Chapter One

Meghan

 

Finally! The bottom of the last box is in sight! I never realized that moving into a new apartment was such a dreadful task, but seeing the finish line is a powerfully fulfilling moment! As I take the final item, a luxurious cashmere throw-rug out of the box, the temptation to linger over the velvety-soft sensation of the texture within my fingertips is overwhelming. My grandma made it-she was the greatest. She had hand-knit this throw, giving it to me on my twenty-first birthday. It therefore takes a pride of place dressing up the sofa, where its presence will make me feel more at home. I flick it out of its folded neatness with a flourish and drape it across the backrest, fussing with the fringe before mentally addressing my checklist of chores for the day. These boxes need to be tidied away and then I should think about choosing my outfit for tomorrow's first day of classes.

What in the world am I going to wear to class tomorrow? Sighing, I stand looking inside my closet and repeat this question. What is a lecturer supposed to look like? What do I want to project? Confidence, professionalism, maybe a little class. It's important that I come across as an open book, that I am approachable for the students and not cocky or aloof to my peers. It should be neutral, properly fitted and inconspicuous but definitely well put together. Some simple, understated jewelry accentuation, hose and some perfect shoes should meet the approval of those who want to cast an analytical eye on my style and substance.

I love the image of tailored dresses and skirts. Normally, I will compliment them with a suitable scarf or a collared blouse, my hair twisted into a high up-style with some stray wisps left down to frame my face. White gives good impact in a more formal setting, but it is far too distinctive and clinical for my purposes right now. I'm thinking color is a must. Maybe a plain blouse accented with a contrasting scarf? My eyes dart back and forth as if something is going to magically change in this closet. I land on the A-line dress that I made for myself a few years ago. Maybe tomorrow isn't the day to show that side of myself. Heck, that dress has never seen the light of day anyway. I will leave her where she is. My eyes finally gravitate toward a well-cut black pencil skirt. It's near knee-length; appropriate. If paired with a white blouse, some black pantyhose and one of my shiny pairs of pumps, I think some of the men might appreciate that look, the sexy school teacher. Their focus on my psychology lesson may falter as they fail to peel their attention away from my calves. I will be able to see it in their perverted little faces; daydreaming about what they might do to me, rather than tuning into the lesson. Rampant late-teenaged hormones are a powerful handle for manipulation. The perfect set-up for some exam-time torture; just how carefully were you listening, little boys? It's tempting, for sure. I need to make sure I'm taken seriously, though. I laugh at myself for even thinking that far into it.

A few of my blouses are popping out at me, certainly the more colorful ones. Some of them were purchased for special occasions, others more as wardrobe staples. I walk over to the window. The colors of dusk had been beautiful while the last shards of daylight had cast highlights and lowlights across the landscape. The autumn has begun to descend-the maple trees lining my quaint little suburban street are still half-clad, turning all manner of earthy colors, reminding me of flames burning yellow through orange to tinges of red. The sparse leaf litter holds the deeper brick red and brown-toned leaves; they've only just begun to accumulate in piles around the environmental fixtures. I came to the window to admire the beauty of it all; the leaves were swirling and dancing on the delicate whirling breeze like festive autumnal confetti, joyous at finally being freed from the branches that have imprisoned them in servitude over the long, hot summer months. But the sun actually set at least twenty minutes ago while I was reviewing the contents of my closet. I shut the window blinds and return to the closet, mindful that I at least managed to unpack all of my belongings between yesterday and today, so I have one less thing to worry about this week. Now, which of these tops will help me make my big debut tomorrow?

I pull the pencil skirt out of the closet along with a few other skirts and place them on the bed behind me. Reaching back into the closet I fish out my favorites, laying them above the skirts so I can play mix-and-match. This should make the process much easier. I'm well entrenched in my conundrum when my cell phone rings from the living room. Rushing out of the bedroom, I ponder upon who might be calling. It's probably my brother, Thomas - he did mention he'd call, so I remember now. Reaching the sofa arm in the living room, I pick up the phone, confirming my guess as I peer at the smudgy screen.

"Hi, Thomas!"

"Hey there, sis. How have you been?" Thomas has always sounded like such a grown-up, even when we were younger. Well, I guess he always was a grown-up in to my eyes, being seven years older.

"I'm doing pretty well, thanks for asking. How about yourself? What have you been up to?"

