Finally Mr. Kramer came strolling up the corridor. She stood up straight when he stopped in front of her.
“Are you feeling all right?” he asked.
“Yeah. How did it go in the office?”
“I explained the situation. It looks as if our friend Benson will find himself transferred to Pratt.”
Pratt was the “alternate school,” mostly designed as a holding pen for students with chronic behavior problems.
“God, I feel like it’s all my fault.”
“Benson already had one foot in Pratt’s door. This just nudged him the rest of the way. My only regret is that you had to be one of his victims. It makes me sick when something like that happens to a sweet kid like you.”
His words set a pleasant warmth flowing through her.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ve got a class to teach.”
She followed him into the room.
* * *
With a minute remaining before the final bell, Mr. Kramer read off the names of the four students chosen to accompany him to the city college production of Hamlet. “Are all of you still planning to make it?” he asked.
They nodded, muttered “Yes” and “Sure.”
“Okay. Jerry and Heidi,” he said to the alternates, “it looks like you’re out of luck. Sorry. Maybe there’ll be another opportunity later in the year. I want you others to stay in your seats for just a second after the bell rings, and I’ll fill you in on the situation.”
Class ended. Everyone filed out except Lane, George, Aaron, and Sandra.
“Okay,” Mr. Kramer said. “Curtain is at eight-thirty tomorrow night. I’ll pick each of you up in my car between about seven and eight, so write your address on a piece of scrap paper and hand it to me before you leave the room. Any questions?”
“What should we wear?” Sandra asked.
“I think a sport coat and tie would be appropriate for the guys. As for you two young ladies, this isn’t the prom, but I’d like you looking good. After all, you’ll be representing Buford High. Anything else?”
There were no more questions.
Lane took out her binder. She wrote her address on a sheet of loose-leaf paper and waited at her desk while the other students gave their slips to Mr. Kramer. When they were gone, she approached him.
“Thank you,” he said, taking her paper.
“Do you have some work for me?”
Smiling, he shook his head. “This is Friday, Lane. Why don’t we both knock it off early? Besides, after what Benson put you through, I’d think you might want to get out of here.”
“Oh, I kind of enjoy helping you.”
“There’s always next week, if you’re that eager.”
“You’re sure you don’t want me to stay?”
“I’m sure. Thanks, though.”
“Well, let me get the poetry book for you.” She returned to her desk and crouched to take it from the rack under the seat. “Dad read quite a bit of it,” she said, looking over her shoulder. “He’d never heard of DePrey. He thought the poems were pretty neat.”
“Glad to hear it. I’m looking forward to meeting him tomorrow night.”
Lane stood up, turning, and handed the book to her teacher. “I read the whole thing, myself.”
“Terrific. I hope you didn’t have any nightmares.”
She smiled. “None that I remember.”
“Why don’t you get your things together?” he said. “I’ll walk you out to the parking lot. I’m sure Benson’s long gone, but...”
“Never hurts to be careful,” she interrupted, repeating what he’d told her in front of the rest room.
“I couldn’t have put it better myself.”
“I’ll have to stop by my locker,” she said.
“No problem.”
It took Mr. Kramer a few minutes to get ready. Finally he said, “All set,” and they left the room. Several kids were still in the hallway, standing in front of open lockers or heading out, some talking with friends, some laughing. Lane wished they were all gone, the school deserted except for herself and Mr. Kramer.
Right. And what would you do, throw yourself into his arms?
They walked in silence. Lane searched her mind for something to say — something that might force him to see her as a woman, not just as a student.
Ask about his love life, she thought, and rolled her eyes upward. Sure thing. That’d be subtle. Besides, what if he isgay? No way. He couldn’t be. Not Mr. Kramer.
She arrived at her locker. “It’ll just be a second,” she said.
“No rush.”
She shifted her load of books to her left arm and hugged them against her chest.
“Here, I’ll hold them for you.”
“Oh, I can...”
“Chivalry ain’t dead yet,” he said, setting down his briefcase. His left hand braced the bottom of the stack. His right hand slipped between the top book and her breast. It pressed against her, warm through the blouse. A knuckle rubbed her stiff nipple. She felt a warm, trembling rush. Then his hand was gone.
She turned to her locker, bent over, and began to spin the dial of its combination lock.
Did he touch me there on purpose? she wondered. No. It was just an accident. But there was no possible way he could’ve not noticed what was against his hand.
She got the combination wrong.
She got it wrong again.
“You’re sure this is the right locker?” he asked.
“Yeah. I’m just not thinking straight.”
“Rough day.”
She smiled at him. “It’s getting to be the story of my life. If I’m not falling off a stool, I’m getting attacked.”
She tried the combination again. This time it worked. She opened her locker. Mr. Kramer didn’t touch her at all when he returned the books. She put some away, kept others, struggled to concentrate on which of those in her locker she would need for homework. Finally she took out her denim book bag. When it was full, she buckled it shut and closed her locker. She lifted the bag by its shoulder straps.
“All set?” Mr. Kramer asked, picking up his briefcase.
“Yeah. I’m sorry it took so long.”
