The schoolgirl

I rubbed the wool. Thicker and stiffer than it appeared. A green plaid. I closed my eyes momentarily. I could move this along easily. I could get up from my kneeling position, stand, smile, and walk her to the door. I could simply not call her again. Plenty of other babysitters.

“C’mon, Mr. Forrest. Let me know what you think.”

I opened my eyes and looked up at Mia’s smiling face. My hand was between her legs, pausing at her woolen short skirt, at her school uniform skirt. Mia went to school with my daughter. Well, more accurately, they attended the same school, but were 10 years apart. Mia, a senior, had been babysitting episodically since my wife had died the year before. Mia was beautiful in a coltish, slightly awkward way. Six feet tall and athletic, she was the star volleyball player at their small girls school, a school that had been catering to our city’s rich and powerful for a century.

Mia had asked me to feel her legs to check for fat. Or, as she said, “c’mon Mr. Forrest, I’ve been working out like crazy, and I’m curious whether you think there’s been any change.”

I’d quickly squeezed a calf. She’d pouted, adding that I hadn’t given her enough time time to show off.

We were sitting on my couch in the living room. I was in shorts and a t shirt having just showered after returning from a quick game of tennis. She was, of course, still in her school uniform, having brought my daughter from school. My daughter, Fiona, had immediately bounced down to an hour-long piano lesson at a friend’s nearby apartment, because—well—they had a piano.

Mia had stayed. The school rule is that their skirts are not supposed to reach more than 6 inches above her knee. It was a rule routinely ignored, and the typical high schooler’s uniform skirts were closer to their panties than their knees—though they all wore green shorts under their skirts, so panties would always be hidden. Reclining on my couch, the bottom edge of Mia’s shorts was just visible below the green plaid.

I’d allowed myself to squeeze, gently, her calf. She’d flexed, and her calf swelled firmly to my touch.

“That feels good,” she’d said, “but calves are easy. Old fat guys have firm calves. The real challenge is getting strong higher, between your legs. That area is tougher.”

I’d made a face, but she’d added, “hey, I know you’re not a perv, but I’m proud of how hard I’ve worked. Give it an assessment. You’re an assessor, aren’t you?”

I’d smiled. Yes, I assessed risk for a hedge fund. Mia, Mia. I’d let my hand stray to her skirt. My daughter had the same skirts, in much smaller sizes. She had the same shorts. I rubbed the wool.

This was such a stereotype. Babysitter. Lolita provocateur with hesitant middle aged guy. Rich girl looking for trouble. Mia was even a countess. Well, her father was a German count, and I hadn’t investigated whether such a title went to the youngest daughter of a count who’d moved to the U.S.

I looked at her legs. I would likely never get a chance to touch such legs again. I could see the pale shorts hairs that prickled up her legs.