P is for Petrichor
By: Jeanne Goshe
Tags: Nonfiction, Sexual Assault, Teachers, Mwc Death, High School

In 2008, I was living in Los Angeles and working as a freelance producer for a cable network. Since I didn’t really know much about “producing,” I usually spent my 4-hour edit sessions seated quietly in the back of the edit bay, perusing Facebook, while a skilled editor did the actual work.

That’s how I stumbled upon “The Mr. P Fan Club.”

To my knowledge, there weren’t many teachers from my high school who had achieved the enviable status of a Facebook fan page. But it made sense that Mr. P would have one. For one thing, people actually called him “Mr. P.” He had a real last name that consisted of more than just the one letter, but he was the sort of teacher that students were chummy with in that sitcom-y, one letter sort of way.

I scrolled down, reading the comments from hundreds of former students. Some of them had graduated years before me. Some of them were friends with my brother. Some of them had sat in the same freshman honors English class that I had. The comments ranged from thoughtful and carefully composed, (as though Mr. P might be grading them), to hastily written inside jokes. (Mr. P rocks! Free bacon! LOL!)

Mr. P was a popular teacher–probably as close to a celebrity as an English teacher in northeastern Ohio can be. I followed in the footsteps of two older brothers, and I’d been hearing stories about Mr. P since I was in 3rd grade.

On my first day of high school, I arrived in Mr. P’s third period English class. We went through all the normal boring first day things. Syllabus. Roll call. Assigning seats. The usual. Then somehow, in the middle of talking about vocab tests and research papers, he went off on a tangent, launching into a long rant about whether or not he should stop wearing leather. We didn’t know it at the time, but this was a well-rehearsed routine. We would later learn from older siblings and upperclassmen that this speech was an annual event. The performance culminated in him removing his shoes and belt, and hurling them out the window, much to the confusion of the class. It was not entirely clear if it was meant to be funny or not. He then pointed to me and Jacob Stein and ordered us to go outside and retrieve them. I was comforted by this omen of undeserved favoritism.

It was a fun class. Or, at least, more fun than other classes. Because no matter how funny or quirky or passionate the teacher, conjugating verbs is never really a roaring good time. And while Mr. P could be a fun teacher, he was unreasonably strict about trivial things, like which direction the staple should go on a research paper (vertical). He didn’t listen to excuses or budge on deadlines. My good friend, Amy, learned this when she had a printer failure the day an outline was due. He liked Amy and she was one of the top students in his class, but he made no exception for her. He was kind of a hardass, tbh. And when he was trying to convey something of the utmost seriousness, I always thought that he lapsed into the faintest (fake) British accent.

But for the most part, people didn’t fault him for being mean or pretentious. (Although, he really was both at times.) But he made up for it in other ways. In the winter, we read A Christmas Memory by Truman Capote. Mr. P read the story aloud in class, positively giddy with excitement. You know when someone gets really excited to tell a joke and they start laughing before they get to the punchline? It was like that. When he got to the part where the old woman says, “Oh my! It’s fruitcake weather, Buddy!” he exclaimed it in his best Southern lady falsetto. We spent the greater part of the class giggling, repeating this phrase, and discussing what, exactly, fruitcake weather is.

I regaled my mom and my brother Jeff with my own tales from English class. Jeff would chuckle and nod his head in appreciation. But Joe, I learned, felt differently. “That guy? I don’t know. He’s kind of a dick,” he said, casually. I was scandalized. We don’t speak ill of Mr. P! Not in this house! I was shocked that I had never heard this opinion before. But Joe recalled an incident from his own high school days when, upon asking about the due date of a research paper, Mr. P became outraged, repeating a chorus of melodramatic “How dare you?! How dare yous?” Joe, confused about what he had dared to do, other than ask a straightforward question, understandably, became less of a fan.

I found it so hard to believe. I’ve always admired my brothers and trusted their opinions. But this was confusing. Jeff liked him. Joe didn’t. I felt deeply conflicted.

But the truly troubling thing was that as a current student of Mr. P, I had very little trouble believing Joe’s story. I had witnessed similar disproportionate outbursts in my class. Kelly, a girl in my class, was one of the more memorable victims. Not memorable for what she actually did to incite him—I have no idea what set him off. But it wasn’t every day that a teacher made someone cry.

And to be clear, I would have cried too, in Kelly’s shoes. Mr. P could be scary. Impressive, considering his decidedly unimpressive physical presence. He was a small man in his 50s with a weak chin and prominent ears. But he knew how to project. (He was also the speech teacher.) So the class would silently watch as Mr. P berated my friend Jeni, who once dared refer to Pip from Great Expectations as “a prick.” (Despite the fact that Mr. P might have used the same word to describe our principal, just last week.) And afterward, Mr. P had lost one fan, but the rest of the class remained unswayed in their allegiance, just happy that it hadn’t been them.

