A Teacher and a Poet Read online

  A Teacher and a Poet

  By Cy Blanca

  Shawnee County, Kansas, might not be the most accepting place for a gay couple, but boyfriends Antony James and Curtis Ramírez have made it their home. Both of them work at Pauline Central Primary School, and while Antony is content teaching, Curt would rather pursue his passion: poetry. He plans to resign, but he doesn’t get the chance.

  Working together has its risks, and when a student witnesses Antony and Curt sneaking a kiss in the workroom, they’re reprimanded. The school board’s punishment is mild, but some members of the community aren’t willing to let the indiscretion go. That small mistake could cost Antony and Curt their home—or it could remind them that home is in the heart, and as long as they stay strong in their love, they’ll always have a place to belong.

  States of Love: Stories of romance that span every corner of the United States.

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  By Cy Blanca

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  To those who gave me poetry and taught me what to do with it: Toi Derricotte, Jan Freeman, Terrance Hayes, Dawn Lundy Martin, Carl Phillips. But most of all, Jeff Oaks and Lynn Emanuel. Your lessons will stay with me forever, and your mentorship and love are steeped in every single word I write.

  To the most important man in my life—my father, who’s dedicated his life to education, especially for at-risk youth, and the mission of giving young black men the chance to make it in this world with the support they need and deserve. You were in the back of my mind the whole time. I love you, Daddy.

  Acknowledgments

  THANK YOU to Alan Hageman, the current principal at Pauline Central, for helping me with the information about my former primary school. Your help was integral in making this story as honest and thorough as it is.

  I also must give thanks to Trish and her team of editors! You all had so much patience with me and were so very helpful in making my first vella the best it could possibly be. I honestly couldn’t have done this without all of your care, attention, and absolute kindness. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, really.

  1

  SOMETIMES TEACHING primary school really just… sucked. Even the eloquence of a writer failed Curt when he was in this kind of mood. He loved the kids, yes. Loved how eager they were to learn new words, to read new things. But damn, on days when it rained like this, turning Shawnee County’s landscape into a gray smear against a dreary sky, his third graders became antsy and unfocused, and they were all just a cankerous pain in Curt’s round ass. The boys kept pestering the girls, the girls kept whining, but here they were, stuck inside with another thirty minutes left in the day.

  “Sarah, if I have to tell you again to stop hitting, you’re going to the principal’s office.”

  “But Mr. Ramírez, Mike started it!”

  “I don’t care. Both of you sit down and please finish your reading. There isn’t much time left in the day.” Can you just all sit down and shut the hell up till your unfortunate parents come to pick your bad asses up? At least he could let the vulgarities of his mind entertain him, even if his kids were being unbelievable brats.

  Yeah, being a primary school teacher really did suck. He needed Antony. There was no way his students were being this bothersome so close to the end of the day. But of course, his classroom was all the way on the other side of the school. Third grade and first grade never intermingled except during recess. And as the rain had been drizzly and disgusting all day, he hadn’t gotten to see his boyfriend of three years at all. He sighed. It wasn’t like he could start cussing out his kids. It wasn’t their fault Mother Nature was a bitter old bitch who was long overdue for a good stuffing. Hell, it wasn’t his fault his sex life was so good. Why was she taking it out on him?

  Fifteen minutes of whining and exclamations of “Ouch!” and “Stop it!” and, his favorite, “I’m telling the teacher!” and Curt was ready to throw a little blue plastic chair through one of the windows in the reading corner.

  “Okay! Everybody, heads down and mouths shut. This is quiet time. Anybody who makes a sound gets sent straight to Principal Keller’s office until their parents come to pick them up and no free reading time tomorrow. Do I make myself clear?”

  The children gaped at him, more than a few of them sniffling at the rage in their teacher’s voice. But at that point, Curt’s give-a-damn had long since gotten up and given him, the kids, and all of Pauline Central the finger as it did a Cadillac stroll down Wanamaker Road to Devlin’s. Despite their pained looks, they did as they were told, and Curt was finally gifted with a few minutes of silence, blessed silence.

