Teacher's Pet Read online

  Suddenly she turned to her bedroom window, drawn to it as though something were calling her. For a moment she didn’t move. She felt her heartbeat increase and when she looked into the mirror again she saw that her face had become flushed. She placed the brush on her table softly and stood up, running the palms of her hands down over her breasts, straightening her nightgown.

  She looked at herself in the mirror again. The sight of her body beneath the sheer material excited her. She was proud of the uplift in her breasts, the soft curves in her hips, and the narrowness and firmness of her thighs. She wondered if Bart appreciated her enough. Although they never pursued the answer, neither one wanting to discover that he or she was the one incapable of having children, she couldn’t imagine how a body such as hers could lack the power of conception.

  She felt guilty for thinking it, but it was Barton who was inadequate. It wasn’t something she had thought about recently. Something had stirred her up, created all this turmoil in her body and her mind. It wasn’t hard to figure out what had done it either. The tutor’s eyes flashed before her. She envisioned his smile and felt that gaze again, felt the way he undressed her, leaving her naked and vulnerable. It had been so long since such excitement passed through her body. But these weren’t things she could have told Bart. That was why she had simply said the tutor was “different.” The word hid a multitude of things.

  Once again she felt herself drawn to the window. Was it the moon? The tops of the oak and maple trees? She went to it and opened the curtain. Standing there with the light behind her, she knew she was exposed. She looked down at the old Taylor house. Surprisingly, it wasn’t as gray and depressing to her as it had always been. It was as if the tutor had convinced her that it had an inner beauty, one she had been unable to see until he pointed it out.

  As though on cue, he suddenly appeared in the living-room window and looked up at her. It put her into such a shock, she could barely move away. She was almost literally standing naked before his eyes. He had a strange smile on his face. It wasn’t exactly sly or evil, but it made her feel sly and evil.

  Instantly she realized what it was that she had felt when she had met and spoken to this man. It was a nudity of the soul, not just the body. He looked deeply enough within her to see her most secret desires, ones she would hardly admit to herself. It made him dangerous yet exciting. It was an ambiguity from which she could not retreat.

  As if to underline that fact, she remained in the window much longer than she should have. In fact, it was he who nodded ever so slightly and then moved away.

  She shuddered, embraced herself tightly, and drew the curtains closed again. Then she hurried into bed, pulling the covers around herself tightly in hope of shutting out these new, powerful feelings.

  When Barton came upstairs, she was still awake. He was surprised, but not half as surprised as he was at the way she made love to him hungrily—demandingly.

  Later, he half jokingly commented that he thought he had been raped.

  “Yes,” she said. Yes, she thought and she fell asleep dreaming of the tutor’s smile when he looked up at her in the window.

  3

  Johnny Masterson was impressed with himself. There was a distinct change in the attitudes others demonstrated toward him, just as Mr. Lucy said there would be. Of course, the change that had come over him was dramatic. He could see that as far as his teachers were concerned, it was as though he had emerged from a coma.

  It began with his class participation. He had been one of those who never volunteered any information and never asked any questions. If he were called upon, he would sit sullenly until the teacher went on to someone else. If the teacher didn’t choose another student, Johnny would simply say, “I don’t know,” even if he did know. Eventually, most of his teachers stopped calling on him. He couldn’t remember ever getting a report card without “failure to participate in class” being checked.

  Then one day his hand shot up in math class. He was surprised himself because it happened so automatically and seemed like such a natural thing for him to do. Everyone turned toward him. He knew that most of them expected he would come out with a wise remark or a stupid comment, but he rattled off the solution to the problem methodically, accurately, and even creatively. The teacher was amazed, but before he could respond, Johnny asked a new question, a perceptive question that led to an entirely new area.

  The change in the way he performed in school reflected itself in his physical appearance as well. Although he was a handsome boy, standing five feet eleven with light brown hair and classic baby blue eyes, he rarely did much to emphasize his good looks. That is, until now.

  Usually, he combed his hair superficially in the morning, simply taking the time to keep it out of his eyes. He had long thin hair and would only get a haircut when his father demanded it. His previously depressed mental attitude had manifested itself in his posture as well. He had slumped when he sat, stretching his long legs out awkwardly under the desks in school. When he walked, he had hunched his shoulders up and lowered his head. His mother had always complained about his posture.

  Now, he pulled his shoulders back, emphasizing his naturally firm physique. He had muscular arms with especially thick wrists and powerful forearms. The golf coach was always after him to join the team, but he had no interest in team sports, even one like golf that stressed individual ability more than the other sports did.

  Before he had begun with Mr. Lucy, there was a darkness in his face, an habitual glumness especially evident around his eyes. He usually appeared half awake, his face expressionless. But after he began to emerge as a student, his face lit up. The brightness of his eyes radiated intelligence and confidence. He brushed his hair back neatly on the sides and developed a wave in the front.

  Most importantly, he began to think about what he would wear to school and not grab the same pants and shirt day after day. He found he sought the brighter colors and cared about polishing his shoes and wearing freshly ironed shirts and pressed pants.

