If Kramer appreciated her outfit, he gave no sign.
He turned his attention to his briefcase as she stepped around the back of the table. He pulled out a file folder, turned toward her and opened it. Inside was a stack of eight-by-ten pictures.
“Whitman?” she asked, peering at the upside-down face of the top portrait.
“Very good.”
“I used to play ‘Authors’ a lot when I was a kid.”
“How would you like to hang these up? Give the kids something worthwhile to gaze at while they’re daydreaming.”
“Great,” Lane said. “Where do you want them?”
He pointed out a strip of corkboard high on the front wall between the chalkboard and the ceiling. “Think you can manage that? You’d have to stand on the stool, I’m afraid.”
“No problem,” Lane said.
“Fine. Just fine. I’d give you papers to correct, but all I’ve got are essays. I really have to do those myself.”
“Oh, this’ll be okay.”
He took a clear plastic box of thumbtacks from his desk drawer and gave it to her along with the folder of pictures.
“Any special order you want them in?” Lane asked.
“Doesn’t matter.” He brought the stool from the corner of the room.
It was as high as Lane’s waist, with metal legs and a disk of wood for a seat. Each room seemed to have just such a stool. Teachers often perched on them, but Mr. Kramer never used his, preferring to sit on the front table when he addressed the class.
He carried it to the far end of the chalkboard. “Maybe I’d better hold something.”
Lane handed the pictures and tacks to him. He stood beside her, watching, frowning slightly.
“Don’t worry, I’m not planning to fall.”
“I’m sure you know what Burns said about the best-laid plans and schemes.”
“Promise you’ll catch me if they ‘gang a-gley’?”
“I’ll give it my best.”
She stepped onto a rung, planted her other knee on the seat, and braced herself against the chalkboard as she got to her feet.
“You okay up there?”
“Yeah, I think so.” She looked down at him and managed to smile. Her position didfeel precarious. There was little room for her feet and nothing to hold onto. But the corkboard was just in front of her face, so she wouldn’t have to stretch for it.
“Try one, see how it goes.” He passed the Whitman picture to her. Lane took it in her left hand. She reached her right arm across the front of her body, and Mr. Kramer dropped two tacks into her palm.
She raised the picture and pressed it flat against the corkboard. Holding it in place with one hand, she shoved a tack into its upper right corner.
And knew what her blouse was doing. She knew that she’d made a mistake when she selected it. But she’d thought she would be correcting papers, not climbing onto a stool and leaning forward with both arms extended and Mr. Kramer below her.
The hem was brushing the skin of her back at least an inch above the top of her skirt. Lane couldn’t see the front. She didn’t have to. She could well imagine the way it must be hanging away from her body. If Mr. Kramer happened to be looking in the right direction, he could probably see all the way up to her bra.
The knowledge gave her a hot, crawly feeling.
She pushed the other tack into place, lowered her arms and looked down at the teacher.
He nodded. “So far, so good,” he said, smiling. He gave her a photograph of Mark Twain.
“I can probably manage,” Lane said, “if you want to go ahead and correct the papers. Just give me the box of tacks and set the pictures on the chalk tray.”
“Sure you don’t want me here as a spotter?”
“I think I’ll be okay.”
He handed the tacks to Lane, then removed the short stack of pictures from the folder and propped them up on the chalk tray. He didn’t leave.
The hell with it, Lane thought. No big deal.
She went ahead and lifted Mark Twain up to the cork-board.
“Get him right there next to Walt. Maybe overlap the edges a little. You could use the same tack for both.”
He isn’t paying attention to me, anyway, she told herself.
Yeah? Don’t bet on it.
If he’s like most guys, he’s probably staring straight up my blouse. Or crouching for a peek at my panties.
She tucked the plastic box under her chin to free her right hand, and pried out the tack at the corner of the Whitman picture.
By now, she thought, Jim would have a hand sliding up my leg.
Mr. Kramer’s not Jim, thank God.
Besides, I’m a student. He wouldn’t dare touch me, even if he wanted to.
She overlapped the edges of the pictures and pushed in the tack. It held Mark Twain in place while she took the box from under her chin, crouched down, and lifted a portrait of Charles Dickens off the chalk tray. As she straightened up, she looked around at Mr. Kramer. He nodded with approval.
“Looks as if everything’s under control,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Just give a whistle if you need me,” he told her, and headed for his desk.
He sat down. He bent over a stack of papers and picked up a red pen.
Thank goodness, Lane thought.
She felt strange, though — not just relieved that he no longer stood below her, but a little disappointed, a little abandoned.
Guess he wasn’t all that impressed, she thought.
She rammed a tack through the corners of Dickens and Twain.
I didn’t wanthim looking up my clothes!
Maybe he didn’t even take advantage of the opportunity.
She climbed down from the stool, adjusted its position, and saw Mr. Kramer turn to watch her mount it. “Careful,” he said. She smiled and nodded.
And a terrible thought struck her.
What if he thinks I dressed like this to turn him on?
Fire spread over Lane’s skin.
He must think I’m a slut.
As she tacked up a picture of Tennyson, beads of sweat slid down her sides.
I did want to look nice for him, she told herself. But I had no idea...
She wished to God she had worn jeans and a long-tailed blouse. A blouse she could have tucked in tight.
I would’ve, she thought. So help me, I would’ve if I’d had any idea...
I’m not a slut.
What if he thinks I did it for grades?
A lot of kids were known to flirt with their teachers in hopes of getting higher marks. Some probably even offered sex. Though Lane didn’t know of anyone who’d done that, she supposed it sometimes happened.
I’m already getting an A from him, Lane told herself. He can’t think I dressed like this for a better grade.
For that matter, why should he even suspect I wore this stuff for him? He probably just thinks I’m just trying to look good for a boyfriend.
Lane began to feel better as the sickening heat of embarrassment subsided.
Sure, she thought. He can’t suspect I dressed for him. He’s no mind reader.
She continued to put the pictures up, balancing on the stool, bending over for new ones, reaching out, tacking them to the corkboard, frequently climbing down and moving the stool closer to Mr. Kramer’s desk.
Often, she glanced at him. Usually, he was busy reading the essays. A few times, however, she found him looking over his shoulder at her. When that happened, he never tried to turn away and pretend he wasn’t watching. He never acted guilty. He usually just smiled or nodded, and made a comment: “You’re doing a good job,” or “Glad it’s you and not me up there,” or “Don’t push yourself if you start getting tired.”
Lane finally began to suspect that he didn’t care about the way she was dressed.
I might as well be wearing coveralls, she thought.
She wondered if he might be gay.
Give it a break, she told herself. What do you want? He’s a teacher.
She stepped down to the floor once again and moved the stool a couple of feet nearer to his desk. Swiveling his chair around, he scanned the high row of pictures. “Terrific,” he said. “They add a nice touch to the room, don’t you think?”