TAMARA TODAY

It had been a strange year. But now finally, little by little, things were returning to normal. Tamara’s father was not working at home anymore but was back in his office, even if just three days a week instead of five. Her mother also was back at work. And school had started again. Real classes, with real students and real teachers, including Mister Woodson in chemistry who, even if he tried not to, always looked at her in that way. School had been out for six months, and in that time the world had changed. But much more had not changed. On Monday morning, for instance, as Tamara entered the classroom with the other students, then bent slowly to sit in the first row, she looked up to see Mister Woodson’s eyes glued to her, the little half-smile saying, as it had every Monday before the long break, I-don’t-want-you-to-know-but-I-also-DO-want-you-to-know what I am thinking. It was in that space between those conflicting desires that they communicated. A secret, unspoken language only two people in the world understood. Still, Tamara never really encouraged Mister Woodson. She didn’t have to. But because this was the start of a new year now and she wanted to be friendly, she smiled at him. A big warm welcome-back smile. And what happened next was so cute. He blushed. Poor Mister Woodson. Tamara knew it couldn’t be easy for him. All the class knew that he had been through a divorce the year before. Then those many months of isolation. Home alone. During the Zoom classes, when learning was still online, he always looked so happy to be with his students again. Tamara had to wonder if he had organized as many one-on-one tutorials with the others as he had with her. Once a month in the beginning. Later, it became once a week. “You’re a remarkable student,” he had told her, “and I do want to give you all the support you deserve.” One evening especially she remembered now. Both sitting at their respective laptops, she on her bed, he in what looked like his study. They were going over chemistry kinetics and the effects of temperature, from chapter six. But he seemed to be talking about something else altogether. “The letter K in an equation is a constant that is temperature-dependent. So, let’s say someone is hot. Feeling the flush of excitement. Or, maybe they’ve been exercising, breathing hard, working up a sweat. For whatever reason. Now, that begins a whole series of chemical reactions in the body…” It was about chemistry, but at the same time it seemed again to be that secret language of theirs. Or, maybe Tamara was just imagining it. She did have an excellent imagination. It had been encouraged all her life. “Everything means something else,” her grandmother had once told her. “Everything is a clue, and if you look at it that way, you will always understand what is being said behind the words, and what is being done behind the action. If you can do that, you will always know better what to expect next.” Tamara’s grandmother, Leah, was a novelist. And full of mischief. She wrote romance novels, poems, stage plays, even lyrics to songs. When Tamara’s mother was pregnant, it was her grandmother who had suggested the new baby’s name. Two generations earlier, as the family had immigrated to the States from Ireland, an immigration officer on Ellis Island misunderstood the family name, Tebay. He thought her great-great grandfather had said “Today,” and so that was what was written on the documents. Years later, the grandmother thought it would be cute to name the little girl Tamara, because of course it sounded like tomorrow. “Tomorrow today! That’ll put a smile on people’s faces, before she’s even said another word.” She was right. The other students had taken their seats now. Mister Woodson glanced around the room at all the faces, then looking straight at Tamara he began. “So nice to see everyone in the flesh again!” First words, and already their secret language! Tamara was wearing little shredded jean shorts and sandals, with her bare legs crossed, and  shecould see the teacher was trying without luck not to look at her. No time wasted, they were right back into it. This was so much fun! Tamara didn’t like to disappoint anyone. And she didn’t like to tease anyone. The truth is, sometimes even she didn’t know what she wanted. What she did know was that last year Mister Woodson had been her favorite teacher, that what felt like an endless summer was at last over, and that she was so glad now to be back in his class. Maybe he was almost forty years old, but Mister Woodson was still so cute. With curly brown hair long enough to fall over his collar, such smart eyes, a boyish face, and those dimples. It was easy to picture him still as a