Nicole Matino and the sweater

Have you ever fallen in love with someone, and the moment it happened, not only did it throw you completely for a loop, for you didn’t understand precisely how in the name of God you could find yourself drawn to such a person? Moreover, you knew that no matter what happened, no matter what you did, no matter what you said, no matter how you felt, no matter the time, place, or circumstance, there was absolutely nothing you could do to pursue such a relationship, for it certainly would never, ever work out in the end. I had one of those, eleven years ago, and her name was Nicole Matino.

For those of you who went to high school with me or at least around the same time at Glens Falls High School, you certainly remember her. She looked like an Italian version of Hillary Banks (aka Karyn Parsons) from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. She was also my 11th grade English teacher.

I sat in the front row, right below the podium which she stood during every lesson. Her curly, yet wavy hair was thick and vibrant; I desperately wanted to run my hands through it every single class. She smelled great, though I couldn’t name the scent or even describe it, other than by saying it was the scent I assumed angels had. Her olive skin was smooth, I never once saw a blotch or a pimple or a blemish, though if I had I would have glanced over it for she was perfect in every way, no matter how my senses lied to me with the truth.

The class was second period, which gave me ample reason to come to school early, but not stay late. By ten o’clock, my day was over, my life was over, for surely nothing would compare to the magnificence of reading poems about Indians and trains, and The Great Gatsby and The Scarlet Letter and writing poems and papers only to impress her for the rest of eternity. In fact, I’m not altogether convinced my desire to write a novel and become a true author isn’t part of a twenty year plan to woo and marry her.

Like any other sixteen year-old with little to no chance and far too many chips on my shoulder, I couldn’t do anything but insult the woman of my dreams; the old pull-the-pigtails-of-the-girl-you-like-play. Never in all my years before or since had I ever been such a ball-busting prick, douchebag cock-sucker to anyone than I was during that second period in the spacious classroom next to the boy’s bathroom where everyone smoked. There wasn’t a day I didn’t give her jazz about something. It got to the point even my classmates would ask me to lay off her. I retorted by saying under my breath, “Lay off her? I’d much prefer lay on her…” I never said it aloud, for fear my terrible secret of infatuation with the hot teacher be realized.

It got to the point where she threatened me in the hallway right before my history class in a room she proctored a study hall the period before. I’d always walk in, she’d always walk out, and though I wouldn’t say anything, my look, she thought it disgust; I knew it to be love, spoke volumes. This one day in particular, sometime around winter break, just before Christmas, she met me before I entered and bade me a few steps away so we could be alone. “Mr. Johansson,” she said with her airy, squeaky voice, attempting to sound firm. “Your attitude in class and towards me has to stop.”

I hemmed and hawed, and rolled my eyes a bit, I couldn’t muster the words with which I secretly desired to speak, the truth was bubbling inside, the kettle about to burst, but I demurred as best I could. “What do you mean?” I knew what she meant, my snide comments; my passive attitude towards her authority. If she were my mother, she would have had my father spank me. (Must… not… fantasize… about Ms. Matino spanking me…)

“You are vicious and cruel to me, and if you don’t stop it, you will find yourself in a whole heap of trouble,” I thought she might cry, it was hard for her to stand up to me. She had probably spoken with another teacher or a principal about the situation, she knew she must act and stand up for herself for once before she request detention or suspension as my punishment; a punishment I would have deserved.

I hung my head low, feigning sorrow, actually checking her out head to toe. She wore a purple sweater, with red and green interlaced. It was my favorite color, with a Christmas theme to boot. It was Friday, so she was wearing blue jeans. They were fitting perfectly, though I couldn’t see her ass, I knew it looked amazing in those Levi’s. I didn’t want to say sorry, for I didn’t yet have the ability, “I was just having some fun,” I insisted. I knew it wouldn’t matter to her I never meant a word of what I said; I only ever wanted her attention from the moment she arrived at the school a year previous.

She chided me again and again, pointing her finger in my face, wagging it like a beagle’s tail. I looked straight into her dark eyes, and realized I would do anything for her to smile at me right then and there, so I relented, apologized, said I wouldn’t ever do it again, and practically begged forgiveness. I meant it when I said it.

With a stack of papers in her hand, which was getting heavier by the moment, she said goodbye and turned to leave for her office; I turned around and headed into the classroom. Before she left my sight, I attempted to start anew with her, paying a compliment, “Ms. Matino,” she turned towards me, throwing her luscious, dark hair over her shoulder as she did it, as if she knew what she was doing to me, “I love your sweater, by the way.” She rolled her eyes and left without saying anything.

The year passed with little incident; I was nicer, she was more subdued. I got an “A” in the class; she called me “Mr. Johansson” repeatedly, as if I was constantly in trouble, and she was the judge from 9:20-10:00 every morning. It was cold and biting, and because it was with her, I loved every moment of it.

The next year, my senior year, she proctored my study hall, which I routinely skipped with a forged pass. We didn’t speak much, but her dark brown eyes would routinely lock on my light green ones for seconds which actually lasted for eons. I was cruising through the year, no longer caring about the entire enterprise of high school in April when she approached me.

“Mr. Johansson,” she said to me as I was doing history homework Monday morning, “I’m here to bribe you.” I knew this was coming, and my heart melted by the way she put it. She was directing a production of Twelve Angry Men, the first performance was Friday night, and one of her cast members dropped out. I was no great shakes at acting, though I was fairly competent and active in the music and drama circles of the school during my tenure. She needed me to fill in, she would have done anything for me, or so it seemed.

There were two ways I could go with it: either I could be a Joshua Jackson on Dawson’s Creek and be a complete cad and extort her for a date or a kiss or anything else I could think of (for she offer to do “anything for me” should I agree), or I could be honorable and attempt to make up for my past asshole-ness by agreeing to fill-in at the last minute in her production. Had I been twenty-seven instead of seventeen and knowledgeable about how the world really works, I would have picked the former; however, I wasn’t the cynical and twisted by the slings and arrows of life as I am now back then, so I went with the latter..

“Don’t worry about it,” I said as she looked with deep despair into my eyes, the look smacked of love, at least I convinced myself it did. “I will do the show for you, and you don’t have to do anything for me.” With little to no rehearsal time and help from the rest of the cast, I performed admirably, all things considered.

We were at the wrap party, she handed me a letter she wrote on her stationary, a letter I have kept up until recently when it was destroyed in a storage space along with many other objects of varying degrees of importance. In part it read, “You saved the show, I don’t know what I would have done without you. I know we didn’t really get along last year, but I’m glad we have worked past that.” It was a cherished letter for what she said and for everything which was unsaid as well.

We became close afterwards; I spent the last months of my school life rather friendly with her, which I greatly appreciated. We spoke while I was on break from college the next year. I told her how sorry I was for what I said and did to her, for I was completely immature and in love with her and I was unable to express it in any way other than I had. I apologized profusely; I said all those things I should have said two years previous.

She replied, “I knew it.” I smiled, she smiled. “I could take everything you said, for I knew what your secret motivation was, with one exception.”

“What was that?” I implored, with a wry smile, curious of my real effect on this woman.

“I loved that sweater, my mother got it for me, and after you insulted it, I never wore it again.” She had an adamant expression, I was at a loss; I had no memory of insulting a sweater, on the contrary.

“You mean that purple Christmas sweater? I told you I liked it. The one time I told you the truth…”