, see you – you know the kind of gaze I mean. Warm grey eyes that smile at everything inside of you, even the bits you don't like.

Yeah, alright. I'd be lying if I said I was only half in love with this man, my English teacher.

Finally, the door opens inwards.

"Hallie! I thought I heard a little knock. How long have I made you wait?" 

His voice has the timbre of the low notes of a cello.

He guides me into the room with a hand on my shoulder (my skin prickles even under my blazer) and whisks the door shut behind us. Inside, it is barely any warmer than outside, but at least we're tucked away together from the wind and the rain.

He smiles at me quizzically, "So, Hallie, what brings you –"

"—The book! The, er, you know... you lent it last week..." Realising I've accidentally interrupted him, I start stammering, and mentally kick myself.

"Book?" His face is blank. Then, "Ah yes!"

"I'm sorry... it might have gotten a bit wet out there." I hold the collection of poetry out to him. As he accepts it from me, his hand touches my skin again. It's warm like he's just been cradling a mug of tea. He smells herby and comforting, like peppermint.

"You and your endless apologies..." he laughs, examining the yellowed book. "You've got to realise one of these days, Hallie, that you shouldn't be apologising unless you've done something real wrong. And I can hardly think you're capable of that. Hell, I should be thanking you! It's wonderful when you drop by."

He marches cheerfully off towards his desk, on top of which neat piles of marking lie next to a pencil-box. There, he deftly aligns the thick book along the desk's left-hand corner, stacking the pencil-box on top of it. My god, this man is neat. The soft yet firm touch he uses to nudge the book into place... my god.

We chat for a while about poetry. Outside, everything is dim, all grey skies and rain, except for the green of the trees which is deeper and lusher in the dull light. There's no sounds except rain on tin and our talk; no wind in the dripping foliage of the trees.

It's as if everyone in the school has gone off somewhere, leaving us alone together at last.

As he talks I look at his lips, unkissed by me. When he blinks, I look at his eyelids, which I have never traced with my fingertips. And when he hoists himself onto the desk and crosses his legs at the calves, all I can think of is how I've never trailed my hand along the smooth insides of his thigh, all the way up...

Suddenly – "Shit!" I exclaim.

"What's up?"

"The match...!" I groan, burying my face in my hands. "It's 1:30. The bus to the hockey match left fifteen minutes ago. I can't believe it!"