teenager. He had to be so popular! Even now, he rode his bike to school like many of the students. And once, when he had his shirt off and was sweating because he must have ridden so hard, Tamara saw him locking his bike to the rack in the parking lot, and it was obvious he worked out. Right away on her phone she then Googled him, and sure enough his teacher bio noted that at the University of California he had been a state champion swimmer, with gold medals in both the 50- and 100-meter breaststroke. He was tall, still thin like a swimmer, with broad shoulders and strong arms that always showed through whatever shirt he was wearing. There was real power there. “Maybe you can’t judge a book by its cover,” her grandmother once told her. “But you can sure judge the cover by the cover!” Her grandmother, who wrote novels, always shared such brilliant observations. And it was inherited wisdom like that which betrayed Tamara’s own age. Because you could see it in her eyes. The deep thinking, always evaluating, always anticipating. Reading people and situations. They were not the eyes of a child. Otherwise, Tamara had to hear constantly how she looked at least two years younger than she was. Having turned eighteen just two months earlier, that meant many people actually thought she still looked only sixteen. “No way!” she would protest. “Yes way!” they would insist. At just 4’ 11” and 82 pounds, with those bright orange-green eyes, little upturned nose, that sun-bright smile, long blonde hair she usually wore in a ponytail, and by far the smallest body at the school, Tamara was often teased for looking so young. Even her little breasts still looked like a fifteen-year old’s. And for the longest time, she thought that was a bad thing. Nobody wanted to play sports with her, for instance. With her small hands, thin wrists and tiny legs, she wasn’t strong enough. At camp one summer, she could hardly hit a volley ball let alone get it over the net. Later, the cool kids in 9th and 10th grades had avoided her because they thought somehow she made them look less cool. “Go home to Mommy and Daddy,” they would taunt her. She bought platform shoes, and special padded bras to try to make her breasts look larger, and started using make-up a year before any of her friends used it. But then on the beach one night in Santa Cruz at a bonfire party, a college boy from Stanford told her she was the cutest girl he’d ever seen. That night did not end until the sun came up, and those two were the last left on the beach. He had tried under the blanket to do everything. They kissed. She let him touch and even put his mouth on her breasts. How wonderful that felt! She even let him put her little hand between his legs to feel the hardness there. But that was it. She stopped him. She wasn’t ready to do more. Not yet. Not with him. And not on the sand like that. Not for the first time. That needed to be special, and more private. She had waited this long, she could wait a little longer. Still, ever since that night Tamara understood that looking so young might not be such a bad thing after all. Mister Woodson didn’t seem to think so, anyway. Only a week earlier, Tamara had complained again to her friend Abbey. “Look at me! I’m a young woman now, but still trapped in this girl’s body.” Abbey wanted to gag. “You know what I would do to look like you?” she asked. “Anything! I would do anything to look like you. So, girl, don’t you dare complain. Ever! I could lose half my weight, and still not look like you.” Even as she said that, Abbey was unwrapping a sandwich. Tamara said nothing. The sound of Mister Woodson’s voice brought her back to the here and now. “Let’s begin, shall we? What a strange year, yes? Anyone else think that?” A few shouts, and more mumbles of agreement. “But now we’re back, and to get this new semester off to a fun start I thought why not, let’s just skip ahead in the text to chapter eight. The Chemistry of s*x. Or, as I also like to call this chapter, Where biology and chemistry meet by candlelight.” He glanced, where else, at Tamara as he said that. What a naughty little Mister Woodson, she thought. Then he began his talk…about testosterone and estrogen, and the hypothalamus region of the brain, when suddenly the door opened and a student new to the school walked in. “I’m so sorry I’m late,” said the girl. “I thought this class was on the first floor. Sorry.” Tamara looked up, and could not believe what she saw. This new girl was even smaller, and looked as young she did. How was that possible? And where Tamara had finally accepted how she looked however reluctantly, this new girl clearly embraced it. Big time! She had long brown hair tied in twin braids, wore a