47 Miles

Content Warning: This story contains themes of a sexual nature, including ephebophilia (sexual attraction to teenagers). Some scenes include male masturbation. There are also themes of implied and/or potential violence and sexual abuse towards a teenager. Please read this story with caution.

Disclaimer: I do not condone sexual acts towards anyone who does not consent or who is below the age of consent. This story is a work of fiction, and it is not meant to portray the protagonist as a “good guy” at all. He is not a good guy.

Your students love you because you don’t enforce the dress code. Under your authority, girls can hitch their skirts halfway up their thighs and pull their shirts halfway down their chests. Under your supervision, they’re free to flaunt themselves, like peacocks fanning their tails in the hopes of attracting a mate. Through their provocative clothing, they’re advertising themselves: I am what you want, they say, take me. And even though you know these advertisements, these flagrant mating displays, are meant for their peers – immature, adolescent boys – you can’t help but think they must be meant for you, too. You can tell by the way they swing their hips as they walk past, by the way they lean forward on their desks when you talk to them, making their breasts all but fall out of their tops; but what really gives it away is their eyes, that special little twinkle that lights them up whenever they look at you. It’s a twinkle that says, I bet you could do things to me that these boys can’t even dream of. And you could.

When school lets out you go to the bowling ally or the mall or the pizza place across the street from the school. You make sure to stagger your hunting grounds, not going to any one place too many times in a row so your students won’t think it’s not just random chance when you run into them. They’re always surprised to see you. Pleased. Happy to see you outside of an academic setting. What are you doing here? they ask. Oh, you know, you say, when you live alone… You’re careful not to let them catch you staring. Sometimes you risk casual contact: a hand on the arm as you say, It’s so nice to see you outside of the classroom; tucking a strand of hair behind the ear, Sorry, but it was hiding your eyes. The genuineness of your tone flatters them. They can tell you see them as adults, as equals. They feel grown up.

At home, you relish in the fantasies you stave off during the day. You think about silky hair and smooth flesh. You imagine caressing that soft skin, breathing in the delicious scent of strawberry shampoo. Sometimes you watch DVDs. You have a wide selection, but they all share the same basic elements: a uniformed girl desperate to boost her grade or caught in some illicit act – cheating on a test, smoking pot in the bathroom – and a man just like you telling her he’s going to teach her a lesson. It’s easy to pretend that the girls in the videos are your students; you don’t pay much attention to faces. After all, they change every year. It usually doesn’t take too long before you’re dumping a wad of tissues in the trashcan. You spend the rest of the night grading papers or working on lesson plans. You retire each night at eleven o’clock. You tap the top of the television twice as you move from your desk to the light switch, flick the switch – off, on, off – then slip between your sateen sheets. Sometimes you reach into the drawer of your bedside table, fumbling in the darkness until you find the cold metal ring. It’s been eleven years since Daria left you. You never got an official divorce, but she hasn’t contacted you since the day she left, not even to ask for child support. She wanted absolutely nothing to do with you since the incident. Lana was five when Daria took her. You wonder what she looks like now. She must be beautiful.

Transfer students usually arrive in September; it’s preferable to both student and parent that the school year isn’t interrupted by the move. In your almost twenty years of teaching in this small town, only a handful of students have entered your class midway through the year. The updated roster was on your desk when you came in. Askew. You straighten it, the edge of the cardstock folder parallel to the edge of your desk, before you open it and scan the list of names. You’ll have to retype it; the new name is scrawled in that ungodly pink the receptionist insists “brightens up the day.” Ellison, Sarah. You wonder what she looks like. You wonder if she’s as promiscuous as the others, as unchaste. You check the clock. Three minutes to class. You make sure the pristine chalkboard didn’t acquire dust overnight, arrange the chalk in its tray from longest to shortest, and practice your most charming smile.

When she walks in, you’re sure you must be dreaming. It’s impossible. You see your chin, your nose, Daria’s golden hair and chocolate eyes. She looks just like your Lana, the spitting image of the little girl trapped in the frame on your bedside table. You almost think she is Lana, but you know Daria would never let her attend the school at which you teach, especially as a teenager. It wouldn’t surprise you if she took Lana across the country to get away from you. Unnecessary, really. You’d never do anything to your own little girl, and you’d protect her with your life from anyone who might try. Once innocence is gone, it’s gone forever.

