―Well, there are two cars in the lot.‖
―The pickup‘s mine.‖
Which left a Prius with an empty bike rack on its roof. ―So maybe one of the teachers came in early and left the door open?‖
―Maybe.‖ His face folded in a scowl. ―You got ID?‖
All I had was my learner‘s permit, which I fumbled from my wallet. He stepped close, squinting at the picture, his eyes clicking from it to me and back again. He stank of cigarettes and sweat and ammonia. Finally he said, ―Okay. Library‘s down the end of the hall.‖
―I know. It‘s locked.‖ When he opened his mouth again, I said, ―Yes, the librarian doesn‘t come in for another hour, I know. Do you have the key?‖ He nodded. ―Can you unlock the door?‖
He shook his head. ―The librarian has to be there.‖
―Well, can I go to my locker, please? Maybe by the time I put my stuff away, the librarian will be in.‖ I could tell he didn‘t like the idea, but I was already moving away, heading for the stairs, not waiting for permission.
He let me get maybe ten feet then called, ―Hey!‖
Now what? I looked back. ―Yes?‖
He held up that damn coffee, the one I‘d set down when I tried the library doors.
―This yours?‖
e
By the time I made it to the second floor, my stomach was churning. Great. I couldn‘t even handle a perv janitor. No way I was going back downstairs, not while that guy was around. Maybe hide in the bathroom? Bathrooms were safe, even in the dark.
Especially in the dark. Lock myself in a stall, plug into my iPod, tune out, and let the blackness fold around like a blanket.
The upstairs hall was quiet. Lockers lined white cinder-block walls, which were broken at intervals by closed classroom doors.
All except one, on the right. A spray of fluorescent light splashed onto the floor, and there was music, something lush and bittersweet.
Well, okay, so a teacher was getting a jump on the first day of classes, so what? I was going to my locker, no big deal. I‘d just slide by, pray my locker door didn‘t make a racket, then dump my stuff and duck into the bathroom at the other end of the hall.
I moved fast, on the balls of my feet, quiet as a mouse. The music was everywhere.
It billowed. Walking into the swell of violins was like passing into a fine mist, and I couldn‘t help it. I slowed, just a little, tossing a quick glance to the right—
And stopped dead.
Because Oh. My. God.
3: a
It was your standard chemistry classroom: desks and chairs in the center ringed by lab benches and high stools, with a demonstration bench up front. Chrome spigots, sinks.
Nothing special.
Nothing, that is, but him.
His back was to me. He stood at the far side of a lab table, staring out a bank of windows overlooking the woods to the northeast. The sky was a clear, crisp cerulean blue.
The rays of the rising sun bathed his shoulders and back, which were flawless and very muscular, a rich, warm gold.
Because he was naked.
b
I had turned to stone. I just . . . Bob, I just couldn‘t move. You have no idea, or maybe you do. Like when you first saw the girl who would be your wife. . . . Maybe it wasn‘t a thunderbolt moment for you, but even my parents, as messed up as they are, remember the instant they first laid eyes on each other. So I remember every second of that first time.
He was . . .
He was beautiful, like something out of a dream. When he shrugged into a pale blue button-down, sunlight rippled over valleys made of muscle and that smooth, smooth skin.
His hair, dark and curly, fired with red and blond highlights. His movements were fluid and graceful and utterly unselfconscious because he thought he was alone. He was a demigod, and I was, welll. . . awed. Like someone this perfect just couldn‘t be.
I know that sounds hokey to you, Bob. But that‘s how I felt. That‘s the truth and that very first moment of sun and light and beauty is one I will never, ever forget.
c
Maybe I made a sound. Or he knew he was being watched. Either way, he sensed something because he began to turn and move away from the windows. That‘s when I saw he wasn‘t naked but wearing khaki slacks cinched around a trim waist. His mouth unhinged in surprise. ―Wha—?‖
―Sorry!‖ And then I was bolting, a freaked-out little bunny scuttling down the hall.
Bathroom, bathroom, where was the bathroom . . . there! I darted for the door at a dead run, thinking: If I can just get away. . . .
Of course, it was locked. I hit pretty hard, too. The impact balled in my shoulder then shivered down my right arm. I staggered back and then the lid of that stupid coffee cup popped like a cork from a bottle of Champagne. A gush of tepid cappuccino sheeted over the door and sloshed over my skirt and bare legs. Sticky liquid crawled down my calves and leaked into my shoes. Oh no no no . . .
―Whoa, whoa, hey.‖ He was in the hall now. ―It‘s okay, it‘s okay; relax, I‘m not going to hurt you; it‘s okay.‖
I burst into tears.
4: a
His name was Mr. Anderson, and he taught chemistry, which I had eighth period.
Back in his classroom, he handed over a wad of paper towels and pointed me to a back room: ―There‘s a sink. Plenty of soap. Take your time.‖
The back room was a kind of office with a couple computers, a coffeepot, a fume hood, and a short hall leading to more doors and a storage room lined with shelves of chemicals. Music swelled from a Bose stereo squatting on a windowsill.
The putty-colored stain on the khaki skirt I‘d laid out so carefully the night before was dark and precisely centered over my crotch. A fist-sized splash of coffee splotched my shirt. Even after everything dried, I would look—and smell—as if I‘d taken a bath in a coffeepot. Great. At least my canvas slides were dark blue.
There was a cake of Dove at the sink. I washed off my arms and splashed water on my face then inspected myself in a small mirror hanging on the wall. My eyes were raw and red as if someone had thrown a fistful of sand, but otherwise I didn‘t look too bad. Only now what? God, I was so embarrassed. Maybe I could just hide out here until the bell rang and—
―You okay back there?‖ Mr. Anderson called from the classroom. ―Need anything else?‖
How about a new life? ―No. I mean, I‘m fine, thanks. Be right out.‖
Come on. Forking a handful of hair from my forehead, I hefted my backpack onto a shoulder and blew out, the way I used to right before a big race. He’s only a teacher; he’s not going to bite. Just apologize and go.
Mr. Anderson was back at his windows, in a wedge of bright sun, sipping coffee from a black X-Files mug. When he heard me, he looked over and smiled. ―Better?‖