little plaid skirt with cute white shirt open at the collar, and white knee-high socks with little black patent leather shoes. Was she serious? All she needed was a lunchbox with a picture of a princess on it to look as if she not only had the wrong class, but the wrong school. But then Tamara saw them…the eyes. Scanning the room, all knowing, all seeing, just like her own. The girl looked back at her with that same instant recognition. “Two peas in a pod,” Tamara’s grandmother might say. Mister Woodson stood staring at the new girl. “Umm, where should I sit?” she asked. The teacher quickly looked around the room. There was an empty seat in the last row near the window. There was another empty seat near the middle of the room. And lastly, in the first row next to Tamara, was a third empty seat. “Why don’t you sit up front here. Next to Tamara. And tell us your name, please.” “My name is Barbella.” The way she said it. It was like planting a flag…on Everest! Or maybe a better analogy, it was as if the magnetic poles had suddenly shifted, and life on earth would never be the same. Not for Tamara, not for Henry Higgins High, and certainly not for Mister Woodson! He stood watching much too closely as Barbella took her seat next to Tamara. The two girls exchanged fast smiles. This will either be my best friend, or my worst enemy, thought Tamara. “Right! Now, where was I?” asked Mister Woodson. He honestly could not remember. “Where biology and chemistry meet by candlelight,” offered Tamara. “Right! Thank you. Very helpful, Tamara. You’re paying attention. Good for you.” He began the lesson again. Something about something. Blah blah blah hormones…blah blah blah dopamine…blah blah blah something else… But even as his mouth kept moving, with the words spilling out, Mister Woodson’s mind was lightyears away, conjuring a series of images he couldn’t shake from his head. This one on top of that one, that one on top of this one... The Germans have a word, Kopfkino, which means literally the movies we compose in our mind. Suddenly he was actor, director, producer, in one scene after the next. He was trying so hard to concentrate on the lesson. But it was not easy. Since the first moment that he had laid eyes on her, Tamara looked as if she had stepped out of half the dreams he had ever had. Pretty, smart, small. He had always been attracted to petite women. Mister Woodson was a good teacher and a good man, and would honestly never find a girl too young to be sexy. But a girl who looked young, a woman who looked like a girl, that was something else. The best of all possible worlds, as Voltaire might say. And now, suddenly, this new student Barbella appeared virtually out of nowhere, looking like she had stepped from the other half of Mister Woodson’s dreams. Was that a real school uniform, he wondered, from some prep-school she may have once attended? Or had she bought it at some erotic costume shop? It didn’t matter, the effect was the same. And now here they were, dream number one and dream number two, sitting so close together. The blonde ponytail. The long brown braids. Those four little legs… Curse or blessing, Mister Woodson wondered, fantasizing about the one, while fearing the other. To be fair to his other students, the teacher pretended now and then to look around the room. At the kid with acne, at the other one with glasses, at the boy chewing gum. But always in his peripheral vision he saw them. How could he not? Tamara was wearing a tight tee shirt, with those two little points stabbing at it. No bra this day, he could tell. “As it says in your text, bottom of page 42, when we do something that feels good, something that might bring us pleasure, the brain releases a dose of dopamine which…” He moved to the other side of his desk. But no matter where he’d stand now, Tamara’s little breasts seemed to be pointing straight at him. They reminded him of the eyes in some paintings.   “…which is an organic chemical belonging to the catecholamine and phenethylamine families…” Barbella had an itch and was bending down to scratch it. Her little feet, those little hands, the skin on her leg so smooth...  “…Dopamine signals the brain, alerting us if something we’re thinking about doing might bring us pleasure, or else pain.” As Mister Woodson kept speaking now he moved to the front of his desk, then leaned back against it. That put him so close to the front row that when he dropped his pen, it fell against one of Barbella’s little shoes. He bent down to grab it, and looked up at her. She was smiling down at him. He stood, and continued. “…In other words, dopamine helps dictate our motivations. It helps us decide what to do, what not to do.” He was leaning back against the edge of his desk again. “At the same time, the hypothalamus releases testosterone and estrogen which is a powerful cocktail of hormones. When combined, these chemicals…” Mister Woodson paused. He could see Tamara and Barbella, their little eyes wide, were paying close attention to something straight ahead of them. He looked down to see what it might be. And to his horror, realized that even as he had been speaking he had an enormous erection bulging up against his pants. And then -- in by far the most dangerous moment of his ten-year teaching career -- Mister Woodson heard two voices in his head. One voice telling him to turn quickly and move behind his desk. At the same time, another voice was saying No, wait, be sure they’ve seen it. How big it is! What’s happening is happening for a reason, and it’s only natural. Wisely, it was that first voice he listened to, turning and moving as quickly as he could to stand behind his desk, and the books stacked on it. But it was too late. He could see from their expressions both girls had obviously noticed his…enthusiasm. They were both smiling at him. To make matters worse...or better, he wasn't sure... they turned and smiled at each other. Mister Woodson was blushing again, which only confirmed what had just happened. The best he could hope was if they would attribute it to the subject he had been discussing, and not think his attention was focused directly on either, or even both, of them. Somehow, he managed to get through the remainder of the lesson. Then as always there were questions. Tamara’s little hand shot up. “Yes, Tamara. You have a question?” “What I’d like to know is, when we’re excited, isn’t that kind of like the ‘fight or flight’ condition?” “That’s right. Many of the same bodily chemicals are in play. Adrenaline for instance.” “So then, what if anything stops us from acting on these urges? How do we decide what we won’t do, and what we will do?” She was teasing him, framing her question in their secret code. “That’s an excellent point. What stops us from doing everything we want to do? Well, there are frontiers, of course. Chemistry only gets us so far. Despite rewards, there are also sometimes punishments. Tamara understood. The school had a strict policy against teachers and students having romantic relationships, even if the student was over eighteen, as Tamara was. Mr. Woodson took the message even further. “The brain takes all that into account before dispatching signals to the appropriate muscles.” Both knew exactly which muscle he was talking about! And now Barbella raised her own little hand. If anyone else in the room had their hand raised, Mr. Woodson didn’t notice. As far as he was concerned, he was alone in the universe now with just these two young girls. “What I was wondering,” said Barbella, “is if in the end our bodies tell us what to do, or do we tell our bodies what to do?” It was if this new girl already understood their secret language. “What an excellent question, Barbella. I don’t want to just wing it. So, let me give that some thought, okay? And I’ll have the answer for you on Thursday. Is that all right?” “Sure.” Class now over, Tamara shuffled out with the other students. She shot a last, knowing little smile at Mister Woodson as she slipped through the door. Barbella was still shuffling some papers in her pack, and so was the last student left in the room. She stood now and went to Mister Woodson. “I have one last question,” she asked. “I was just wondering…is there any way that one can earn extra credit in this class?” The door to the room had swung shut. Tamara, still standing nearby in the hallway, realized the new girl had not stepped out with the rest of them. Curious, suspicious, even jealous, she went back to the door, then stood as high as she could on the tips of her toes to peek through the little window. Barbella was standing beside the desk. Mister Woodson was saying something to her, and she was nodding eagerly. Then he wrote something on a little slip of paper, and handed it to her. Tamara didn’t want to be caught peeking like that, so she turned and walked a few steps. But then she stopped. She would wait for the new girl to come out. Aside from the obvious fact that both looked so young, there was something else that made her want to know more about Barbella. Maybe it was the way she kept licking her lips while listening. Playing with those long braids. And the way she kept looking at Mr. Woodson. Then also there was the way she had looked back at Tamara. There was something there that Tamaara couldn't quite put her finger on. And just a feeling that somehow, somehow, these two might have so much more in common than meets the eye.