“I assure you, I have nothing in my immediate future more important or enjoyable than the task of escorting a beautiful young lady to her car.”
Lane felt herself blush and smile. “I bet you do,” she said, and started walking beside him.
“To be honest, I don’t have much of a social life.”
“Oh, sure.”
“It’s true, I’m afraid.”
“Well... what do you do with your spare time?”
“I read. I go to movies and plays.”
“Don’t you... see anyone?” Lane grimaced. She couldn’t believe she had asked that.
“No,” he said. He glanced at her, then looked quickly away. “I was engaged to be married. Her name was Lonnie. She was a lot like you, Lane: lovely, intelligent, cheerful, quick to poke fun at things, including herself. But...” He shook his head sharply. “Anyway, I guess I’m still not over her.”
“I’m sorry.”
She wanted to ask what happened to Lonnie, but didn’t dare. Already her probing may have opened a wound.
“Well,” he said, “I guess we all have our crosses to bear.” He pushed open the heavy exit door and followed Lane outside.
The sun was warm on her face. A stiff autumn wind was blowing. It tossed her hair, fluttered her blouse, pressed her skirt against her legs, caressed her. She took a deep breath, savoring the fine feel of walking with Mr. Kramer on such an afternoon.
He thinks I’m just like Lonnie, she told herself. The woman he loved.
“It’s the red Mustang, isn’t it?” he asked as they entered the parking lot.
She turned to him, smiling, and the wind flung wisps of hair across her face. “How did you know?”
“I notice things,” he told her.
The way he said it, Lane knew he had more in mind than her
car. Did he want her to realize that he’d noticed the feel of her breast when he took the books from her? Or maybe that he was aware of her feelings for him? Could he sense that she’d fallen in love with him?
I’m not in love with him, she told herself. Good God, he’s a teacher. He’s probably ten years older than me.
Ten years isn’t such a big deal, she thought. And he won’t be my teacher after I graduate.
Dream on, stupid. Don’t kid yourself. He’s not interested.
She stopped beside her car and took out the keys.
“Well,” Mr. Kramer said, “I guess you didn’t need a bodyguard, after all.”
“I’m glad you walked me out, anyway. Thanks.” She opened the door, swung her book bag onto the passenger seat and climbed in. While she folded the sun shade, she said, “You won’t be in trouble for hitting Riley, will you?”
“I doubt it. He had it coming.”
She twisted around and tossed the cardboard shade onto the backseat. Then she smiled out the open door at Mr. Kramer. “You know, you’ll be a legend around here once it gets around that you cleaned his clock.”
“Well, that would be unfortunate. It’s a shame when people are admired for acts of violence. I’d much rather be known as someone who is caring and sensitive.”
“You already are that,” Lane said. “At least as far as I’m concerned.”
“Thank you, Lane.” For long moments he stared into her eyes. Then he swung the door shut.
She cranked the window down. “Do you need a ride or anything?”
“My car’s just in the other lot.”
“I could give you a ride over to it.”
Dumb! Can’t you be a littlemore obvious?
“That’s all right. Take it easy, now. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
“Okay. Bye, Mr. Kramer.”
Lane watched him walk away, the wind mussing his dark hair and making his shirt cling to his back. She gazed at his broad shoulders, the curves of his shoulder blades, the way his shirt tapered down to his waist. Today he didn’t have the wallet in the back pocket of his slacks. The fabric was tight against his rear. The mounds of his buttocks took turns flexing as he walked.
I notice things, too, she thought.
Then Mr. Kramer stepped behind a parked car.
Lane slid her key into the ignition.
Thirty-one
Lane knocked, opened the door, and leaned into her father’s office. “Jim’ll be here any minute,” she said. “Do you want to come out and harass him?”
“I’ll give the kid a break tonight,” he said, pushing a key to make his computer screen go blank as she stepped into the room.
“Writing more dirty stuff?”
“Yep.”
Lane lowered a finger toward the “page down” button on his keyboard.
“Ah-ah!” He swatted her hand away.
“Aw, come on. I’m a big girl.”
He looked up at her, smiling. Then his smile slipped away. “You’ll be careful, won’t you?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“I mean it. I’m not at all sure you should be going out tonight, what with this Benson character and everything.”
“This isn’t one of your books, you know.”
“I know. It’s real life, and that’s worse. Look what happened to that Jessica girl.”
“Riley Benson didn’t do that.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Well, the cops let him go.”
“Cops have been known to make mistakes, honey. And even if he had nothing to do with it, he showed himself to be violent in class today. And he threatened you. So don’t pretend there’s nothing wrong. I want you to be very careful.”
“I will be. And it’s not as if I’ll be alone. Nobody is going to attack me with Betty around.”
Dad laughed. “Nasty.”
“Inherited it from you, along with my allergies.”
She heard the door bell ring. “He’s here,” she said. Bending down, she kissed her father. “See you later.”
“Have fun. And I mean it, keep your eyes open.”
“Righto,” she said, turning away. “Adios.”
She pulled the door shut and hurried into the living room. Jim was talking to her mother. He smiled at her. He looked handsome in his tan chamois shirt, corduroy pants, and sneakers. She realized she was glad to see him in spite of their frequent quarrels.