  This new interest in himself had its effect on the girls around him. They began to notice him more; they waved to him more often, smiled at him in the halls and in the classrooms, and looked for opportunities to converse. He was really beginning to enjoy it.

  Then, less than a week after he had initiated these physical changes, Sheila Cohen made it a point to sit across from him in the lunchroom. When he entered with his tray, she got up and went right to his table. Sheila was a chubby, fifteen-year-old girl with hair always cut too short. It looked as if someone chopped it, and it emphasized her bloated cheeks and double chin. He remembered looking at her a few times before and thinking that somewhere within all that blubber lived a nice-looking girl. She had soft, green eyes and otherwise small, even features. He imagined that at least a half dozen now famous actresses might have looked like her at one time.

  During one of their informal conversations, he had discussed her with Mr. Lucy. He concluded that she was a classic example of someone who was insecure.

  “She’s more comfortable being fat and forgotten,” he said. “You understand what I mean?”

  Johnny did, but for the first time, he thought something should be done about it. More importantly, he had the confidence to believe that he could do something about it himself, if he had a mind to. Didn’t Mr. Lucy say, “You can help some of the others, like Sheila Cohen. All someone has to do is build up her self image.”

  “You’re being tutored by Mr. Lucy, too, aren’t you?” she asked him. In the back of his mind, he wondered if Mr. Lucy had directed her to him somehow. He even wondered if this could be one of Mr. Lucy’s tests to see if he had the capabilities to be the leader he thought he could be.

  “Yeah.”

  “I think he’s wonderful, don’t you?”

  “Why?” he asked. He couldn’t help being suspicious. She barely ever said hello to him or even looked at him before this.

  “Because of the way he explains things. He makes it all s
eem so easy and he makes you believe you can do it. My regular teachers don’t do that for me,” she added. He thought her answer was honest and accurate.

  “I know. Mr. Lucy is more than my tutor; he’s my best friend,” he said. He wanted her to be sure to understand he and Mr. Lucy had a special relationship.

  “He does like you a lot. I know.” She didn’t sound jealous; she sounded happy for him.

  “How do you know that?”

  “By the way he talks about you. How else?” She looked down at her food quickly, as though she had said too much.

  “What did he say about me?”

  “Oh, only good things. He says you’ve got a lot of potential and it’s a shame the school hasn’t developed it.” She dipped her fork into the pile of ziti.

  “Why do you choose the most fattening stuff to eat?”

  She looked up as though she was surprised herself that she had done it. Then she shrugged.

  “You could have taken the salad plate. Don’t you care?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think about it. I just take what’s in front of me at the time.”

  “Well, you should care. You…” He thought about the way Mr. Lucy looked at him and held his attention, his face frozen in sincerity. “You have a very pretty face if you’d just let people see it.”

  She simply stared at him, the forkful of ziti stuck in the air between them. He couldn’t believe he had said what he had said himself, but he had and it had come out easier than he thought it would. He liked the effect it had on her, too. It made him feel more like Mr. Lucy.

  “I mean, if you dropped some weight, people could appreciate your good looks and you’d feel better about yourself. Your whole personality would change and that would affect everything you do.”

  “My mother says I’m hopeless.”

  “Your mother is hopeless,” he snapped, his eyes burning with instant anger. “She really doesn’t give a damn about you or she wouldn’t say something like that.”

  Sheila nodded slightly and looked at the fork in her hand. Slowly, she lowered it to the plate.

  “She probably thinks you’ll be competition for her if you lose weight.”

  “Oh no, my mother’s too beautiful. She’s a…”

  “I know your mother,” he said, his eyes small, his face screwed tightly with authority. “I’ve seen her with her new boyfriend, too.” Sheila blushed, but he didn’t retreat. “Your father’s an asshole.”

  “It’s not that. They’re practically separated.”

  “Well, why doesn’t he move out?”

  “He will. Soon,” she said sadly. Her eyes watered and she tugged nervously on the short, light brown strands that barely went over her ear. “I was going to run off and join my sister in Denver.”

  “Screw that. Let your mother run off and join your sister in Denver.”

  Sheila laughed. She made an impulsive move toward her plate of ziti again and stopped.

  “Throw it in the garbage and take the salad plate. Go ahead,” he commanded. “I’ll wait for you.”

  She considered the offer and then got up quickly to do it. He watched her closely as she moved across the cafeteria. His eyes were on her as if he could move her at will with the power of his gaze. Sometimes he thought Mr. Lucy could do something like that. He had such dominating eyes.

  When Sheila looked back at him after she dumped her tray, he nodded his approval and tilted his head toward the lunch line. She went back to get the salad plate.

  How easy it had been, he thought, and how good it made him feel to manipulate someone. Maybe Mr. Lucy was right. Maybe he did have a great deal more potential than he gave himself credit for and others assumed he had. He suddenly felt that he had cheated himself, but more importantly, he had been cheated by other people, people he had trusted in one way or another—his parents, his teachers, even some of his so-called friends.

  Sheila looked his way as she started back. He knew she wanted him to make some statement of approval; he knew she needed it. It was all coming to him, naturally, quickly. This was what Mr. Lucy meant by “personal power.”

