Jessica’s assigned seat in Mr. Kramer’s sixth-period English class was at the front of the room, just to the left of Lane’s desk. Today Riley Benson swaggered down the aisle and sat there. He slumped against the backrest, stretched out his legs and crossed his motorcycle boots. He looked at Lane. His face, with half-shut, sullen eyes, never failed to remind her of television news photos that showed men who put bullets into people for the fun of it.
Twisting around, she saw Jessica in Riley’s usual seat at the rear corner.
“We traded,” he said. “You got a problem?”
“None of my business.”
She turned to the front. The final bell hadn’t clamored yet, and Mr. Kramer rarely entered the classroom before the bell. She hoped he would show up soon. Riley had a reputation for starting trouble, and she was pretty sure that she’d already been chosen as today’s target.
Thanks a heap, Jessica.
The trade had to be Jessica’s idea. Lane could understand that. Battered the way she was, the girl probably wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible.
It crossed her mind that Riley might be the guy who’d beaten up Jessica. She knew they’d been going together, and he sure seemed capable of such things. Maybe Jessica gave him some lip. She could’ve made up the mugging story.
Lane looked over at him. His fingers were rapping out a rhythm on the edge of the desk. He had dirty knuckles, but they weren’t bruised or scraped. He might’ve been wearing gloves, though. Or done the damage with a blunt instrument of some kind.
“You got a problem?” he asked.
“No. Uh-uh.” She turned her eyes to the front.
“Bitch.”
This is really my day.
She stared at Mr. Kramer’s empty desk. Her back felt rigid. Her heart was thumping hard and her face was hot.
Come on, teacher. Where are you?
“Fuckin‘ twat.”
Her head snapped toward him. “Blow it out your ass, Benson.”
The bell blared and she flinched.
Riley’s lip curled up. “See ya after class. Count on it.”
“Oh, I’m so scared. I’m trembling.”
“Ya oughta be.”
In fact, she was. Now I’ve done it, she thought. Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut?
It was little consolation when Mr. Kramer entered the room.
If only he’d shown up a couple of minutes ago.
Roll book in hand, he settled down against the front edge of his desk and fixed his eyes on Riley. “I believe you’re in the wrong seat, Mr. Benson.”
“You got a problem with that?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, I do.”
Lane felt a grin spreading across her face.
Give it to him, Kramer.
“Please return to your assigned seat. Now.”
From the back of the room came Jessica’s voice. “I asked Riley to trade with be,” she said.
“Neverthe...” For an instant, he looked surprised. Then concern furrowed his brow. “My God, what happened to you?”
“I got wracked ub. Okay? Can I just stay here?”
“Did somebody do that to you?”
“No, I fell down the stairs.”
Maybe she had a different story for everyone.
“I’m very sorry to hear that, Jessica. But I’m afraid I’ll have to insist that you both resume your proper seats.”
Riley mumbled something, gathered his books, and headed for the back of the classroom.
Good show! Lane thought.
No wonder Kramer was one of the most popular teachers at Buford High. Not only young, handsome, and clever, but he had the guts to keep discipline. Plenty of other teachers would’ve backed off and let Riley stay.
Lane suddenly remembered Riley’s threat. She felt herself go hot and shaky again.
Jessica slid into her seat. She sat up straight, facing Kramer. “Thanks a lot, teach,” she muttered.
“You’re not outside, now. Take off those sunglasses.”
That’s going a little too far, Lane thought.
Jessica dropped her sunglasses onto the desktop. Lane could only see her right eye. It was swollen nearly shut. Her upper lid, shiny and purple, bulged as if someone had jammed half a golf ball underneath it.
Kramer pursed his lips. He shook his head. “You may put the glasses back on,” he said.
“Thanks a heab.”
“Okay, we’ve wasted enough time. Take out your texts and turn to page fifty-eight.”
Lane watched the clock. This was the last class of the day. It had forty-five minutes to go.
He won’t try anything, she told herself. He wouldn’t dare.
I’ll be okay if I can just get to my car.
Thirty minutes to go.
Ten.
In spite of the air-conditioning, Lane was bathed with sweat. Her T-shirt felt sodden against her armpits. Cool dribbles trickled down between her breasts. Her panties were glued to her rump.
With one minute to go she piled her books on top of her binder, ready to bolt for the door.
The bell rang.
She pressed the books to her chest, slid out of the seat and stood up.
Kramer met her eyes. “Miss Dunbar, I’d like to speak with you for a minute.”
No!
“Yes sir,” she said.
She sank back onto her seat and put the books down.
Why was he doing this to her? Was he annoyed because she’d seemed in such a rush to get out?
I’m doomed, she thought.
Mr. Kramer stepped behind his desk and stuffed books into his briefcase. The kids hurried out. The room had doors at the front and rear. Riley didn’t leave by the front. He’d probably used the other door, but Lane forced herself not to look.
Maybe he forgot about me.
Fat chance.
Mr. Kramer came around his desk and sat on its edge, facing her. He held some typed sheets in his hand.
He wants to discuss one of my themes?
But Lane could see that it wasn’t hers. It looked like erasable paper. The stuff always felt sticky, and the ink had a tendency to smear if you rubbed it, but she’d used it anyway until her father had told her to “throw away that junk and use some decent bond.” He’d gone on to say that only amateurs fooled with erasable paper, and editors hated it with a passion.
“That isn’t mine,” she said.
Mr. Kramer smiled. “I’m aware of that. What I have here is a book report that I found very interesting. It was written by Henry Peidmont. Is he a friend of yours?”
“Yes.”
Henry, she knew, had Kramer for second period.
“He’s quite a good student, but he does have a peculiar taste in literature. He seems to relish the