"I'm doing great, really. We're all staying pretty busy, as usual. People always have burdens to lift from their souls and we're there to help them out and get our bills paid, of course," he says with a smile in his voice. The "we" that he is referring to is he and my parents. They've been running a pretty successful psychotherapy clinic together, but I uninvited myself from that party. He continues.

"Mom told me that the college is letting you start up your Jiu-Jitsu thing over there, congratulations on that!"

My goodness, how could I have let that slip my mind? I need an outfit for that too, but that will be easy and my "thing" doesn't start until Tuesday. I'm fairly certain that the only reason Greenville College offered me the Psych 101 teaching position is that I have a little experience teaching self-defense. During the interview process, it somehow came up that I used to instruct a women's self-defense course to make a little spending money while I was still an undergrad. I agreed to start the Women's Anti-Rape program from scratch here at Greenville, in addition to my duties to the psychology department.

"Thanks, Thomas. Yeah, the first day of school is tomorrow, and yes, I'll start the W.A.R. classes on Tuesdays, but I don't know how the turnout will be. No one knows what W.A.R. is yet; I don't think the school did much advertising about it."

"I'm sure you'll do just fine. I just wanted to wish you good luck, even though I know my favorite and only sister won't need it. You know Mom and Dad send their best, as always." Actually, I wouldn't necessarily bet money on that statement, but his intent of making me feel a little more confident is accomplished. "Hit me up later on this week, Meg, all right? I love you."

"Love you too, Thomas. I'll let you know how everything goes. Bye!"

I wrap up the conversation a little more quickly than normal so that the guilt trip is avoided. It surprised me that Thomas didn't even take that route, and I almost feel guilty for expecting him to. Being a little defensive with family has become too familiar an emotion in the recent past, as my parents finally came to grips with the realization that I still had zero interest in joining the family practice.

Thomas was the perfect child in our family. He had progressed through our parents' rigorous childhood development strategy; our time was constantly filled with activities and classes and lessons to build us into their perfect likeness. He passed each objective they had with flying colors. His athleticism, his intellect, his compatibility with their ideals all helped him maximize his benefit from the opportunities I know that they worked hard to give us. He graduated at the top of his class at every level. I'm proud to be his sister and I love him to bits, he is my good friend as well as my blood, but sometimes I feel like he and the rest of my family have absolutely no clue who I really am or what I'm about.

Thomas and I have always been very close though very different, bonding over football games and action movies as he essentially tried turning me into the little brother he always wanted. I wouldn't undo any of my fun memories with him, but there are plenty of bittersweet family memories alongside those precious good ones. Of course I wanted to please them, family is everything after all, but I'm not entirely sure that the stork delivered me to the right house on the night of my birth! I feel like my soul is wrapped up in the wrong skin when I'm around them.

Our parents' ideals of who I should or could be were never matched my own entirely. I kept them happy and always toed the family line, dutifully applying my academic efforts to pass the courses prescribed. I achieved highly due mainly to tutoring, constant academic guidance and time governance doled out by my parents and my brother.

So I persisted with their fantasy vision for my life for many years. Did my undergrad psych degree, went on to complete my masters. The PhD was looming dead ahead on my path, and I had planted my feet, brought it all to a screeching halt, finally found the amplitude of voice to get my point across to them clearly-I loathed the concept of my becoming a psychologist! It had taken me until my mid twenties to be able to speak up loud enough to be effectively heard. Finally some self confidence manifested inside me and compelled me to be honest and frank with them. I suppose in their minds it was a bit of a slap in the face that I didn't and still don't quite know what it is I want to do, just that it has nothing to do with them or the family clinic.

My parents were determined that I not let all of the hard work go to waste, leading to their emergency plan; an internship within their practice. They reasoned that it might give me the connection to the reality of the business, that seeing how much influence I could have by helping people to heal mentally would somehow make me fall in love with the idea of more study and becoming a doctor, like them. It was still not what I wanted, but if I was ever to be truly free of this curse, I would need to show them that I had tried in earnest. I knew it would make no difference to my feelings. And so, I interned with them, confirming their worst fears. Their disappointment wasn't quite so bad in the end, after they had some time to adapt to the idea that I maybe wouldn't choose their path as my own. I think it had been a small relief to them that I was at least moving toward academia, applying for teaching jobs in a few colleges.

