The Stake

Jim glanced at her. “You’re eating poison, you know. All them preservatives.”

“I’m counting on them preserving me.”

“Ha ha.”

“Cheer up.”

“So what’s the big deal with Hen-house and Betty Boob?”

“I’m staying after, that’s all. I had to let them know.”

“How come you’re staying after?”

“I’m helping Kramer mark tests.”

Jim wrinkled his face, baring his upper teeth. They were caulked with white mush from his apples. “Judas priest. Grades slipping, or something? Isn’t enough, you giving up Saturday night for that bozo? Now you’re doing slave labor? Shit! All of a sudden you’re sure into some major league brown-nosing.”

“If you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lane said calmly, “you ought to keep your mouth shut. Besides, it’s disgusting me.”

He opened his mouth wide and shook his head at her.

“Real cute. God, you can be so juvenile sometimes. To think I’ve actually kissed you.”

“And will again, no doubt.” He closed his mouth and commenced chewing with a blissful smile on his face.

Why do I even bother with him? Lane wondered. She took another bite of her sandwich, looked at the cafeteria clock and wished sixth period would hurry up and come.

* * *

In her fifth-period physiology class, Lane had to scribble notes furiously to keep up with the lecture. The time sped by. When the bell rang, it took her by surprise.

She hurried into the hall and ducked into the smoky rest room. There, she leaned close to a mirror and checked her teeth for remnants of her lunch. They looked fine. She brushed her hair, then opened her denim skirt and tucked in her blouse so that it slanted down, smooth and taut, from her breasts to her waist. The straps and lacy pattern of her bra cups showed faintly through the blouse’s white fabric. She fastened her skirt, turned around once to make sure of every angle, then left the rest room and headed for class.

You’d think you were going out with him, she thought, feeling a little foolish. He’s just a teacher. He’s not interested in a kid.

So? It doesn’t hurt to look nice.

Lane entered the classroom by its front door. Mr. Kramer wasn’t there yet. She sat at her front-row desk, put away the books she wouldn’t be needing, and waited.

Just before the bell rang, Riley Benson and Jessica came in. Jessica’s left arm was still in a cast, but her right arm was around Benson. She glanced at Lane as she sauntered by. Her face looked better: though she still wore bandages on her chin and left eyebrow, the swelling had gone down; her lips no longer bulged; her bruises had faded to a sickly greenish yellow; some of her scabs had come off, leaving patches of shiny pink flesh.

She stepped to the other side of her desk. Benson rubbed her rear end, then ambled down the aisle. Jessica sat down.

“How are you doing?” Lane asked.

The girl sneered at her. “What do you think?”

“Just asking. Sorry.”

“Blow it out your ass,” she said, and turned away.

Whoops, Lane thought. Obviously, Benson had told her about the quarrel. Why’d she wait a whole week to sound off about it?

Bitch, she thought. Never should’ve bothered trying to be nice to her.

“Keep outa my way and keep your fuckin‘ nose outa my business,” Jessica suddenly added, “or I’ll let Riley go ahead and ream you out.”

“Okay. Jeez!”

Lane slumped in her seat and stared straight ahead.

She imagined herself telling Jessica to take a flying leap, but realized she’d better keep quiet. It wouldn’t take much, she thought, to set the girl off. Jessica, alone, could probably take her apart. Not to mention what her scumbag boyfriend might do.

Mr. Kramer entered the room.

Lane sat up fast, pulling in her legs and swinging her knees together. She straightened her back. She folded her hands on the desktop.

Kramer took off his sport coat. He draped it over the back of his chair and began rolling up his shirt- sleeves as he stepped to his usual position at the front of the table. His forearms were tanned under thick, black hair. He sat on the edge of the table.

Lane smiled when he met her eyes.

He acted as if he didn’t see it, picked up his roll book and gave the classroom a quick scan. “Mr. Billings is apparently having himself another holiday,” he said, and marked the student absent.

“Okay. This week’s spelling words. Who’ll volunteer to write them on the board?”

Lane raised her hand. He chose Heidi.

No big deal, Lane told herself. But she couldn’t help feeling a small letdown. First, he hadn’t returned her smile. Now he’d called on someone else to go to the board. Was he ignoring her?

Don’t be ridiculous, she thought. I’m not the only kid in the room.

But as the class went on, Kramer continued to ignore her. He rarely gave her a glance. He called on other students to read from the poetry book, to answer questions about rhythm and meter, to offer interpretations.

Lane’s uneasiness grew.

Is he mad at me, or something? What did I do? Maybe he thinks I took advantage of him at the library. But hell, I didn’t askhim to check out the book. That was his idea.

She began wondering whether he still wanted her to stay after class.

Go on, get out of here.

He wouldn’t say that.

Lane imagined herself sitting alone in the room, humiliated. “But you asked me to stay and help you.”

“I don’t care. Leave me alone.”

Maybe I should go ahead and leave when the bell rings, she thought. But I saidI’d stay. I can’t just walk out. He’d think I’m nuts.

“Lane?”

Startled, she looked up at Kramer.

“Would you like to read the next stanza?”

“Uh...” She felt herself shriveling inside. “I’m afraid I’ve lost the place.”

A few sniggers came from the back of the room.

Kramer shook his head slightly. He looked amused. “You shouldtry to follow along in the book.”

“Yes sir.” She lowered her eyes to the page.

“Aaron, will you read the next stanza?”

Aaron began to read. Lane hunched over her book, shielded her eyes with one hand and studied the page.

Where the hell are we?

Shit!

She couldn’t find the stanza.

Dipstick, you wantedhim to call on you. And he did. He sure did.

Why don’t I just die now, and make it easy on myself?

Aaron finished.

A hand appeared beneath Lane’s face. Kramer’s hand. It turned the page for her, pointed to a middle