The Stake

stanza, and went away.

“Thanks,” she muttered.

Everyone else in the classroom seemed to find this quite amusing.

Lane kept her head down.

“Would you care to favor us with a rendition?” Kramer asked.

She nodded against her sheltering hand and began to read aloud.

She was halfway through the stanza when the bell rang.

“That’ll be fine,” Kramer said. Raising his voice, he announced, “Don’t forget your spelling sentences for tomorrow. In ink, please. Class dismissed.”

Lane shut her book and stared at it. Kids walked past her. Someone rubbed the top of her head. She looked up. Benson grinned down at her. “You gotta pay attention, babe.”

She sneered at him.

He sauntered out with Jessica, a hand on her rump.

Soon the room was empty except for Lane and Kramer.

Lane forced her head up. Kramer stood behind his table, busy stuffing books and folders into his briefcase. He seemed unaware of her presence.

I should’ve left with the rest of them, she thought. God, how did I get into this?

Dad and his yearbook. Thanks a bunch, Dad.

She wondered if she should say something.

“Do you have a red pen?” Kramer asked, and finally looked at her.

The tension spilled out of her. “Uh... no. I don’t think so.”

“No problem. Let me get you one.” He stepped over to his desk and opened the top drawer. He found a pen, shut the drawer, and searched through a stack of folders on the corner of his desk. “Here we go. I’ll give you first period. How does that sound?”

“Fine.”

He came toward her. “If you get done with these and want some more, I’ve got plenty. Don’t want to keep you all afternoon, though.”

Lane nodded.

I don’t believe this, she thought. He’s acting as if nothing happened.

What do you want, a lecture?

She cleared her desk. Kramer set the folder and pen in front of her. “It’s five points a word,” he said. “But I guess you know that.”

“Yeah.”

“Any questions, just ask.”

“All right.”

He turned away.

“Mr. Kramer?”

He turned to her again, a pleasant smile spreading across his face.

“I’m sorry about losing my place.”

“Daydreaming?”

“I guess so.”

“Well, no harm in that. I hope you weren’t too embarrassed.”

“I was pretty embarrassed.”

“You’re the best student in the class, Lane. Don’t let one little lapse of attention throw you. Happens to everyone.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Of course, I had to give you an F for the day.”

“Oh.”

Laughing softly, he squeezed Lane’s shoulder. “That was supposed to be a joke.”

“Oh.”

His hand stayed there. Lane felt as if its warmth were spreading down through her. He rubbed her shoulder gently, then let go.

“I really appreciate your staying after to help like this. It takes some of the pressure off.”

“Glad to help.” She could still feel where his hand had been.

“Teaching ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Sometimes, I feel like I’m being consumed by paperwork. All I seem to have time for is grading papers, preparing lessons.” He shook his head. “A real drag.”

“If you’d like me to, I’ll stay more often and help you out.”

Her heart thudded. She couldn’t believe she’d said that.

He’ll think I’ve got the hots for him.

Kramer’s head tilted slightly to one side. He pressed his lips together and raised his eyebrows. “Well, I sure appreciate the offer. You must have better things to do with your time, though.”

“I wouldn’t mind. Really.”

“It’s up to you. I’d certainly be glad to have the help.” Smiling, he knuckled the folder on her desk. “Now, get cracking. Talk’s cheap, and time’s a-wasting.”

Lane laughed. “You’re a real slave driver.”

“Start correcting those papers, or I’ll give you a taste of the lash.”

“Yes sir.”

He turned and headed for his desk. Lane’s eyes stayed on him.

His sport shirt tapered down from his broad shoulders to his slim waist. The tail, just a bit untucked, puffed out over his belt. His wallet made a bulge over his left buttock. There seemed to be nothing in his right rear pocket. That side of his slacks was smooth against his rump, and Lane watched the way it moved as he walked.

Twenty-one

Jean, peeling potatoes at the sink, looked around at Larry as he entered the kitchen. “Quitting a little early, aren’t you?” she asked.

He glanced at the clock. Almost four. He usually worked until four-thirty.

“I finished the damn corrections,” he said. He took a beer from the refrigerator. “Too late to get started on anything else.” He twisted the cap off the bottle. “Where’s Lane?”

“Not home yet.”

“I know that. Did she have some kind of plans for after school?”

“Not that she mentioned. Maybe she stopped over at Betty’s, or something.”

“Yeah.” He poured the beer into a stein, sucked off the head of white froth, and emptied the bottle. “What’re you going to do with the potatoes?”

“French fries.”

“All right!” He dropped the bottle into the trash. It landed with a thunk.

He carried his beer into the living room, sank into his easy chair and started thumbing through the new issue of Mystery Scenethat had arrived in the day’s mail. Jean had probably already looked it over. She would’ve told him if she’d found any mention of him. So he went straight to Brian Garfield’s “Letter from Hollywood.”

He tried to read it.

But the day was mild. The air conditioner was off, the windows open. Each time Larry heard a car on the street, his eyes shifted to the window.