Prey

by Lurlene McDaniel

“Well, cut it out. I was just making conversation.”

  Dad doesn't date much these days, at least not when he's home. I have no idea what he does on the road. He could have another family for all I know. When I was in elementary school, he dated a few women. When I was in middle school, he hung with a woman named Diane, but they broke up after a year because he told her he didn't want to get married and didn't want her moving in. Cold. For a while, I missed her hanging around and cooking and all, but I got over it.

  “You should start the college search, you know, looking into where you'd like to go, filling out some apps.” Dad changes the subject.

  “I got lots of time.”

  “No you don't. Aren't SATs coming up soon?”

  “Took them already.”

  “Oh.”

  “You were in Michigan that weekend.”

  “I have to work. You know I'm here most weekends.”

  “I'm not complaining.”

  “How'd you do?”

  I shrug. “Okay, I guess. The scores will be mailed. I can take them again next year, you know.”

  By now, we're home. As we go into the house, Dad says, “You seeing anyone?”

  “What?”

  “A girl. You have a girlfriend?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  He looks uncomfortable. “I'm not prying. Just wondering. Lots of good-looking girls at your school. When I was your age, I had a string of girlfriends.”

  Crap! I bite my tongue, hoping he doesn't start some dumb walk down memory lane. “Good for you.” I start up the stairs to my room. “Got homework.”

  “We should talk more,” he calls up after me.

  Whatever, I think. “Sure,” I say. In my room I push a pile of dirty clothes off my bed. The whole place is a mess, but I don't care. Unusual for me, because I like my stuff to be organized and neat. Lately I can't concentrate. It's as if some animal is prowling around inside my gut and wants out. I feel this gnawing sensation, as if my skin is on fire from the inside out. Joel says I need to get laid. That a guy can only do so much for himself in the shower alone. But the girls at school bore me. All except one.

  I start piling up dirty laundry because if I don't wash soon, I'm out of shirts and jeans, and I can't go to school smelling like a locker room. I can't sit in front of Lori's desk reeking like a stupid jock. I toss the pile of dirties into a basket, promising myself I'll do it tomorrow after school, when I won't run into Dad downstairs. It's bugging me that he thinks Lori's hot. He's way too old to be lusting after her.

  I turn on my computer and once it boots up, I go to my e-mail, where nine new messages are waiting for me. I haven't checked it since last night. Too busy when I got home today, what with the parentteacher event tonight. I scroll down the list. Two from Honey. One from Joel. Some junk mail. One from “carnivaldaze.” I almost delete it, then decide to open it. When the message flashes onto my screen, I about fall over. The time stamp is two a.m. the night before. It says:

  Hello, Ry.

  I hope you don't mind me e-mailing you. Sort of risky, I know. If you ever want to share another cappuccino, just to talk, let me know. Just hit reply and give me a time and date.

  Please delete this after reading. L

  I follow her instructions to the letter.

  Lori

  I can't sleep. It's three in the morning and my alarm will go off in only three hours and I can't get to sleep. I've cleaned my apartment—twice. Tried on clothes from my closet and made a pile to give away. I've surfed the Web, bought clothes and jewelry from a couple of sites, returned time and again to my e-mail program. I've watched TV, turned it off and on a dozen times. Infomercials are all that's on after one in the morning. Who buys this stuff ?

  Sometimes I feel like I want to crawl out of my skin. It itches. Burns. I take another bath. Nothing helps.

  The parent-teacher meetings went well. No problems there. I return to the one with Ryan again and again. His blue eyes haunt me. His father came, not his mother. Usually it's the mother. Almost always, it's the mother, protector of her young, who shows up. Ryan is a softer version of his father, not yet gone to flab. The older man is beefy, with the pouchy jowl and paunchy midsection so common in middle-aged men. His hands are large and square and hairy, while Ryan's are young, long-fingered; the father's thumbnail, and only his thumbnail, is bitten to the quick. I think about the father touching me and my skin crawls. I think about Ryan touching me and I glow warm deep inside.