And since I made it through my freshman year without ever being the target of his rage (unlike Joe, Kelly, or Jeni), I took no issue with his eccentricities, or, as Joe might call it, dickheadedness. I liked him because he criticized other teachers, mocked the principal, and most of all, because he liked me, a quality I’ve always found admirable in any person.

So, throughout my somewhat miserable high school career, I maintained a close relationship with Mr. P. For 4 years, I was a frequent visitor to his classroom after school. He would perk up when he saw me approach his door and wave me in. I never had a real reason for stopping by and he never expected me to. I just liked hanging out with him.

During my senior year, I worked in his room during my free period, grading the same vocabulary tests that I myself had taken as a freshman. It was common for teachers to have an aide. But Mr. P never had just one aide. The year that I worked for him, there were four of us at one point, all girls. He joked that it was like Charlie’s Angels, only our assignments were less espionage and more preparing his instant oatmeal the way he liked it. (“Watery as hell.”) At the end of the year, he took the four of us out to Taco Bell during our lunch period. He also gave us each a handwritten thank you note with a 50 dollar bill tucked inside.

That same year, I elected to take his speech class. Like most normal people, I hate public speaking. I get very sweaty and become suddenly and painfully aware of how my voice sounds a little too much like Lisa Simpson’s. But I had no choice. It was the last chance to have him as a teacher and it was practically a requirement for any dedicated Mr. P groupie.

And that’s what I was, right? A groupie? There were lots of us. I wasn’t the only student visiting him after school. And it was common practice for recent graduates to stop by to see him while they were home on break from college. But, the thing that was obvious to me, is that he liked me more than he liked those other kids. It sounds childish and petty, but it was high school, after all. He was friendly to other students. But he seemed to genuinely enjoy my company. Maybe he treated me differently because he knew my family so well. (My mom had his home phone number.) But for whatever reason, he made me feel like I was special. Of course, I’ve always suspected that I was an extraordinarily interesting person, but it was more rare that someone else seemed to think so. “You’re an enigma, Jeanne. You know that?” he often told me, making good use of one of our BEV words. And though, at that time in my life, I had no particular ambitions, I considered him a mentor.

So, in September of 2005, just before I started my senior year at Ohio State, I managed to squeeze in a visit to the high school, despite my busy schedule of television watching and catching up on doctors’ appointments. I wandered into the newly renovated high school (after going to the dentist) several minutes before the last bell. I found his new classroom and lurked outside the door. I peered in the small window, inadvertently attracting the attention of most of the students, who were anxious to be dismissed from their final class of the day. Following their gaze, he spotted me and excitedly ushered me in, presenting me to his class.

“Everyone, this is Mrs. P.”

I smiled, and clumsily played along, not expecting anyone to buy it for a moment. I was 21, but probably could have passed for 16.

“Hi honey, sorry to interrupt,” I said as he hugged me.

Obviously enjoying the impromptu theatrics, he continued the charade. The disbelieving class was our audience as we played this weird game of “house.” He asked what we were having for dinner that evening, and I told him I thought we’d just go out. (I’ve never been good at improv.) When the bell rang, the confused students gave me their final questioning glances as they filed out. It was undoubtedly the subject of many text messages that afternoon.

Once they had gone, he sat down at his desk, still chuckling, and I picked a seat in the front row, directly across from him, just like a teacher’s pet.

“You look good,” he told me, smiling.

“I just got back from the dentist.”

“You have great teeth. Am I allowed to say that?”

“Sure,” I said. “I’m not a student anymore,” I joked.

It had been over a year since I had seen him last. We briefly discussed school and my family. I’d be graduating in the spring. Jeff had gotten married earlier that month. (Mr. P had been invited, but did not attend.) I told him about the internship I had just finished. He wanted to know everything. He was excited about my future. More excited than I was, honestly! But the conversation kept coming back to my “love life,” a phrase that has always grossed me out. He wanted to know about my boyfriend. “Do you love him? Are you going to marry him? Have you cheated on him? What about in high school? Who was that one guy you talked about? Did you sleep with him?”

I assured him that I was not yet thinking about marriage, but found the line of questioning a little odd. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe this was normal small-talk and I just didn’t know. Besides, we’re all adults here, I figured. He reminded me once more that he wanted to know when I did get married.

“You need to call me. I’m serious,” he said.

“Yeah, I get it,” I replied, starting to tire of the constant reiteration.

He carried on like that for a while, talking without really saying anything new, complimenting me and then asking for permission to compliment me. Something had changed. There was discomfort in the air, or at least in me, and it wasn’t entirely due to the fact that I was seated in a small plastic chair with an attached desktop. I felt sweaty and noticed my gums beginning to ache from the teeth cleaning. He was talking, as usual, in a very grand, very dramatic fashion, but I wasn’t really following what he was saying. He talked faster, in vague expressions, with growing momentum before he finally interrupted himself.