“You must be Sarah,” you say, flashing a warm smile, not at all the smile you’d been practicing. “Bonjour, et bienvenue au français II. Je suis M. Douglas.”

“Hel- bonjour.” She returns your smile, although hers is timid, full of anxiety. It’s hard to start at a new school. Or so you’ve been told. You’re glad Lana wasn’t in school yet when she and Daria moved, that she didn’t have to go through the trauma of starting from scratch – learning new hallways, making new friends. She got a clean start.

“Take a seat anywhere; we’re pretty informal in here.”

She picks a seat in the far back corner, and you sit down at your desk. The entirety of the classroom stretches between you, and you don’t know what to say. The rest of the class trickles slowly in, talking, laughing, adjusting their clothes. Your gleaming teeth peek out from behind your lips exactly as you’ve taught them to. Practice makes perfect.

It’s a pizza place day. You run into several of your students, all of whom are eager to lap up your attention like kittens at a bowl of milk. You flirt with them – who are you to pass up such a golden opportunity, after all – but you’ve got one eye out for Sarah the entire time, wondering where she goes when school lets out. She probably takes the bus straight home, has a snack, and sits down at her neat and organized desk to get her homework done straight away. Work before play. Her mother instilled such habits in her from the beginning. You assume. You assume she instilled such habits. You leave the dingy restaurant earlier than usual, hoping to get your mind off of Lana. Sarah, you repeat to yourself, Her name is Sarah.

By the time you get home, you’re wishing you had Daria’s number. For the first time since she left, you want to hear your little girl’s voice. You wonder what she’d say if she heard you call her your little girl.

Daddy, honestly. I’m a teenager for Christ’s sake; I’m not a little girl anymore.

But you’ll always be my little girl, you’d explain. She probably wouldn’t call you Daddy, you realize. Five-year-olds call their fathers daddy. Teenagers shorten the term: Dad. Or maybe she’d call you Vincent. You haven’t been much of a father to her, after all. Don’t teenagers call their parents by their first names as a sort of rebellion? You think you’ve heard that somewhere.

You pull up WhitePages.com and type in “Daria Douglas”. You doubt she’d keep your name, but an unexpected part of you hopes that she has. You hope Lana, at least, has kept your name, although you doubt that too. As expected, “Daria Douglas” yields no results. Well, it yields four results, but none of them are your Daria Douglas. You try her maiden name. Still nothing. You try a variety of Google searches, but she seems to be untraceable.

She never had solid evidence. You were far too careful for that. When you and she would make trips to the mall or the movie theater, she’d sometimes catch you staring at all the giggling gaggles of scantily clad teenagers. When she’d notice your roving eyes, she’d halfheartedly accuse you, like she knew she should ask but didn’t really want to know the answer. You’d shake your head sadly and tell her you were just thinking about how sad the over-sexualization of children in our country is. The look in her eyes always said she wanted to believe you, and she’d drop the subject.

Sometimes you’d hear her talking to her girlfriends when they’d have a few too many glasses of wine on their Girls’ Night In and don’t hear you coming down from your study for a glass of water or a bite to eat.

Hey, what is up with your husband? I mean, haven’t you seen the way he looks at girls? the friend would ask, or some such variation.

He says he’s just sad about the over-sexualization or whatever, your wife would respond. She was always tipsy enough at this point that it sounded like “sezzualization.” It was the only word she slurred; she was generally a very good drunk.

But don’t you ever wonder? Like, if he likes little girls? If it were me I’d be out that door so fast, especially if I had a daughter like you do.

He’d never hurt Lana. And he’d never hurt any other kids, either. I mean if he liked that sort of thing, wouldn’t he have asked me to wear pigtails and suck on a lollipop or something?

You picture her in pigtails and sucking on a lollipop. It doesn’t do much for you. She was always defending you, though; it’s almost enough to make you feel a bit bad about it all. But hey, a man can’t control his desires. Or at least, you can’t. Can’t? Won’t? Can’t, you think.