  Bill Mathers, a coach at the school, divorced and the only bachelor, has asked me out. I almost laughed out loud. I see the way he looks at me, like some kind of wolf, ready to pounce and rip me open. Disgusting. They're all disgusting, these middle-aged men who think a woman owes them something. A date equals sex. Their math is so transparent.

  My brain keeps coming back to Ryan, to his beauty, his youth. He's a puzzle to be put together. Behind the smart-aleck cracks in class, inside his easygoing exterior, there's a spring ready to uncoil. I must be careful. Careful as never before.

  I return to my computer and scan the new arrivals in my inbox. Nothing I care about. I pace and drink red wine, hoping it will help me fall asleep. I slide a DVD into my machine and watch an old movie. At six, I shut off my alarm and begin to dress for school. I look at my inbox one final time before heading out the door. A message has arrived marked with a red exclamation point. This one is urgent.

  I read Ryan's reply, sent at 5:50 in the morning. He gives me the answer I want.

  Ryan

  On Friday night, I do exactly as Lori tells me. I wait at a certain bus stop, get into her car when she drives up and ride with her to another part of town, where we go into a coffee shop.

  “It's my favorite coffeehouse,” she says when we're inside, where it's dark and the walls are lined with booths for privacy.

  Blue lights shine over the coffee bar, turning the place a shade like ocean water, deep and mysterious. A small band plays mellow jazz on a stage lit with revolving lights in pink, yellow and green. The smell of hot rich coffee makes the air chewy. We haven't talked much during the drive, and now that we're here my palms are sweating and my mouth is bone-dry. Lori takes a seat across from me in the booth, asks what I want when a waiter appears.

  I stare at the menu with its two pages of coffee selections with names like Devil Mocha Delight, Vanilla Extract, Double Whammy, Chili Pepper Surprise— “brewed with hot peppers, and not for the taste timid,” says the description. I can't concentrate.

  “I like the Italian Stallion,” Lori says, a smile in her voice. “It's a dark-roasted Italian bean brewed with licorice. Tasty.”

  “Sounds good,” I say, hoping my voice doesn't break, or squeak, or tremble. It holds steady.

  She gives the waiter our coffee order, adding, “And a slice of cinnamon coffee cake. Two forks.”

  I file the menu behind the sugar holder on the wall, lock my fingers together on top of the table and look across at her. For the first time tonight, our eyes connect. She says, “I'm glad you came.”

  “Me too.” My undeniable wit and charm, as Honey jokes, escape me. How do I talk to this woman who turns my insides to jelly and makes my blood hot? Music? I can't believe she even listens to the tunes I like. Sports? Cars? School? My mind's blank.

  “You're awfully quiet. Anything wrong?”

  “No. I—I'm just not sure—”

  She covers my hands with hers. “I don't want to make you uncomfortable, Ryan. I just want to get to know you better. I want to enjoy your company. But if you'd rather not—”

  “No!” I blurt. “I—I mean, this is cool. I don't want to leave or anything. I'm just digging around for something to say.”

  “Words never fail you when you take me on in the classroom.”

  I see by her smile that she's teasing me, and I loosen up. “Well, then let's discuss world history— how about those Huns?” That makes her laugh and I feel a rush of relief. This might not be so hard after all.

  “T
hat's more like the Ryan I want to know.”

  The coffee comes, and the cake. I grab a fork and slice myself a chunk. “This is good.”

  Her smile widens. “Maybe I should have ordered two pieces.”

  I feel embarrassed and am glad the place is so dark. “I'll buy us another one.”

  “Don't be silly. I just want a taste.” She slices off a sliver and eats it. I watch her red, red mouth the whole time.

  She says, “I'm glad you and your father showed up at school the other night. So many parents blow off these meetings. I had five no-shows. Can you imagine? You're lucky to have a father interested enough in you to come.”

  “He tries,” I say. “He travels a lot because of his work. I, um, hang by myself most weekdays.” I don't know why I told her that. Why would she care?

  “Yet you keep your grades up. That's commendable. Many teens left on their own would be less studious.”

