Chapter 3 The teacher's house

Six years ago.

“Hello?” I said aloud that time, when night had just fallen.

I rang the bell for the fourth time, repeated. Then I dropped my hand, still holding the folders under my arm and trying to see into my teacher’s property, through the cracks in the white fence; but beyond what you could see was a closed varnished wooden door and the internal lights off, just the outside bulb, which was facing the porch, was the one that was working at that moment.

I turned to the motorcyclist, who at some point had gotten off his motorcycle and was now only leaning on it, with one foot in front of the other and his arms crossed over his chest, with that inexpressive and indifferent gesture that always characterized him, looking at me.

I was mesmerized by that fixed, dark, slightly Asian-shaped gaze that was watching me; I don’t know when he had taken off his helmet, now all of him was a bright enough glow for what my poor adolescent mind could bear, his lips were properly full, his nose neither too big nor too small, just a nose that It wasn’t pretty or ugly, but it matched his fairly androgynous face. I also looked at his hair, at that time it looked quite dark, but the light left by the nearest streetlights made some chocolate-colored reflections flash from it, I supposed then that it would be him real color, possibly more noticeable in daylight.

“Is it the first time you get on a motorcycle?” He asked quietly, seriously, without blinking.

Him, with his power to snap me back to reality. I blinked. But he remained unperturbed.

I looked down to the side.

“No.” I looked at him again.

“How long ago was the last time?” he inquired.

Wow, he had a very beautiful voice, enveloping, soft, but at the same time serious and very manly. I began to remember where I had heard a similar voice before, and I knew that it was never, it was the first time—well, I think I had heard one that resembled it, but it was only once and a long time ago, on a radio program of romantic themes, the announcer had a voice more or less like that, but not the same as his. His was perfect.

“You do not want to answer?” He asked, him voice turning to knock me back to the present.

“Uh—no—I mean,” I blinked. “Yes.” I looked away, already his gaze was disturbing me, he had barely blinked once while he was looking at me. “I—I think it was—when I was four years old. My uncle used to walk me,” I agreed. “Yes.”

He didn’t even nod, didn’t raise his eyebrows or move his lips for what seemed like an eternity, he just looked at me.

“I understand,” he murmured neutrally.

“Yes,” I said again, looking this time towards the street busy with some vehicles, only to not meet his eyes for a while.

“What do I understand?” He said again and I turned around.

“Huh?” I said.

“Are you always distracted?” He asked and I also wondered the same thing.

But I quickly looked for an excuse not to look like a fool.

“It’s not that.” I shrugged slightly and blinked at the street behind him. “It’s just—the cars that went by didn’t let me hear what you were saying.”

“I said I understood,” I assumed he repeated.

I kept looking at him, noticing the small shadows that took place on one side of his face from the perspective of the light from the closest streetlights that managed to partially illuminate him.

“Understand what?”

I muttered, looking at the eye that could be seen, the shadow covering the other, while I continued to be completely exposed to the light of the streetlight on my forehead.

“The reason why you spent all the way making me watch that you didn’t fall, you keep your body very tense and sometimes unbalanced.”

I blinked and stared at him, wondering if the pilot could really feel that, even if whoever was behind him hadn’t or was having any contact with him.

“I’m not very used to it.”

“I know,” was what he said, before nodding minimally.

I didn’t say anything else and all embarrassed for having given the first impression of me the reason so that I can easily seem stupid, I turned around and raised my hand again towards a high place on that wall, to be able to ring the bell again .

“Unless he’s inside, passed out or possibly dead, I think the house is without any living presence. It’s not worth insisting.”

I turned towards him.

“Sure,” I agreed, lowering my gaze reflexively. “If you already need us to go, well, let’s go.”

I got to thinking that I had no hope of passing those last tests anyway, because he hadn’t been able to turn in those written assignments on time; Perhaps the teacher said the specific time in which to send him such an assignment, but Clara would have thought of mentioning it to me.

“I’m not saying it for myself, I can be here all night,” he spoke again, with that calmness that sometimes made me feel unnecessarily upset, even though I probably wasn’t. “I say this for you and your time. It’s already time for dinner and it’s getting cold. How long do you plan to wait?”