  “That’s a lot more intelligent,” he said, indicating her new tray. “You’ve got to work at this for a while. I’d like to see you show up some of those snobby bitches,” he added, nodding toward another table, one filled with other girls from her class, girls he knew had little or nothing to do with her.

  “Well, I did try a few times. I even joined Weight Watchers, but there were just older women there and…”

  “And you didn’t have your mind determined and no one at home gave you any support. Isn’t that true?”

  She nodded.

  “You know,” she said, “you sound just like Mr. Lucy. He said something like that to me last night when he was talking about my lousy grades.”

  Johnny smiled. There was nothing she could have said that would have made him feel any happier.

  “Well,” he said, filled with more confidence than he ever dreamt he would have, “Mr. Lucy and I have a lot in common. He told me what life was like when he was my age,” he added. It was a lie, but he couldn’t stop it now.

  “Really? He never tells me anything about his past when I ask him questions. He always changes the topic.”

  “After a while, when he gets to trust you more, he will.”

  “How did you get him to trust you so quickly?”

  “He just sensed something about me, I guess.” He looked around. He couldn’t help it. It made him a little nervous to lie when it came to Mr. Lucy. It was as though Mr. Lucy could hear him.

  “I believe it,” she said. Her eyes widened. She did believe it and she was very happy that she had taken Mr. Lucy’s advice and made friends with Johnny Masterson. Before this, she was a little afraid of him. Now, she fantasized all sorts of future scenarios, not the least of which was a romantic one.

  Johnny pushed his plate aside, folded his hands, and leaned forward on the table. Like a tutor overseeing his pupil, he watched her eat her salad. When the bell rang, indicating the end of the lunch period, they walked together down the hall to class, stopping only once to speak with Gary Rosen, who stood leaning against the corridor wall, glaring sullenly at most everyone else. But he was eager to talk to them.

  Already, some of Mr. Lucy’s students felt a common bond. It was beginning to take shape, just as it always did.

  “Tell me what he’s like,” Toby Feldman said. She leaned forward on her elbows, her face filled with excitement. She looked like a primary grade school girl about to hear a fairy tale. For some reason, Ellen Lorner’s closest friend annoyed her this morning. Toby’s immature, she thought. She lacks sophistication. No wonder Morris treats her like another one of his kids, instead of like an equal.

  Ellen shook her head. This morning, coffee klatches suddenly seemed very stupid and very wasteful. What did the four of them accomplish? There was she and Toby and Myra Whittaker and Sally Anderman. Sometimes, Bea Baxter joined them, when she could get away from her housework, that is. Her three children kept her permanently attached to a vacuum cleaner. Myra and Sally sat back with half smiles on their faces. They were interested, but nowhere near as obvious about it.

  For a long time now, Ellen had felt like the head of this little group. She was the one who had come up with the revolving restaurant plan, going to dinner at a different place every Friday night; she was the one who suggested the three Broadway show-dinner trips; and she was the one who researched and planned last year’s mid-winter vacation to Aruba.

  “Toby, I thought I made it clear that I didn’t speak to him that long.”

  “But you said he was…”

  “I said he was impressive.”

  “And good-looking.” Toby’s eyes twinkled with childish excitement. She had a small dimple in her left cheek that was the subject of some of Morris’s off-color remarks. The jokes seemed beyond her, though, as did so many other things, Ellen thought.

  She sighed. She longed for her intellectual
equal, someone with whom she could have intelligent conversations about literature, music, the theater…life itself! Myra and Sally were just as vapid at times. She didn’t think she would ever forget how long Sally had talked last time about her new refrigerator. It was as though her whole life was wrapped around frozen foods, automatic ice makers, and an endless supply of ice water. Not to mention the ice-cream maker machine that came installed in the refrigerator. Oh God, she thought she would burst out laughing at any moment in the middle of it. The only thing that held her back was knowing how crushed Sally would be.

  What about me, though, she thought; what about the way I’m being crushed mentally, spiritually, intellectually…

  “Myra saw him,” Toby said, hoping to redirect everyone’s attention. “And she spoke to him, too.”

  “Only for a few minutes,” Myra said quickly. She was a tall, thin woman who could be very bubbly and funny when she had a few glasses of wine. Otherwise, she was very prim and proper. Neurotic, too, Ellen thought, especially about foods. Now she was into diet-light, prepackaged frozen dinners. She could be a salesman for the company, she talked about it so much. But like all her other fads, Ellen thought, this too would pass.

  “Where did you see him?”

  “At the supermarket. I was with my brother. Tony wants Sandy to work with a tutor. She’s been having a hard time ever since he remarried and it’s affected her schoolwork. She used to be a straight A student and now she’s barely passing.”

  “Well, you’ll have to admit that it takes a while to get used to the fact that your mother ran off to join a transcendental commune,” Ellen said.

  “And be so wrapped up in yourself that you accept a divorce without any care or concern for your child,” Myra added, her thin lips pulled up so tightly they whitened at the corners of her mouth. “My brother was left to raise a teenage girl, to run his printing business, and to face the disgrace. He was lucky to find Paula.”

  “Does Sandy get along with her?” Sally asked.