  Fourteen minutes and fifteen seconds later, Curt saw the first parent roll up. Shortly after, a parade of cars pulled into the small parking lot in front of the school. Finally.

  “Okay, kids. You can get up now. Get your things ready. Do it quietly.”

  The students, some of them obviously waking up from a deep sleep (all that whining and hair pulling was exhausting work), slowly made their way to their cubbies to collect their lunch boxes and book bags. At exactly 3:00 p.m., just as they were about to put on their coats, the last bell of the day officially released them from school and Curt from his tormentors. He opened the door and let the children loose, never mind about lining up. He wanted them gone. Once the last body had left the classroom, Curt closed the door, walked to his desk, and slumped in the chair in front of the whiteboard. He let out a heavy breath, closing his eyes and letting his head roll back.

  “Tough day, babe?”

  The smoke and spice of Antony’s voice forced a smile to slowly curl Curt’s mouth for the first time all day. Eyes still closed, he responded, “You have absolutely no idea, nene.”

  Antony chuckled. “I think I may have one or two. It’s called first grade, remember?”

  Curt sighed, then straightened up and opened his eyes. Damn, Antony looked good. “Come here a second, huh?”

  Antony shook his head and walked over to the desk where Curt sat. “Yeah?”

  “Come here,” he urged, reaching for Antony, fingers flexing as if grasping for the feel of hard muscle and smooth skin.

  Antony walked around the desk and stood next to Curt’s chair, waiting for him to turn. “Yes, Mr. Ramírez?”

  Curt turned, then grabbed Antony’s hips in one movement. He pulled Antony closer, then buried his head in his abdomen. He took a deep breath and let a small groan escape on the exhale.

  “Shit, I sure did miss you today, Ant.”

  “We saw each other at lunch, Ram. Don’t be overdramatic.”

  Curt looked up at him. “I only saw you for fifteen minutes. That doesn’t count.”

  Antony rolled his eyes. “Typical writer. Always overexaggerating. Always overemotional. Jeez, we’ve had rain days before. Why so needy today?”

  Curt let another groan dance past his lips and buried his head in Antony’s stomach again, shaking it from side to side. He could feel the rough starch of Antony’s shirt as it slid against his undershirt, hear the slip of fabric on fabric. The sound was comforting; it melted away the screeching of child voices, the squeak of marker on the whiteboard. He took solace in the rasp of cloth, continued to rub his ahead against Antony’s middle to keep the soft shush-shush whispering promises of his man’s body in his ear.

  “Hey, now. You wrinkle this, you’ve gotta iron it. Stop moping and let’s get to this meeting so we can hurry up out of here. I’m hungry, and you obviously need some
attention.”

  After three years, Curt knew Antony too well. He knew how eager he was to get the day over with. But Antony was a generous lover. He didn’t move, just let Curt take his time to collect himself. In the end, though, Antony was right. Curt left a kiss to his stomach, a small nip to the skin through his lover’s clothes, then rolled away.

  “Fine, fine. Let’s get this over with and get home. I feel I need to rememorize parts of your body, and this school doesn’t offer anatomy class.”

  CURT WAS really too damn hungry to argue, but here he was, leaning against the counter, keys in hand, waiting for Antony to come to grips with his suggestion for dinner. They’d intended to go straight from the staff meeting to wherever he drove them to eat, but they’d gotten a bit sidetracked in the car, a little too impatient to make it out of the driveway to walk the few feet to their house, and, well… underwear and pants had to be replaced.

  But now Curt was just hungry… for food… right damn now! Except Antony didn’t seem too impressed with his choice of restaurant.

  “Really, Ram?”

  “What?” Curt looked at Antony, more than a little amused.

  “Cicis… again?”

  Curt laughed. “Hey. The kids like it.”