Greenville was the college to which I had applied that was furthest from home, and subsequently it was the position I wanted the most keenly. My mind was turning cartwheels when I heard I'd won the position! I felt like my life had finally launched, that I was going to be able to explore who I am and what I want to do with my life, that I finally could contemplate looking up the roadmap of life toward where I might want to go. And in that moment, I decided to stop feeling guilty for wanting to live my life for me. These first-year students down here in sleepy little Greenville will be great fun and this job will be a good chance to earn a little money on my way to finding out what or where my future may be. I can't wait to start. I've never wanted a Monday to come quite so much in all my life. I don't imagine that will become a habit!

Taking a glass of water and a notepad, I sit down on the sofa to run through my introduction to my students tomorrow. It is important to make the students feel comfortable with me, but I dread the anarchy of students who don't respect me. I clearly need to take some authority to maintain the sanctity of the learning environment, but not distance myself. The difference in age between us will be small, so relating to their worlds should be fairly easy. Goodness, on the other hand, being perceived as the "cool" teacher might make me appear to be trying too hard, plus they will know I am new. Most of them will be first-year students; a little scared, first time away from home, so they probably won't know to even try to take advantage of me. Still, I need to be prepared for anything and I realize I am not as prepared as I want to be. At the very least, my lesson plan is ready and approved by the department head. Survival to the end of this semester is possible so long as I just stick to the script.

Looking at my wall clock, the only thing hanging on these barren living room walls, I see it's already a quarter after eight. I really want to be in bed by nine so I'm well enough rested to be up and at the science department teacher's lounge area by around 6:30 tomorrow morning. Back in the bedroom, I put away all the clothes that I tossed on the bed, except for the two outfits that stand out to me. Tomorrow morning, the first that jumps out at me will be my outfit. Goodness, I am definitely over-thinking this. If the students like me, so be it. If not, oh well. And who cares about the other teachers? Who am I kidding; I do care. As I sigh and straighten the disheveled bed-clothes, I uncover a DVD case that must have strayed from the pile when I tipped out a boxful onto the bed earlier while unpacking. Mistress Maxine Manipulates His Manhood #7 screams the title. I giggle at the memory of finding this amidst my ex-boyfriend's tiresomely dull collection, and I wonder how it came to be tucked into my possessions. I put it on the dresser and decide to take a shower. It will help me to relax and fall asleep. My nerves are starting to creep up on me. The first day of anything is always the hardest.

It makes good sense to wash my hair tonight. My confidence swells during the day when I can smell the fragrant floral scent of my clean hair and feel its silky softness between my fingers. Finger-combing the wisps of hair that frame my face has always reassured me when I've been in a stressful situation. Nothing feels quite like a fresh, clean start to the week and I don't want to have wet hair as I head out the door tomorrow either. As I massage the shampoo into my scalp, I continue rehearsing my introduction to my students and review my expectations of them. Hello everyone, I'm Miss Meg Hunter and welcome to Psych 101. Gosh, that sounds so cheesy and simultaneously so pretentious...Miss so-and-so. Plus, why does saying my own name make me a little nervous? Hopefully I will get over the fear of appearing like a deer stuck in headlights before class tomorrow.

Stepping out of the shower, I dry my body and wrap my hair in a soft towel. After finishing my hygiene, I head back into my new bedroom. That curious DVD comes into the centre of my field of vision, seemingly calling my name, teasing me from the dresser top. I did put it on one day when my ex was out and I was quite taken with the outfits that Mistress Maxine wore. Corsets, suspenders and killer heels! She had quite a command over the poor guys in the movie-the way she barked orders at them and humiliated them. It had been a surprise that I was so intrigued that I'd made it through thirty minutes. I heard Dale coming through the front door and turned off the DVD before he caught me watching it. He never owned up to any interest in the kind of sex the actors were performing, but I always wondered how he could have come to be in possession of the DVD otherwise. I never brought it up, too afraid of the emotional distance that a confrontation might cause if he were defensive about it. I was glad to see him home that day though, and we went on to have some good sex. Thinking about that, I suppose I do have a little window of time to enjoy one or two of the scenes while my hair dries. Part of me hopes I see someone hot tomorrow so I can imagine him in place of these cheesy actors; I've already semi-muted the sound, thanks to my memory of the atrocious dialogue. Do guys really get off on this? I'll go right to sleep if I manage to orgasm tonight, at any rate, and I have to admit, seeing Mistress Maxine put these guys to use is kinda interesting and hot. After turning off the light, I slide the DVD into the disc player, grab the remote control and crawl under the covers. I fast forward to my favorite scene and make myself comfortable as the action on-screen sends light flickering against the bedroom walls.

"Kiss my feet...no licking, just kiss! Don't miss a single inch...who owns your manhood, slave?"