Confessions of a Dangerous Mind
Title: Confessions of a Dangerous Mind (Part Two)
Author: Ana
Pairing: Billie/Mike
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Second part and I already feel dirtier that I have ever felt for so much as writing this. Is this too perverted? I know it is...
Previous Parts: http://missmacy3334.livejournal.com/1975.html#
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
I'm not going to lie. I wasn't lying before and I'm not about to start at this point of my story. Never in my life had I been so intrigued by someone before with so little interaction. What I'm trying to say is: all Billie Joe Armstrong had to do was walk into my office with his sweet personality and sexy looks to have me fantasizing about him all damn night long.
Truth is, in spite of my first impression of him, the little fucker was really special; it didn't take me long to figure it out.
***
Since we were in the middle of December, it was a cold Friday morning. It was about ten to seven when I parked my car at my usual spot and turned off the engine. I grabbed my suitcase, then directed toward the main entrance; I hadn't been walking long when I noticed a dark figure sitting on the concrete steps. Crouched over an old-looking book, was my sweet Billie Joe, so concentrated on his reading that he didn't even realize I was standing right next to him until he heard my voice.
"Right on time, as usual, Mr. Armstrong." As if I had been keeping record, but my comment probably made Billie think I actually had been.
He looked up, startled. "Good morning, sir," he closed his book and stood up at once.
"What were you reading? Anything good?" We started walking together toward the double wooden doors.
"Hmmm... J.D. Salinger's 'The Catcher in the Rye', sir," he said humbly.
"Interesting choice. Excellent taste."
His frozen cheeks acquired a bright pink color that contrasted with his naturally pale complexion; his emerald eyes looked down to the floor again in order to hide it, but it was far too late to hide it from me, and that embarrassed him even more. "Thank you, sir. He's my favorite writer."
The hallway resembled a river with all the students hurrying to avoid being late, moving in every possible direction which, in time, served as the perfect excuse for me to get close to him. "I'll take a mental note of that," I told him. Then, I swear to God I couldn't help myself. I couldn't help wrapping my arm around his delicate shoulders, just to satisfy my hunger for him a little bit, just to feel him close at least for a split second, even if there was no time at all to take in any details such as the warmth of his body, the sweet scent of his hair, anything.
I felt him flinch at once...but then...then he did something that left me absolutely dazed.
He didn't get away from me, no. He looked up and flashed me the sweetest smile I had even seen instead...
"See you in class, Mr. Armstrong."
Regaining myself just in time, I let go of him and walked toward the Teacher's Lounge that was located right in front of us, luckily for me. Only after reaching into my pockets for my keys, did I notice the frowning boy leaning against the door frame. It was Chris Matthews giving me the coldest look I'd ever gotten. It didn't escape my eye the way he looked at Billie Joe either. He remained silent, but his piercing blue eyes were saying enough as they followed his small, delicate figure disappearing among all the people rushing here and there to get to their early classes.
"Out of my way, Mr. Matthews."
He stepped away and I opened the door just to slam it noisily behind me. Finally, I was able to take a deep breath and readjust the tie around my neck that had been suffocating me for the past few minutes.
In any other case, with any other person, I know perfectly well that I would have been in total control of myself. I had done it a number of times before. Billie Joe was far from being my first, and I wasn't used to make any kind of mistakes. Oh no, I was usually careful enough so as to let my objective make the first move for obvious reasons, and only at the right time in the right place, but, just like I said, this specific objective could cause quite an effect on me.
"Good morning, Mr. Pritchard." I heard all of a sudden. It was Professor Green, the eldest teacher in John Swett High. Almost sixty years old and still on duty. He was comfortably sitting on the couch, in front of a small coffee table, reading his morning newspaper. "Is everything okay? You look a little...agitated."
"Yes, Tom, I'm fine, thank you very much. It's just that I overslept this morning and thought I was running late, but actually, I'm right on time!"
I poured myself a cup of steaming coffee, trying to act as natural as possible, even though my hands were still shaking and little droplets of sweat had formed on my forehead.
"Well, that's just perfect. Maybe we can talk a bit more about your lack of responsibility over lunch today."
"Sure, Tom. I'm thirty years old, but I'm still glad to be scolded by you."