  “Exactly,” Antony insisted. “They like the cardboard pizza and their gummy version of dessert. Kids have underdeveloped palates. I mean, they like the mystery-meat nuggets in the cafeteria. I don’t see you first in line with your tray to choke those things down.”

  “Your point?”

  Antony closed his eyes, his aggravation a throbbing vein on the side of his head. On a sigh he said, “My point is, why do you keep eating there?”

  Curt shook his head. This was a game they liked to play—who could annoy whom the most. Curt knew what buttons to push. The topic of food was always a good way to get Antony riled up. They’d had this talk more times than he could remember, and it just got more hilarious every time they had it. He grinned, a cheeky twist of lips he knew would further annoy Antony.

  “God, why do you even want to go there today anyway?” Antony continued. “I mean, from the way you were whining like a wittle baby about your class, I figured you’d want to eat at a real restaurant like a grown-up.”

  As much as Curt knew Antony’s buttons, Antony was never too far behind with a retort of his own. References to Curt being the baby of his family, being doted on by all the women from his grandmother’s church, were Antony’s favorite form of ammunition. From the triumphant curl of his mouth, Curt could tell Antony thought he’d just dealt a deathblow. Oh, it’s on.

  “Well, if that doesn’t float your boat, there’s always Golden Corral.”

  Antony didn’t respond for a few seconds, his eyes closing to slits. “That’s not funny.” When Curt laughed, he said, “You’re not funny at all, you little shit!”

  “Oh, come on, babe. You’ve gotta at least admit the fudge fountain is well worth the price of two adult buffets.”

  “I’m legit going to beat you with a sack of nickels.” He turned away, but not before Curt saw his smirk.

  Curt mentally celebrated. Score one for me. “I mean, I’m not quite sure what you’re expecting here, nene. Cicis is easy and cheap. And we know what we’re getting when we go there.”

  “Work with me here, Ram,” Antony pleaded. “I mean, aren’t you Afro-Dominican? Where’re your taste buds? What happened to loving spices and actual flavors?”

  “First of all,” Curt said, raising a slim finger to punctuate his point, “my grandmother’s Afro-Dominican. I was brought up on McDonald’s and Burger King.”

  Antony rolled his eyes. “We need to do better.”

  “We’re primary school teachers, nene.” He brought his hand to Antony’s face to caress his skin, his fingers tickling at the well-manicured beard. It was close-cropped, just like his haircut, faded and pristine, not a hair out of place. He smiled when Antony leaned into the touch. Curt might have been the poet, but Antony had a sensitivity to touch that bordered on addiction, and it turned Curt on in the worst kind of way. Even joking about his choice of restaurants had the potential to become foreplay. He shivered a bit, attempting to shake off the sudden urge to kiss his boyfriend. The loud growl of his stomach helped curb whatever nascent lust might have sprouted to life in his gut.

  With a final exhale, Curt said, “We don’t have the money to do better.” He smiled. “Besides, as much as you love teaching, I know you don’t want to stay in Shawnee forever, right?”

  Antony didn’t reply, but his silence proved more meaningful than anything he might have said in rebuttal.

  “Exactly. We don’t eat out all the time, and when we do, I like to know what I’m getting. At least Cicis tries to be creative. Can’t ask for more for six bucks.” He placed an index finger on the bridge of Antony’s nose, then traced it down the slope. “You just need to lower your standards a little bit.”

  Antony sucked his teeth, a wet click like the loud smack of someone chewing gum. Curt knew it well from the admonishments of his own grandmother, who made the sound whenever her attitude overrode her affection. “Look, I can’t help it if I have discernable tastes and you have none.”

  Curt snorted in disbelief. “I have no taste, huh?” He leaned in over the counter, his lips just one short slip of the tongue away from claiming Antony’s. “So how do you explain being my boyfriend?”

  Antony matched Curt’s scoff with one of his own. “Hey, I chose you for your looks and kept you for the sex.”

  “Is that so?” Curt said.

  “Uh-huh,” Antony breathed.

