“Didn’t used to be.”
“Just in my room, huh?” He smiled.
“Looks that way.”
They stopped at the double doors of the girls’ rest room. “I’ll wait here while you go in and take a look around.”
“You don’t think Riley?..”
“Never hurts to be careful, Lane.”
She pushed open one of the doors and entered. The air reeked of stale smoke. Though the place appeared deserted, she checked each of the stalls. About half the toilets were unflushed, all the seats looked wet, and so did the tile floor around each fixture. But Riley wasn’t lurking about. Feeling a little disgusted, she returned to the door and opened it.
“Nobody here, Mr. Kramer.”
“Fine. I’ll see you back in the room.”
As he walked away, Lane let the door swing shut. She stepped up to a sink, turned on the hot water, and pumped greenish-yellow liquid soap into her palm. Though her face was dry, she could still smell Riley’s saliva. She started washing.
Sure isn’t my day, she thought.
The crud. Why would he want to do something like that?
I should’ve known better than to mess with him. Now he’ll really want to get me.
Even worse, Mr. Kramer might get into trouble for slugging him.
Lane wished she had stayed home. If she’d been absent, none of this would’ve happened with Riley. She even would’ve had a good excuse for breaking off tonight’s date. Should’ve just stayed in bed this morning and pretended to be sick.
It’ll be all right, she told herself. It isn’t the end of the world. And Mr. Kramer was terrific.
She dried with paper towels. When she finished, she saw in the mirror that her skin was a little red around her mouth and chin. Her eyes had a weird, dazed look. She shook her head as if to wake herself up. Then she tucked in her blouse and left the rest room.
Arriving at the front door of the classroom, she glanced in. Mr. Kramer hadn’t returned yet. She heard quiet murmurs and laughter. Sounded like everyone was behaving — sort of. But she didn’t want to step inside until the teacher was there. Everyone would stare at her, ask questions, offer comments. So she stepped away from the door and leaned back against a locker.
Finally Mr. Kramer came strolling up the corridor. She stood up straight when he stopped in front of her.
“Are you feeling all right?” he asked.
“Yeah. How did it go in the office?”
“I explained the situation. It looks as if our friend Benson will find himself transferred to Pratt.”
Pratt was the “alternate school,” mostly designed as a holding pen for students with chronic behavior problems.
“God, I feel like it’s all my fault.”
“Benson already had one foot in Pratt’s door. This just nudged him the rest of the way. My only regret is that you had to be one of his victims. It makes me sick when something like that happens to a sweet kid like you.”
His words set a pleasant warmth flowing through her.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ve got a class to teach.”
She followed him into the room.
With a minute remaining before the final bell, Mr. Kramer read off the names of the four students chosen to accompany him to the city college production of Hamlet. “Are all of you still planning to make it?” he asked.
They nodded, muttered “Yes” and “Sure.”
“Okay. Jerry and Heidi,” he said to the alternates, “it looks like you’re out of luck. Sorry. Maybe there’ll be another opportunity later in the year. I want you others to stay in your seats for just a second after the bell rings, and I’ll fill you in on the situation.”
Class ended. Everyone filed out except Lane, George, Aaron, and Sandra.
“Okay,” Mr. Kramer said. “Curtain is at eight-thirty tomorrow night. I’ll pick each of you up in my car between about seven and eight, so write your address on a piece of scrap paper and hand it to me before you leave the room. Any questions?”
“What should we wear?” Sandra asked.
“I think a sport coat and tie would be appropriate for the guys. As for you two young ladies, this isn’t the prom, but I’d like you looking good. After all, you’ll be representing Buford High. Anything else?”
There were no more questions.
Lane took out her binder. She wrote her address on a sheet of loose-leaf paper and waited at her desk while the other students gave their slips to Mr. Kramer. When they were gone, she approached him.
“Thank you,” he said, taking her paper.
“Do you have some work for me?”
Smiling, he shook his head. “This is Friday, Lane. Why don’t we both knock it off early? Besides, after what Benson put you through, I’d think you might want to get out of here.”
“Oh, I kind of enjoy helping you.”
“There’s always next week, if you’re that eager.”
“You’re sure you don’t want me to stay?”
“I’m sure. Thanks, though.”
“Well, let me get the poetry book for you.” She returned to her desk and crouched to take it from the rack under the seat. “Dad read quite a bit of it,” she said, looking over her shoulder. “He’d never heard of DePrey. He thought the poems were pretty neat.”
“Glad to hear it. I’m looking forward to meeting him tomorrow night.”
Lane stood up, turning, and handed the book to her teacher. “I read the whole thing, myself.”
“Terrific. I hope you didn’t have any nightmares.”
She smiled. “None that I remember.”
“Why don’t you get your things together?” he said. “I’ll walk you out to the parking lot. I’m sure Benson’s long gone, but...”
“Never hurts to be careful,” she interrupted, repeating what he’d told her in front of the rest room.
“I couldn’t have put it better myself.”
“I’ll have to stop by my locker,” she said.
“No problem.”
It took Mr. Kramer a few minutes to get ready. Finally he said, “All set,” and they left the room. Several kids were still in the hallway, standing in front of open lockers or heading out, some talking with friends, some laughing. Lane wished they were all gone, the school deserted except for herself and Mr. Kramer.
Right. And what would you do, throw yourself into his arms?
They walked in silence. Lane searched her mind for something to say — something that might force him to see her as a woman, not just as a student.
Ask about his love life, she thought, and rolled her eyes upward. Sure thing. That’d be subtle. Besides, what if he isgay? No way. He couldn’t be. Not Mr. Kramer.
She arrived at her locker. “It’ll just be a second,” she said.
“No rush.”
She shifted her load of books to her left arm and hugged them against her chest.
“Here, I’ll hold them for you.”
“Oh, I can...”
“Chivalry ain’t dead yet,” he said, setting down his briefcase. His left hand braced the bottom of the stack. His right hand slipped between the top book and her breast. It pressed against her, warm through the blouse. A knuckle rubbed her stiff nipple. She felt a warm, trembling rush. Then his hand was gone.
She turned to her locker, bent over, and began to spin the dial of its combination lock.
Did he touch me there on purpose? she wondered. No. It was just an accident. But there was no possible way he could’ve not noticed what was against his hand.
She got the combination wrong.
She got it wrong again.
“You’re sure this is the right locker?” he asked.
“Yeah. I’m just not thinking straight.”
“Rough day.”
She smiled at him. “It’s getting to be the story of my life. If I’m not falling off a stool, I’m getting attacked.”
She tried the combination again. This time it worked. She opened her locker. Mr. Kramer didn’t touch her at all when he returned the books. She put some away, kept others, struggled to concentrate on which of those in her locker she would need for homework. Finally she took out her denim book bag. When it was full, she buckled it shut and closed her locker. She lifted the bag by its shoulder straps.
“All set?” Mr. Kramer asked, picking up his briefcase.