“Hi ho,” she said.
“Lane,” he said. A red hue colored his face. She wondered what had brought that on. Jim wasn’t a guy who often blushed. “You look very nice,” he said.
She said, “Thanks.” If he was disappointed, it didn’t show. But Lane knew he couldn’t be very happy that she’d worn tight blue jeans instead of a skirt, and a thick vee-neck sweater over her blouse.
She kissed her mother.
“Have a good time, you two,” Mom said. “And don’t stay out too late.”
“We will and we won’t,” Lane told her.
Mom shook her head, rolled her eyes upward.
“Have a nice evening, Mrs. Dunbar,” Jim said.
She thanked him. As they walked across the yard, Lane heard the front door bump shut. She glanced back. The porch light came on, lighting the entrance with a yellow glow.
Jim’s car was parked at the curb. He opened its passenger door for Lane, then strode around the front of the car and climbed in behind the steering wheel. He inserted the ignition key but didn’t start the engine. He turned to Lane. “You really do look terrific,” he said.
“I figured it’s too cold for a skirt.”
“That’s okay.” He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Are you wearing it?”
“Wearing what?”
“You know.”
Lane grinned. “Aren’t you the guy who can spot that sort of thing a mile away?”
“Yeah. But the sweater.” He reached out. His hand curled around the back of Lane’s neck. She scooted across the seat, turned to Jim, kissed him. The hand on her neck slid upward, fingers pushing into her hair and easing her head forward, pressing her lips harder against his open mouth. His other hand closed on her right breast. “Yeah,” he said into her mouth.
“Happy?”
“Yeah.”
It was nothing like the gentle, accidental touch of Mr. Kramer’s hand. Jim rubbed her breast hard through the sweater and blouse. His tongue thrust into her mouth. He squeezed her nipple. The pain made her squirm. She forced his hand away and freed her mouth.
“That’s enough,” she whispered. “Come on. We’ve got to pick up the others.”
“Yeah, okay. Shit.”
“You promised to be nice,” she reminded him.
“I know. Just watch. I’ll be great. I love you so much, Lane.”
“Or at least my boobs, huh?”
A mean thing to say, she realized. Jim couldn’t help it if they turned him into a sex maniac. After all, she thought, he’s just a horny teenager.
“I love everything about you,” he said, not sounding offended by her remark. “And I’d like to kiss you everywhere.”
“Oh, man. Cool off, huh?”
“I’m cool, I’m cool,” he said, and started the car.
Lane scooted across the seat and fastened her safety harness. As he drove, she gave him directions to Betty’s house. “Henry’ll be there, too,” she added.
“I can hardly wait.”
“You promised.”
“I’m a man of my word,” he said. “Do we have to sit with them at the movies?”
“Yep.”
“God, the things I do for you.”
“I’m worth it, right?”
“You know it.” He reached over and squeezed her thigh. His hand stayed there, rubbing her through the denim. It felt good. But when he moved it higher, she guided the hand down to her knee.
“Behave,” she said. “And make a left.”
He made the turn onto Betty’s street, and Lane saw her two f
riends standing together in front of the mobile home.
“Here goes nothing,” Jim muttered. He stopped.
Lane twisted around in her seat and unlocked the back door for them. “Greetings, good folks,” Henry said as he scurried in. “James, Lane. Sounds like a picturesque London Road. James Lane.”
“Hiya, guys,” Betty said, squeezing into the car.
“Hello,” Jim said. He sounded pleasant enough.
“How’s it going?” Lane asked, looking back at them.
“We’re fine,” Betty said. “What about you?”
“Great.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” she insisted.
“Why wouldn’t she be?” Jim asked, sounding a little annoyed as he made a U-turn.
“Oh, I don’t know. Unless maybe it has a tad to do with a certain Riley Benson.”
Lane felt her skin go hot.
“What about Benson?” Jim asked.
“Oh, nothing. Just that he jerked Lane out of her seat in English class today and hocked on her face.”
“What?” Jim blurted.
“Christ, Betty.”
“That’s what Heidi told me, and she was there.”
“Did he really spit on you?” Henry asked. He sounded concerned.
“Yeah.”
“Benson spit on you?”
“It’s no big deal,” Lane said. She had realized everyone would find out about it, sooner or later. But she wished it hadn’t happened this soon.
“I’ll kill the cocksucker!”
“I’ll help,” Henry said.
“Mr. Kramer already punched him out,” Lane explained. “And he’s being sent to Pratt.”
“I’llsend the fucker to Hell.”
“Take it easy, Jim. Okay? My God, his girlfriend was just murdered. He’s having a tough time.”
“It’ll get a lot tougher...”
“It’s no reason to take it out on you,” Henry told her. “That guy’s such a rectum. He always has been.”
“That’s right,” Betty said. “He was a shit chute long before Jessica got her ticket canceled.”
“Look,” Lane said, “I’m the one he messed with. I’d like to just forget about it, all right? It’s over. It’s finished. Now, why don’t we talk about something else and enjoy ourselves?”
The Stake Page 27