She stopped defending you on Lana’s birthday. April 25th. A Saturday. Summer was around the bend, her favorite season, and you and Daria had gotten her the Slip ’N Slide she’d been begging for. Then you asked her if she wanted a new bathing suit for her Slip ’N Slide. It was honestly a harmless question; she was five, and she was your daughter. You knew she didn’t like the spandex t-shirt and shorts her mother made her wear. You wanted to let her choose her own bathing suit. You wanted to let her feel like she wasn’t a baby anymore. Daria’s mouth had opened a little bit, her eyebrows furrowed together, and you saw her blinking quickly before she stalked off to the kitchen to recount the candles on cake.

You took Lana to the mall the next day and she picked out a two-piece that came with a little ruffly skirt she could wear over the bottoms. It was pink with purple flowers. It was sweet. It was cute. It was innocent. She was innocent. Your innocent little girl.

You found the note when you came home from work on Monday. “Don’t try to find us.” You looked at the note for a while, but put it down when the paper started to shake slightly. You then unearthed the hidden shoebox from the attic crawl space and put “Mandy Earns an A” in the DVD player. When you were done, you put the whole collection on the shelf above the TV and threw out the shoebox. You didn’t need to do much else to bachelorize your house. Everything of theirs was gone. The only femininity left in the house was Lana’s old room. You meant to repaint it, but never got around to covering up the pink, dragonfly-covered walls. The empty room makes your footsteps echo.

You try to grade the vocabulary worksheets that were due today, but still Sarah is in your head. Sarah and Lana and Daria, racing around your brain like a freaking marathon. Frustrated, you slam the pen down on the desk and turn to what never fails to calm your overactive mind: porn. You make sure you choose something featuring a brunette, and settle yourself on the edge of your bed. The moans coming from your TV make you fidget uncomfortably, and you have to tip Lana’s picture face down on the bedside table before you can finish.

It’s only nine-thirty, but you decide to retire anyway. You perform your nightly routine – tap-tap, off, on, off, slip between your sateen sheets – but agitation festers in your limbs and you’re up again as soon as you lie down. You pace the room three times, grab the doorknob, and turn the lights on again – on, off, on. You decide a nightcap is in order, and fix one in the kitchen. You down it in a few gulps and return to your room. Tap-tap. Off, on, off. Sateen sheets.

Most of your students hang out by the lockers or in the cafeteria before first period begins, but Sarah enters the classroom just a few minutes after you do. She dresses with an elegant modesty, in jeans and a form-fitting sweater. She takes her seat in the back and folds her hands on the desk. Her back is straight as a pin and her feet are pressed together. She stares at the chalkboard.

“Well, you’re certainly prompt,” you say with a smile.

“Yes, M. Douglas,” she says, still staring straight ahead. Everything about her is rigid and formal.

“So Sarah, where did you move from?”

“California. I attended an all-girl’s Catholic school there.” That explains the rigid posture, you think. She continues, “We moved because of my father’s work.”

“Wow, California. You’re a long ways from home. How are you adjusting to the New England weather?”

She turns her face slightly, so she’s looking at you for the first time. “It’s cold,” she says. “Beautiful, but cold.”

Beautiful, but cold. Like Daria, you think. The bell rings.

As Sarah adjusts to life at public school, you watch her lose the rigid formality that had been drilled into her by the ruler-wielding nuns of her previous school. She still arrives to class bright and early, though, and you look forward to your daily conversations. She mostly talks about her friends and her other classes, petty teenager things, but you’re fascinated by anything and everything she has to say. She seems comfortable around you, tells you more than you’re sure she tells her other teachers. You’re happy to hear that she seems to be making friends quickly, and that she’s doing quite well in all her classes. You know she’s acing yours.

Before third period you’ll walk up two flights of stairs and down a series of twisting hallways to go to the restroom by the history classrooms, even if you don’t really have to take a piss, so you can wave at Sarah as she waits for her Civics class to begin. You begin requesting B block lunch duty on a daily basis, and you flash her a smile each time you pass by her table. Before sixth period you make sure to get a cup of coffee from the teacher’s lounge, across the hall from her English classroom.

There’s rarely anyone in the teacher’s lounge when you go in, but now there are voices floating to you from behind the closed door. The mention of your name stays your hand on its way to the doorknob.

