She took the letter off the printer, folded it precisely in thirds, and slipped it into a long envelope. She neatly wrote “Mr. Timothy Davis” in block capital letters. Her printer had an attachment for printing on envelopes, but she’d never been able to make it work. Everyone’s capital letters looked pretty much the same, anyway.

Should she stick on a “LOVE” stamp? She was a big fan of irony. But maybe Mr. Davis wasn’t. She sighed and held the letter in her hand, balancing it. Three minutes later she was on her bike. Spring had finally arrived, and the late-afternoon sun made her feel extra alive. As if the stuff that ran in the veins of Greek gods—ichor?—coursed through hers too. She turned her head for a second and let the wind blow her warm hair across her face.

Mr. Davis’s house was only a dozen blocks away. Megan coasted past, making sure his car was not in the driveway. She braked to a stop, walked purposefully up the brick path, and pushed the letter through the slot in the door. Then she headed back to finish off her homework.

That night she lay in bed, another math problem set successfully conquered, and pictured her letter’s reception: Mr. Davis coming home. Mr. Davis seeing the envelope on the floor. Mr. Davis picking it up, opening it, reading it. Mr. Davis’s thing getting hard in his pants.

Megan put her hand between her legs and found she was much wetter than usual. The letter was definitely a great idea. She flopped over on her stomach, both hands underneath her. Again and again she flashed on Mr. Davis, her letter in his hands, the front of his pants poking out. That’s my boner, she thought. I gave it to you, and it is all mine.

When the orgasm came, it was one of the good ones, emptying her out and leaving her cheeks tingling.

The next day was Wednesday, which meant U.S. history and Mr. Davis at eleven. Megan was in her seat up front at ten fifty-eight. Mr. Davis entered the classroom exactly two minutes later.

For fifty minutes he talked about Theodore Roosevelt’s accomplishments as mayor of New York. For fifty minutes Megan watched him, seeking some sign of change. She watched him pace the area around his desk like a big cat. She watched him illustrate his sentences with sweeping strokes on the blackboard. She watched his crotch. Nothing.

The bell rang. Megan felt the sting of loss, sharp as when her father had grounded her the weekend of the canoe trip. She stood quickly and walked to the door, pausing to let Kirsten Wallace catch up. Kirsten languished in the back row of Mr. Davis’s class, doomed to separation from her friend by the tyranny of the alphabet.