  She sounds like a teacher and I feel something cozy evaporate in the air between us. “Call me Mr. Studious.”

  “I couldn't help noticing your mother didn't come. Does she work nights?”

  I stiffen. “She doesn't live with us.”

  “My parents are divorced too.”

  A natural assumption, but wrong. “They're not divorced. Mom's dead.”

  Lori's expression is shock, then sympathy. “I'm so sorry, Ryan. I had no idea.”

  “I don't talk about it.”

  “I can see this is painful for you—”

  “Naw,” I say, leaning back in the booth. “I don't remember her because it happened a long time ago— when I was two.” Emotions come bubbling up in me and I push them down. “If Dad didn't have pictures, I wouldn't even know what she looked like.”

  She leans toward me, reaches for my hand, and I let her take hold. “Well, whoever raised you did a wonderful job. You are an intelligent and charming young man.”

  My insides go mushy. Lori's so beautiful, I just want to lean over and kiss her. Kiss her? What am I thinking?

  “I used to want a mother more than anything. I asked Santa for one when I was four, but he didn't deliver.” I give Lori a smile; Honey calls it my “now that you're hooked, let me reel you in” smile. I know whenever I'm doing it, and I turn it on high beam for Lori. “I'm over it now. A mother would only ask me a lot of questions like ‘Where are you going?’ and ‘Who are you going with?’ Who needs a surveillance junkie?” I'm thinking of Joel, whose mother plays Twenty Questions every time he starts to leave the house, and Honey's mother, who fires off a series of probes if she comes home fifteen minutes late.

  “You may be right about mothers being overrated,” Lori says. “Some aren't worth much.”

  I wonder if she's referring to hers, but I don't ask. I'm totally into here and now. “Something I'll never know anything about,” I say.

  Lori sips her coffee. I watch her, feeling more comfortable by the minute. The gap between us has closed a little; I can almost forget that she's my teacher. We listen to the music together. “You have a better view of the quartet,” she says. “Mind if I sit next to you so I can see them without turning around?”

  I slide over and she joins me. When the outsides of our thighs touch, I feel a surge of energy shoot through me. Her perfume is all around me, and my jeans grow tighter in the crotch. She's staring straight ahead as if she doesn't even know the effect she's having on me. I swallow a mouthful of coffee and burn my tongue. The pain is the only thing that keeps my hands from touching her warm leg.

  Once the set is over, Lori says, “We should leave before it gets any later.”

  I could sit here all night, but I agree. It's 10:45, and my curfew is 11:30, plus Dad's home from the road all this week.

  In her car, Lori says, “I'll have to drop you at the end of your block. Is that all right?”

  “Sure.” The gap between us is widening again. I have no car. I have a curfew. I have a parent who'll ground me if I don't show up. I hate being such a kid!

  When she stops at the top of my street, she says, “Here you are. Four houses down on the left. Sorry delivery can't be to your door, but I don't want anyone to see you get out of my car.”

  I nod, open the door. “I had a good time. Thanks.” I settle on the word “good” because “mindblowing” would be over the top.

  “So did I.”

  I get out, wishing I didn't have to leave her.

  She leans toward the passenger window as if she's forgotten to tell me something. “Maybe we can do it again sometime.”

  “Anytime.” My mind grabs hold of the straw she's offering, and my gaze shifts to her breasts stretching her sweater tight. “Next time, I'll pay.”

  She laughs. “Absolutely.”

  I watch her drive away, shove my hands in my pockets and head for my house. It's not until I'm up on the porch that it hits me—she never once asked me for directions to my home. She drove me straight here, knew just what house was mine, as if she's come here before.

  Lori

  The evening at the coffeehouse went better than I expected. Ryan was nervous. He's not shy; I know that from my classroom. But tonight I could see that he was uncomfortable and unsure of himself and of me. I did all I could to put him at ease and it worked. As I watched him loosen up and begin to talk, share and laugh, I was again struck at how mature he is for fifteen. And at how beautiful he is to me.

  I was mature at fifteen too, but for different reasons. No matter now.