“Have you seen the way Douglas lets them dress, though? I mean, we have a dress code for a reason.” It’s the band teacher. One would think a music teacher would have a voice that’s pleasing to the ear, but his is high and nasally. Sometimes you hear the students mimicking him, pinching their noses and spouting nonsensical music terms. You’ve joined them in a laugh about him, more than once.

“That’s the style these days, though,” you hear the Vice Principal’s voice respond. You always wondered why the VP would stoop down to get his coffee from the lowly teacher’s lounge. It’s not like it’s ever been good coffee, and there’s a Starbucks down the street. “They are teenagers, after all.”

“That’s my point. They’re teenagers.”

“Let it go, Nick. This is one you’re not going to win. He’s a good teacher, he gets through to them. And besides, he’s got tenure.”

You decide to skip the crappy cup of coffee and go back to your classroom. Let Nasal Nick whisper. You’ve got tenure.

You see her standing with her back against her locker. Her legs are pressed together under her knee-length navy blue skirt, and her arms are folded across her cardigan-covered chest, clutching her notebook to her. Her golden hair cascades over her shoulders, perfectly framing her delicate face. She looks just like an angel – so perfect, so pure. Someone else is looking at her too. Even from behind you can tell who it is; wavy brown hair styled to look like he just rolled out of bed, a rumpled-looking t-shirt, and jeans torn through at the knees – basically your textbook tool. All he’s missing is the wool cap. He sits behind her in her English class. Michael Lewis. He’s standing in front of her now, his arm braced against the lockers as if he were trying to rid this already stereotypical scene of anything even slightly resembling originality. He’s looking at her, you’re looking at her, but you know you’re not seeing the same thing. He’s not seeing an angel; he’s seeing a challenge, a conquest. You step forward.

“Mr. Lewis, I see you’re extending your – hand – in friendship to Miss Ellison here. How nice of you.”

“Yeah, I’m just such a nice guy like that. I learn from the best, after all.”

What did that mean? “Well regardless of what I’m sure are your best attempts, it appears to me that Miss Ellison’s body language is saying that she’s not interested. So what say you run along to class now, hmm?”

He stares at you with his eyebrows cocked.

“Now, Mr. Lewis, or I’ll write you up.” You watch him slink away, a wounded animal retreating after the alpha defeats him. You turn to Sarah. “You alright, kiddo?”

She straightens her skirt. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks, M. Douglas. Well I should be getting to class too.”

“Of course. If he gives you any more trouble, let me know, okay?”

“I will.” She starts down the hallway.

“Or if anyone else gives you trouble.”

She stops, turns back. “I didn’t hear you, what?”

“I said if anyone else gives you trouble you can come to me too, okay?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. Thanks.”

“Why don’t I walk you to class?”

“I think I’ve got it.”

“It’s no trouble at all, really,” you say, taking a few steps towards her.

“No, it’s really okay. Michael went to his class already, and there’s really no one else in the halls.” She starts walking backwards and waves at you. “Thanks though.”

“Don’t let anyone pressure you into doing anything you don’t want to do, okay?”

“Yeah, okay, M. Douglas. I really have to get to class now though.”

“I know your generation seems to be all about sex, but you don’t have to grow up too fast, no matter what everyone else thinks.”

“Yeah, great. Well, I’ll see you in class tomorrow.” She turns and runs down the hallway. You look at your watch. There are still a few minutes until the period begins; she really didn’t have to worry. Then again, you know she likes to be early. She’s such a good student. A good girl. So perfect. Sweet and innocent and perfect. Just like your Lana. You know she values her innocence. Not like the rest of the girls here. If they were still innocent, it would be different, but they’ve given up their innocence long ago. Now they’re just ripe for the plucking.

Today would have been a bowling ally day, but lately you’ve been going straight home after school. You’re still trying to find a way to contact your wife. She is still your wife, after all. She never asked for a divorce. You’re still legally entitled to know where she is or how to contact her. You’re still legally entitled to see your daughter. Daria can’t hide from you forever.

You round a bend and see a figure walking along the side of the road a little ways away. It’s Sarah. You pull up beside her.

“Sarah, what on Earth are you doing?”