  Curt claimed the last centimeters of space between them in response, the kiss his one indulgence—and the deciding factor for where they were going for dinner.

  When they separated, Antony swayed, as if dizzy with the taste of Curt on his tongue. He licked at his mouth, then bit his lower lip, chewing at the kiss like dessert before dinner.

  Eyes closed and a small smile on his face, Antony conceded, “Cicis it is.”

  IT WAS only about fifteen minutes from their small house on SW Fairdale to Cicis, but Antony made each of those minutes as long as he could by giving Curt the cold shoulder. Even if Wanamaker Road had been across from their house instead of a quick jaunt down 75, Antony could’ve made that trip last three days if he’d wanted.

  Just when Curt started celebrating the victory from their last round of verbal warfare, Antony hit him with the one thing that could cripple Curt’s defenses: the tried and true silent treatment. It wasn’t as if Antony didn’t know how much Curt actually loved Cicis—the guiltiest of pleasures. He loved the chintz and the attempts at creativity on “so frozen it comes out like poorly mixed plaster” pizza dough. And he had actually eaten there four times in the past two weeks (once without telling Antony he was stopping for a few slices of the alfredo and the Bavarian before driving home). But Antony’s flat-out hatred of the place was one of the funniest things Curt had ever experienced because it was so absolute, and God help the poor soul who suggested it to him even in jest!

  “I hate it when you do that,” Antony said as they pulled into a spot in the parking lot.

  “What?” Curt said.

  “That. Distract me. Kiss me like a professional.”

  Antony’s attempt at a scowl would’ve probably worked better to plant guilt in Curt’s conscience for his teasing if Antony hadn’t chuckled as soon as they pulled up to the restaurant.

  “And why’s that?” he asked, a laugh resting in the back of his throat, making his question sound more like a reaction to a punch line than an earnest response to Antony’s consternation.

  “Because it means I’m agreeing to something I’ve got no business agreeing to, and probably didn’t agree to in the first place.” He crossed his arms, but the smile on his face was one of genuine amusement. No way Curt was getting away with taking them to Cicis again. If he knew Antony, there were already plots being formulated on how to best punish him. Tonight’s activitie
s were going to be brutal. Curt couldn’t wait.

  “Come on, nene. Don’t be that way.” Despite their daily teasing, Curt couldn’t help feeling just a bit remorseful. He sighed. “Look, if it bothers you that much, we’ll leave. We’ll go to… well, someplace else, okay?”

  Antony quirked an eyebrow, the smirk on his face morphing into a wide grin. “Giving up that easily?”

  “I’m no quitter,” he said. When Antony rolled his eyes, Curt snorted. “Just thought I’d do you a solid, give you an out.” Curt knew Antony couldn’t stay mad at him, even if he was a bit of a dick for making him come to a place all of Shawnee County knew he despised. Sure, he could’ve searched his mind for fifteen seconds and thought of somewhere else to eat for Antony’s sake. But considering he was probably concocting something wicked for when they got back home, Curt knew Antony was essentially forfeiting this round, reserving his energy for better things.

  “No, no. We’re already here. I’ll just… I’ll just eat something pastaish and sip on lemonade.”

  “Hey,” Curt said softly. He reached for Antony’s ear and tugged on the shell until Antony turned to him. “I’m sorry. I know you hate this place. The truth is….” He sighed.

  “What?” Antony asked, the teasing fading in the wake of Curt’s pensiveness.

  Curt shook his head, put the car in park, and killed the engine. “Never mind. Let’s go in, huh? I’ll eat fast.” He opened his door and got out. Without waiting for Antony to follow, he made his way to the restaurant’s entrance, then held the door for Antony, who hesitated before climbing out of the car and walking over.

  It was 6:43 p.m. on a Wednesday, and as such the dining room was relatively empty. The hostess, as much as a seventeen-year-old high school student could be called a hostess, told them to pick any seats they wanted.

  “Ant?”