  Being with Ryan makes me feel carefree and young. Tonight I wasn't the sexy Ms. Settles he knows from world history. I was Lori, the pretty girl in the back of one of my high school classrooms. I was the girl guys liked to look at and longed to touch. I want Ryan to touch me. I saw in his eyes that he wanted to. When our legs brushed against each other, I felt his muscles tense, saw his hand tighten around his coffee cup. Dead giveaways.

  When he looked into my eyes, I knew what he was thinking, and even now, sitting here in the dark in my apartment, I relish the smoldering fire he's ignited in me. I can't wait to have his hands and mouth on my skin. I think about when it will happen, and where. I don't want to plan it. I want it to happen when he's as ready in his head as he is in his body. And it will happen. I know it just as surely as I stare out at the night sky.

  I take a sip from my wineglass, roll the stem between my fingers. The information about his mother was surprising. He wouldn't tell me how she died, and I knew better than to press him about it. He'll tell me when he's ready. Until then, I'll be patient and understanding. So very understanding.

  Our coming together is like a slow dance to be savored and enjoyed. We come close, touch, retreat, spin and balance with purposeful and intricate steps that will lead to only one place. My anticipation is allconsuming.

  Ryan

  Lori and I go to the coffeehouse a lot. Mostly on weeknights when my dad's out of town. She picks me up after dark at the end of my block after we make sure no one's watching. I like being with her. I like talking to her. It's hard in the beginning, but then not at all. She tells me that she grew up in Seattle, went to college in California.

  She says, “I always knew I'd be a teacher. When I was a little girl, I'd play school in my room by lining up all my dolls and stuffed animals and teaching them their ABCs.”

  “Did they learn them?” I ask.

  This makes her laugh. “Only in my imagination. I was an amazing teacher in my imagination, and could make a teddy bear do anything.”

  “Do you have sisters? Brothers?”

  “I'm an only child.”

  “Me too.”

  “Did you want siblings?” she asks.

  I shrug. “Not really. Growing up, Dad never stuck with one woman long enough for me to think about it. He dated a few women with kids, but I never really liked any of them—the kids, I mean. They were always messing with my stuff and I didn't like that. I'm not a slob,” I say. “I sort of like things neat and organized.”

  “It doesn't surprise me.
I see it in your handwriting in the work you turn in.”

  “You do?”

  She pats my arm. “Don't panic. It's a good thing. I took some handwriting-analysis courses in college. It's been helpful to me in my classrooms.”

  “But what do you see in me?”

  “I see that you're smart and sensitive and older than your years.”

  I like hearing this part. I want her to think of me as mature, not some dumb kid hanging on her every word. “Dad's pressuring me to start looking at colleges. I've been thinking about it. Where I want to go. Out of state or not.”

  “I paid my own way through college,” she volunteers.

  “Were you poor?”

  “No. But I didn't want anything from my father.”

  Her mouth is in a hard line whenever she mentions her parents.

  “I like my dad well enough,” I say.

  “He's a good father. Mine wasn't.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Not a very good one either.”

  I want to know more, but start to think I shouldn't be prying. I don't want her to tune me out, drop me. At some point, when we talk, we start holding hands. I like the way it feels. I like the way she makes me feel. It's hard for me not to tell her that. Harder and harder for me to keep from touching her. I like watching her face when we talk, and the way her body sways when a jazz group plays music, and the sound of her voice tickling my ear when she leans over to whisper to me. It takes all my willpower to get out of her car after being with her all evening. To go home alone and go to bed with my head all around her and my body on fire.

  I've taken so many cold showers that my skin's started to wrinkle and my balls have shriveled. I wash my sheets a lot because of Lori. There's no way I can wash my mind of her.

  Honey

  I open our front door when the bell rings unexpectedly and stare out at Ryan. He's grinning like a fool, as if popping over on a Saturday morning were a regular habit instead of a sometime thing. As if we're friends again instead of strangers. “Selling magazine subscriptions?” I ask. Sure, my heart's in my throat because he's shown up without warning, but I'm mad at him because he's been too “busy” to hang with me for over a month.