“Oh, hey M. Douglas,” she says, bending down slightly to look at you through the window. “I just missed the bus is all. I figured I’d walk home instead of making my mom leave work early just to pick me up.”

“Do you want a ride? You could get hurt out here.”

“Um…” She turns to look at the road stretching off into the distance. You wonder what she’s looking for.

“Come on, where do you live? I can’t in good conscience just leave you to walk the rest of the way. We live in dangerous times, after all.”

“Well, okay I guess.” She glances over her shoulder quickly before climbing into the passenger seat. What is she looking for?

When you get home after dropping Sarah off, you can’t seem to sit still. You wander from room to room, sit down, stand up, next room, sit down, stand up, get a drink, next room. You end up back in the garage, back in the car. The last time you sat here, she was less than a foot from you. Darkness falls. You go inside. Tap-tap. Off, on, off. Sateen sheets.

You start spending hours at a time staring at your photo of Lana. It’s one her mother took, at the lake house you have upstate. You’re pushing her on the swings. She’s laughing. You’re laughing. A happy family. You miss that. Your DVDs acquire a thin layer of dust.

Tap-tap. Off, on, off. Sateen sheets.

April 25th. It’s a Friday this year. Your baby girl is turning sixteen. Sweet sixteen.

You stop her in the hallway as she’s leaving for the bus. “Happy birthday,” you say.

“What?” she looks at you quizzically. What is there to not understand about that?

“I said happy birthday.”

“It’s not my birthday though.”

“Got any big plans?”

“I have to catch my bus.”

“Every girl looks forward to her sweet sixteen, huh? Do you have a pretty dress picked out?”

“Look, M. Douglas, I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I really have to catch my bus.”

“Don’t worry about that, I’ll drive you home today.”

“No, that’s okay. I’d really rather catch my bus.” She tries to walk around you, but you’re filling the doorframe.

“It’ll be just like old times, remember? When I saw you walking home and gave you a ride? It’s no big deal.” The busses pull away. She looks like she wants to run after them. “Don’t worry, I’ll drive you home.” You put your hand on her shoulder and steer her to your car.

“No, I can just call my mom. It’s ok, she can be here in like ten minutes. Really.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just as good a chauffeur and I’m already here. No need to have your mother make a trip all the way out here.” You open the passenger door and wait for her to climb in. She stands there staring at you for a few moments, but finally steps into the car. You shut the door behind her and walk around to your side. You turn the key in the ignition and pull out of the parking lot.

“It’s a left up here–” she begins, but you cut her off.

“I don’t need directions. I drove you home before, remember? I know how to get there,” you say, smiling at her reassuringly.

“Okay,” she says quietly. The tiny word is almost drowned out by the turn signal as you take the left.

You don’t know what to say to her. You knew her when she was five, but she’s sixteen now. For some reason you feel as if the last few months never happened and you’re sitting next to a complete stranger.

“Um, M. Douglas,” she begins timidly, “you can actually just drop me off right up there. See, I was going to go over to a friend’s house off the bus today, so they’re kind of expecting me…”

“Woah, woah woah, not so fast. Who is this friend?”

“His name is–”

“His?” you interrupt her again. “This friend is a boy?”

“Well, yeah.”

You turn to face her. “I really don’t think you should be dating at your age. You’re only sixteen; you’ve got your whole life ahead of you, Lana.”

She cocks her head to the side slightly. “Sarah,” she says.

“What?”

“My name is Sarah, M. Douglas. You called me Lana.”

“I’m not an idiot, Lana. You’re not fooling anyone. Stop avoiding the subject. You’re too young to be dating, period. I’m bringing you home, not to some boy’s house.”

“It’s Sarah. And no offense M. Douglas, but you have no right to tell me a thing like that. I’m capable of making my own decisions. You’re my teacher, not my dad!”

You slam on the brakes, stare at her. You can hear the blood pounding in your ears, and somewhere far away you think she might be speaking. You lock the doors, wheel the car around. She’s screaming. You’d never harm your daughter, your precious little angel. You’re on the highway now, going ninety. You’ll make her admit she knows you. You’ll make her remember when you were a happy family. You’ll push her on the swings and she’ll call you daddy. And if she won’t… well then you don’t have to abide by the laws of fatherhood, do you? The lake house is just 47 miles away.