“No, I’m not — I shouldn’t say…” (He really made a meal of those ellipses.)

“What?” I urged him to continue, not really wanting to know what would follow the suspenseful punctuation. Maybe it was some sort of morbid curiosity.

“No, I can’t… Ok, do you really want to know?”

“Sure.”

He launched into a lengthy answer, the volume and intensity in his voice growing. “I mean, I don’t want to be one of those guys — you know, ‘I’m middle-aged and my wife doesn’t understand me so why don’t you sleep with me’, but…”

I thought that it was possible that I could sit quietly in the desk, and never respond, as if he had just asked a very hypothetical question in a lecture, but he continued.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say this. I can’t say this, can I?” he asked, although he didn’t seem to want an answer.

“Say whatever you want,” I said tensely, unsure of how one responds to something like this. Storm out? Give him a round of applause?

“So, does your wife understand you?” I attempted, not really caring, but wanting to fill the silence.

“Yes — well, not really. It doesn’t matter.”

“I see.”

Perhaps he believed that I only returned year after year because of some longstanding school-girl crush. That maybe all I needed was a little encouragement. A little push. Unfortunately, for both of us, I had no such crush and the word “crush” is another thing that grosses me out. So I sat in the desk, paralyzed, at a complete loss for words.

Disgusted and disappointed, I tried to lighten the mood. “Well, I hope the principal doesn’t drop by. That could be awkward!”

But he didn’t join me in my mood-lightening efforts. He had come this far. I guess he figured it was no time for ambiguity.

“I would like to spend a weekend with you, Jeanne.”

Well, that might be nice, I thought. I imagined drinking coffee and strolling through a museum.

“Can I say that? How about this: I would like to sleep with you.”

The museum vanished and I imagined being in a hotel room with a jowel-y little man in his late 50s. I could think of no words that might end this conversation.

“Well, I guess you can say whatever you want now. I’m not a student.” I said.

The longer I sat at that desk, the younger I felt. Not knowing how to extricate myself from the situation, I babbled, trying to change the subject. I think part of me was in shock and part of me just couldn’t bear to leave on such a weird note. I think he asked me about some of my old classmates, what they were up to. I’m not really sure. Finally, I regained control of my legs and began my exit.

“I really have to get going. I’m meeting a friend for dinner.” It was true, but I was so desperate to leave that it sounded like a lie, even to me. He apologized more, complimented me more, and reminded me that he was entirely serious.

“Really, Jeanne. I want you to call me before you get married so that we can spend a weekend together.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, unsmiling, placating him.

“Please keep in touch. Email me,” he urged.

“Sure.”

“Can I give you a hug?”

“Okay,” I told him. I felt defeated.

And then, as I should have known, he attempted to turn an awkward hug into an incredibly awkward kiss. Instinctively, I turned my head, in what could only be perceived as repulsion. His thin, dry lips touched my face. I was so close to the door. I easily could have knocked him down and ran for it, but it was like a bad dream when you try to scream and nothing comes out. I felt angry and sick but I just stood there, his face still much too close to mine.

“If you’re going to kiss me, really kiss me,” he said, attempting what he likely saw as a romantic leading-man maneuver where he pushed me away from the door, to the more private and romantic chalkboard. His lips were now wet and he pressed them forcefully against mine. My mind raced as I replayed his words. It was almost funny, the absurdity of this statement. I was obviously not going to kiss him, and certainly had no interest in really kissing him. I struggled to see how he was viewing me as an active participant in this encounter.

I escaped his desperate embrace and spat out some words. “I really, really have to go.” I walked briskly, almost breaking into a trot, down the long hall, hoping to god he wasn’t watching me.

A week later, he emailed me. The only other time he had emailed me was in response to a request for a letter of recommendation. The email said something like, “I can’t sleep. I’m dying here. I need to talk to you.” I deleted it. I had no desire to work on a cure for his insomnia.

I felt bad. Not because I believed I had done anything wrong, but because I hated to think about the way he was probably feeling. Maybe I had overreacted. I wasn’t a student. It wasn’t illegal, was it? I was 21. So he wanted to sleep with me. I couldn’t blame him for that. Everyone should want to sleep with me! But not him.

I felt bad for being so upset. It wasn’t even that big a deal, was it? And I felt bad because everyone liked him and I didn’t want to ruin that. (But I kind of did want to ruin that.) I told my brother Joe, because I knew he wouldn’t care that much. “Yeah, that guy was always a dick,” he said. I purposely didn’t tell my mom. There was no reason to. I waited a few years to tell Jeff. “Canceling my fan club membership and returning the decoder ring,” he told me.