"Drop dead," said Linda loudly enough for the people around her to hear.
He leaned over to whisper to her and said throatily, "You still have a lot to learn, Linda. I could teach you so much."
"Get lost," whispered Linda. Then she noticed that several people were looking at her very quizzically, as if she had possibly lost her mind.
"Excuse me, Mr. O'Neill," she said in a loud voice, "but I've got to go meet my husband. It's been so nice talking with you."
"The pleasure was all mine," he said in his most friendly tone.
She wound up having to wait around the gate entrance to the stadium for the next half hour before Steve finally showed up, minutes before he was supposed to help her take tickets to the game.
Steve gave her the big kiss and hug that he saved for special occasions and Linda kissed him back perfunctorily. "Oh, honey, I'm sorry I'm late. I hope you're not too upset with me."
"A little bit. What in the world was so important that you had to run off like that?"
"Well, you want to know the truth?" he asked in his most sincere voice. Linda nodded yes. "Well, OK. I had to talk with a client whose going to pay me a lot of money if I de-bug his program. He needs it right away, so I'll have to work on it most of this weekend. It'll mean a lot of extra money to us, so I figured you'd understand. You do understand, don't you, Linda?"
Linda nodded her head again. But she was so angry that she could not talk. If only Steve had just admitted that yes, he had screwed Rosemary O'Neill and that he was sorry about it. But now he was trying to set himself up so he could go back and do the same thing again. But now Laura shed no tears, since she had cried so often in the last two days that she could hardly summon them up any longer. Instead, she began to plan how she might go about divorcing Steve. Damn it, if she'd only had a camera to shoot a picture of Steve and Rosemary O'Neill while they were rolling around on that living room floor. Then she'd be in Fat City.
It was as if Linda had finally left her childhood behind her and stopped trusting anyone but herself. All these thoughts ran through her mind as she sat at a card table with Steve and they both took tickets from high school kids. Many of them said, "Hello, Mrs. White," to Linda, which impressed Steve endlessly. "Oh well," he said to her, "I guess we won't have any real problems like they do at other schools with these games. I hear a teacher got raped at one of the games in the South Bay area a few weeks back." He was smiling as if he'd told a funny joke.
Linda couldn't take it any longer. "I've got to go to the Ladies Room, Steve," she said in a quivering voice. "I'll be back in a minute."
"You're not upset, are you Linda?" asked Steve as he stood up from his card table seat.
"Yes, I am. You men think sexual abuse is just one big joke," said Linda, her voice trembling.
"Oh, dry up," said Steve, looking annoyed that other people seemed to be taking in this discussion. If Steve hated anything, it was making a scene in public.
"Go to hell!" yelled Linda. And she turned and fled to the restroom, where she cried for a good five minutes. Men could be such horrible creatures. To run around like satyrs and then talk about rape as if it were just a scratch to the finger, just a minor annoyance.
The crying, as it usually did, made her feel a lot better. She'd better get back before someone hassled Steve, although their stretch was just about over with right now. Maybe she'd just go get a seat. She didn't really care if he found her or not.
When she walked out of the Ladies Room, she was met by a milling throng. It seemed as if everyone at the high school had decided to show up to this game, she thought, as she spotted the car-club boys, the pot heads, the scholars, and of course, the good kids who had a squeaky clean look to them. And oddly enough there were even a few of the hoody motorcycle-gang types there, the five or six burly guys who showed up at school in dirty leather jackets reading "The Blasters" and "Don't Mess With Us". Linda had gone out of her way to be friendly with them since she had three of them in one of her classes.
She stepped out gingerly, trying not to get knocked over by the surging crowd. "Hi, Mrs. White," said Pam, the cheerleader who had inside love to Gary, the football player, in her classroom earlier that day. Linda tried not to look shocked and smiled at her, then said, "You look very nice tonight, Pam."
Pam now came right up to her and asked, "Do you really think so, Mrs. White?"
Linda could tell that Pam was very serious, which surprised the dickens out of her. Pam was the kind of girl, with her long black hair and peaches and cream complexion, along with a body more appropriate for a Parisian prostitute rather than a Marley High School cheerleader, that inspired wet dreams and hiving her male classmates reduced to squirming in their chairs near the end of a class period. But Linda knew how insecure many teenagers were about how they looked, and knew that was why many of them did as a reaction was to show off their bodies even when there wasn't a need for it. So she tried to sound as sincere as possible when she answered.
"Why Pam, I think you're a very lovely girl. I wouldn't worry at all for you. You've got a real nice personality, too, so you'll do just fine."
"Thanks, Mrs. White," she said as if she'd heard this response many times. She still looked discouraged, perhaps even suicidal.
"Look," said Linda evenly, as tears began flowing out of Pam's eyes. She stifled the impulse to tell her to stop pulling down her pants for any hunk that might come walking along, like she had today during fourth period. "Pam, you've got a lot going for, you. There's nothing to worry about. It'll all work out, I'm positive."
And now she clasped her to her chest, because Pam was really crying now. "There, there," she said. "There, there. Just take it easy now."
In a few moments Pam stopped sobbing and started sniffling, so Linda felt much better. But all of a sudden she felt the oddest sensation – her nipple was getting tweaked sharply. She realized Pam was crunching her breasts with her own pair, and she could now feel Pam's nipples standing straight up like the tips on pencils. And the tweaking of her left nipple with Pam's right hand increased, sending electrical sensations into her brain that left her benumbed for a few moments. Now she saw Pam's face, all sadness dissipated from it, with I huge devilish grin, as if she had just pulled off a complicated practical joke. In a sense, that is exactly what she had done, for Linda would have never suspected that the same teenage girl who had actually made love to a football player in a classroom would now come on to a 22-year-old female history teacher.
Linda quickly regained her senses. "Stop that!!" she whispered fiercely to Pam, who seemed oblivious to everything except Linda's cantaloupes, which, very much against Linda's will, now sported rock-hard cherry-like nipples that could be easily seen through her wool sweater. Linda was very much aware that someone could easily see what Pam was doing and probably get her fired for becoming sexually involved with a student. Yet Pam had acted so quickly and inconspicuously in reaching out for Linda's breasts that no one really seemed to have noticed it at all. Pam backed off a bit and dropped her hands to her sides.
"Jesus Christ, Pam, what do you think this is?" asked Linda a voice full of incredulousness. Good God, it had been just one thing after another these last two days. She could hardly believe people acting like this, at least in the sexual way, especially with almost total strangers. "What is your problem, anyhow?"
"I want you and your body," said Pam in a low voice that only Linda could bear. "I want to make you come so hard, you'll absolutely scream."
"Why, you little slut!" she exclaimed. Fortunately, no one really looked at her, since Marley's junior varsity had just scored another touchdown in the closing seconds of their game, making the score 34-13 and the crowd roared its approval. Now she lowered her voice and said, "That's really disgusting, Pam. Now stop it!"