Well, I hadn’t really thought about that either.

“I—” I looked down again. I think I can wait a little longer, maybe the professor went out there and plans to return soon. It’s just that—” I took the three folders together with both hands and carefully put them in view “I must deliver this, or my final grade for this subject will be in jeopardy. I can’t afford that,” I muttered, looking down as I imagined that I really failed.

I noticed that he stirred a little.

Finally.

I was almost beginning to believe that he would stay as a human statue.

A perfect statue that would pay tribute to the glam rock style.

He uncrossed him arms and straightened up a bit more, standing tall and looking to the side absently as she pushed back the lapels of his jacket and shoved him hands into the pockets of him whitish-blue jean.

From my perspective, I could see that even though the pants weren’t very tight, that him legs were moderately thick, as if he were training, but I immediately looked away to look at him face, which now because of the position he had, the light did shine on him. All over his face, illuminating an attractiveness that left me wondering whether or not it was true that beauty can reach higher levels, so high as to border on divinity and the unreal, because there he was, being so ethereal and perhaps ghostly, that I was just an ugly woman trying to observe him while he didn’t notice.

“Can you wait for me here?” he asked.

I was stunned.

“Are you going to—leave me alone” I looked around with a little fear, “here?”

“I won’t go very far,” he said quietly, glancing back at her jauntily. “I’ll leave you the bike."

I looked at the motorcycle.

'As if I could do anything with that'. I thought. I didn’t even know how to drive one, well—at least I knew how to do it with bicycles, I imagined it wouldn’t be much different. Although he wasn’t leaving me the key anyway.

I didn’t answer anything, I just stared at him, when he, without intending to ask me for any permission, left calmly, along the same sidewalk we were on while I looked at his bearing. He was quite tall, at least a head taller than me, and I was five foot seven and his back was a little broad, almost even with the width of his hips.

I rolled my eyes at the bike again, he had left the helmet, while I continued carrying mine, I had forgotten to take it off and I felt the redness on my face from the shame of imagining how I must have looked all this time.

I just took it off, uncomfortable knowing that two hours had already passed and still no one left the teacher’s house, it was starting to get cold and I looked at the screen of the phone shell that I had, neither of my parents had called me, it was weird, maybe they thought that I was about to come back home. I put the cell phone back in my pants pocket and a little hampered by having so many things in my hands, I went to put the helmet on one side of the other, no way, I wasn’t going to leave it on the pavement.

But I got distracted by the size of the helmet he had left there, so tired of insisting so much on the entrance to my teacher’s house, I decided to put the folders carefully aside on the motorcycle and take the helmet in my hands.

It weighed a little, more than the one I had carried, and it was noticeably bigger. I turned it around, looked at it from various positions, and finally became curious as to what it smelled like inside. To make his hair so beautiful, I supposed that this man would have to apply a lot of creams, no one would make a magically shiny, abundant and soft-looking mane without first going through a treatment for it; then I poked my face through the indicated hole, breathing in briefly, little by little, sniffing like a cat recognizing things.

And well, yes, it did smell something. A masculinity, but possibly it was a shampoo, although I wasn’t sure, the aroma that was there was moderately different from the perfume that I could perceive on the way. So yes, possibly it was some hair soap or it could be some styling cream.

I stood there, like a fool, with my face sticking out of the largest opening in the helmet, closing my eyes and sniffing the inside carefully, closing my eyes to memorize that alluring scent, I was never going to forget it. I imagined that one day I could even pass over it, my hands over his hair to confirm whether or not it was as soft as it looked.

“What are you doing?” I heard him velvety voice ahead of me and almost at the same time thunder in the sky.

I immediately pulled my face out of the helmet and looked at him, stunned, watching his face still expressionless, as if he wasn’t surprised by my attitude, but was expecting some response.

And if before I had felt a little ashamed for something, now I felt triple; he had found me doing with his helmet what an alley cat does with a garbage bag, my face nearly falling off in embarrassment. And I don’t know what worried me more; what he might think of me or what the sky threatened to rain down on us; the second option might be just as bad as the first.

But he was still there, waiting for some answer from me, and I kept looking at him, like a scrawny stray cat caught in the headlights of a car in the middle of the road.