In each of my sections I have rough students who are, contrary to my best guess otherwise, in love with me. They must be. During a test or quiet period, whenever I look up I see those same sets of shining white eyes watching me in the way an entomologist or a teenager would gaze at a mosquito that is sucking blood on his arm. My eyes rise up, meet the gaze fixed upon me, and immediately, nothing happens. These students just keep staring back. I am sure I see longing in those glossy orbs. I bug out my eyes to signal my discomfort, and there is still no reaction. I point at the student with two fingers and then make a gesture that looks like reading. Staring continues. Finally, in an exertion of authority that makes everyone uncomfortable, I say with a full voice above the silence: “Vivionna, concentrate on your work.” All the other students stop, look; some giggle; and Vivionna, or whoever it is, pretends not to watch me for the next five minutes.
They are probably not in love with me.
