More Than One Way To Get An A

Aaliyah sits across from her, books open, trying to keep Samantha locked on mitochondria. But the kid won’t look at her notes. Keeps sliding those dark eyes down Aaliyah’s blouse like she’s already undressing her. The tutor stops mid-sentence, drops the stack. “Talk. Now.” Samantha leans in. “You’re really hot,” she says, low. “Can’t think with your face right there.” Claims she’s been wondering about girls. Knows Aaliyah’s played around with them. Wonders if her teacher will show her. Aaliyah should laugh it off. Instead the protest slips out soft: “I’m nearly twice your age.” She still remembers being that restless. Wasted time, chose the wrong mouths, the wrong nights. Here sits a girl asking for the map she never got. Aaliyah feels the corner she’s backed into—and likes the angle. Consent clears the last few inches between them. Aaliyah stretches an arm along the couch back, fingers grazing Samantha’s jaw. The girl leans in like someone offered water in a desert. Clothes come off quick, but the lesson lingers. Aaliyah keeps the touch slow—strokes, then lingers, until Samantha’s breathing clips short and her thighs tremble. When the first gasp leaves her, the older woman smiles against her throat. “Pay attention, kid. I’m gonna show you what books won’t.”