Once in my classroom, I took my seat behind the desk as all the students sat on their respective places as well. Just as I had imagined, Billie sat on an abandoned desk on the far corner, next to the window. I usually focused my attention on the first row, which was where the participatory students always sat. That was probably why I haven't noticed him before, I thought.
"Good morning, everyone. Today's topic is Modernism. Oh, yeah...difficult and complicated Modernism. So here's the deal; take notes of absolutely everything I tell you, and don't feel afraid of asking whatever stupid question you have in those tiny heads 'cause I'm pretty sure next week's midterm exam will be a blood bath."
Class was going on smoothly, like it normally does; that is of course, smoothly as it is possible considering we were studying 20th Century Literature. As usual, I had several activities for the day written on my lesson plan, most of them included group work because I imagined I would be far too distracted to stand in front of the class for about 45 minutes talking about literary trends when I could hardly look away from the dark mop of messy curls inclined over a notebook. Then, a little idea came to mind.
"Ok, class. We've talked about certain writers which spent most of their lives looking for formal perfectionism. What does this mean?" I decided to ask just to see what kind of response I had. Billie stopped scribbling on his notebook, and then looked up at me curiously.
"Means they needed to have a more active social life..." Who other than the great Chris Matthews spat as the entire classroom broke out in laughter. I let out a small laugh as well, because that is exactly how you show students like him that they can't get to you that easily.
"Authors of Modernism wrote their works on prose, focusing not on the narrative, but on using the most perfect, elegant and accurate words," a small voice came from the back as all of the kids turned their heads to see who they probably thought, was a new student.
I smiled widely. "Very good, Mr. Armstrong. I'm glad to see that at least one of you has actually learned something."
Billie's full lips curled into the smallest of smiles, but it soon fade away along with the little bit of self-confidence I had manage to build up in him as he heard Chris mumbling under his breath "My point exactly about social life."
Disregarding the comment at once, I kept going. "Take James Joyce, for example. Try to read any of his work and I can bet you won't understand a single paragraph. Why? Well, because first of all, it takes a lot to do that, but also because there is a specific issue with Joyce's narrative; he expresses feelings and emotions only. In fact, one can hardly say he's telling a story. Modernism does not accept the typical structure we find in tales. There might be a beginning, but there might be no end. Same thing happens with authors such as Joseph Conrad, Henry James, D.H. Lawrence, E.M Forster...but what about Virginia Wolf? What could you find in Virginia Wolf's work? What it's 'Mrs. Dalloway' about?"
"A boring old lady who thinks herself better than anyone else." Once again, the entire classroom filled with the annoying rumors of laughter, but Chris hadn't meant to be funny at all with his statement. This time around his tone was blunt and defiant. Those words were meant to be personal.
I grinned. "I have to thank you for that insightful comment, Mr. Matthews. I'll remember it by the time I'm grading your paper. Now, unless you have a smart comment on the topic or better yet, want to teach it, please remain silent." I paused for a moment. "Mr. Armstrong? What do you think?"
Looking up from his notebook again, his mouth opened for a second and his voice seemed to falter, which I assumed, was due to the fact that everyone was looking at him. To some it was shocking, because I hardly ever ask for someone's opinion in such a direct way.
He finally said, "Uhmm...I don't think she was boring at all, Mr. Pritchard.”
"I'm listening..."
"Mrs. Dalloway is only a well-structured description of a day in the typical upper-class English lady's life. The narrative is brilliant as well as the technique used by Virginia Wolf."
"Known as?"
"Stream of consciousness?"
"Explain..."
"It's very common in Modernism, to try to imitate the normal train of thought of any human being, I mean. In this specific case, we can say we are reading what the main character, Clarissa Dalloway, is thinking rather than what she's living."
"Exactly! There you go!"
The bell rang and I had to dismiss the class. Every single student left his paper on my desk and cleared the classroom in less than a minute. Billie waited until we were alone to get up from his seat and walked toward me while nervously fidgeting with the left sleeve of his sweat shirt. "Sir, I-...hmmm...about the book report..."
"You did great today."
"Thank you."
"Oh, and by the way, I expect to have your paper on my desk at first hour Monday morning. You know where my office is." That being said, I left the classroom.
My plan was working just brilliantly. He was beginning to trust me.
***END OF PART TWO***
What didja think??? Leave your comments at the end so I can feel good about myself for writing this, haha.