Yeah? Don’t bet on it.
If he’s like most guys, he’s probably staring straight up my blouse. Or crouching for a peek at my panties.
She tucked the plastic box under her chin to free her right hand, and pried out the tack at the corner of the Whitman picture.
By now, she thought, Jim would have a hand sliding up my leg.
Mr. Kramer’s not Jim, thank God.
Besides, I’m a student. He wouldn’t dare touch me, even if he wanted to.
She overlapped the edges of the pictures and pushed in the tack. It held Mark Twain in place while she took the box from under her chin, crouched down, and lifted a portrait of Charles Dickens off the chalk tray. As she straightened up, she looked around at Mr. Kramer. He nodded with approval.
“Looks as if everything’s under control,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Just give a whistle if you need me,” he told her, and headed for his desk.
He sat down. He bent over a stack of papers and picked up a red pen.
Thank goodness, Lane thought.
She felt strange, though — not just relieved that he no longer stood below her, but a little disappointed, a little abandoned.
Guess he wasn’t all that impressed, she thought.
She rammed a tack through the corners of Dickens and Twain.
I didn’t
Maybe he didn’t even take advantage of the opportunity.
She climbed down from the stool, adjusted its position, and saw Mr. Kramer turn to watch her mount it. “Careful,” he said. She smiled and nodded.
And a terrible thought struck her.
Fire spread over Lane’s skin.
As she tacked up a picture of Tennyson, beads of sweat slid down her sides.
I did want to look nice for him, she told herself. But I had no idea...
She wished to God she had worn jeans and a long-tailed blouse. A blouse she could have tucked in tight.
I would’ve, she thought. So help me, I would’ve if I’d had any idea...
A lot of kids were known to flirt with their teachers in hopes of getting higher marks. Some probably even offered sex. Though Lane didn’t know of anyone who’d done that, she supposed it sometimes happened.
I’m already getting an A from him, Lane told herself. He can’t think I dressed like this for a better grade.
For that matter, why should he even suspect I wore this stuff for
Lane began to feel better as the sickening heat of embarrassment subsided.
Sure, she thought. He can’t suspect I dressed for him. He’s no mind reader.
She continued to put the pictures up, balancing on the stool, bending over for new ones, reaching out, tacking them to the corkboard, frequently climbing down and moving the stool closer to Mr. Kramer’s desk.
Often, she glanced at him. Usually, he was busy reading the essays. A few times, however, she found him looking over his shoulder at her. When that happened, he never tried to turn away and pretend he wasn’t watching. He never acted guilty. He usually just smiled or nodded, and made a comment: “You’re doing a good job,” or “Glad it’s you and not me up there,” or “Don’t push yourself if you start getting tired.”
Lane finally began to suspect that he didn’t care about the way she was dressed.
I might as well be wearing coveralls, she thought.
She wondered if he might be gay.
Give it a break, she told herself. What do you want? He’s a teacher.
She stepped down to the floor once again and moved the stool a couple of feet nearer to his desk. Swiveling his chair around, he scanned the high row of pictures. “Terrific,” he said. “They add a nice touch to the room, don’t you think?”
“Be nicer if they weren’t all
“Well, unfortunately, the literary community doesn’t hold much stock in living writers. You can’t be a ‘major author’ till you’re dead.”
Lane thought he was wrong about that. Though she felt reluctant to question his views, he usually seemed to enjoy discussions with his students. Besides, if she stopped talking, he would return to the essays.
“Dad says that’s a myth,” she told him, and climbed onto the stool. She lifted a picture of Hemingway from the chalk tray and raised it to the corkboard. “Most of these guys were enormously successful and famous in their own time.” She punched a tack through its corner. “Only a few weren’t recognized till after they died. Like Poe, for instance.”
Bending down for a picture of Steinbeck, she looked over her shoulder. Mr. Kramer was smiling, nodding his head.
“And Poe was
Mr. Kramer laughed. “I suppose he had to be, to write the way he did.”
“I don’t know.” She straightened up and pressed the picture into place. “Dad writes worse stuff than Poe, and he seems fairly normal. I’ve met scads of horror writers — going to conventions and stuff.” She pressed in the tack, then turned carefully atop the stool to look down at Mr. Kramer. “Some are even really good friends of Dad’s, guys I’ve known forever. Almost none of them are weird. In fact, they seem more normal and well-adjusted than most people I’ve known.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“I know. You’d think they’d be raving lunatics, wouldn’t you?”
“Or at least slightly weird.”
“You know what
“Strange. Maybe their humor is a reflection of their somewhat off-kilter world view.”
“More than likely.” Lane climbed down from the stool, moved it closer to Mr. Kramer, and mounted it again. As she rose, she lifted a picture of Faulkner from the chalk tray. She pressed it against the corkboard and tacked it into place. Hearing a squeak, she glanced back. Mr. Kramer had turned his swivel chair around. He was looking up at her.
He didn’t say anything.
Lane crouched for another picture. As she raised it, she said, “You know how we were talking about dead writers and fame?”
“The myth.”
“Right. Well, you want to know something odd? The reverse is actually true. At least nowadays.” She tacked the picture of Frost to the cork. “When a writer kicks the bucket, he’s screwed.”
She heard her teacher laugh. Turning around, she smiled down at him. “Publishers want to
