hung on the wool of his mittens, and though students were forbidden to leave clothes on the radiator in the cloakroom, everyone did it. Things got burnt. Wayne told Mr. Henry he had to go to the washroom, but what he wanted was to get away from the soap and rescue his mitts. He was shoving them in his coat sleeve when Mr. Henry came in. Wayne felt that Mr. Henry was not going to get mad at him about the mittens. He felt that Mr. Henry had something else in mind, and he was right.
“Did you need to get away by yourself?” Mr. Henry’s
voice was softer than it should have been. Wayne wanted to run out of the cloakroom, but it was small and narrow, and he would have had to run right under Mr. Henry’s armpit. He stayed by the tiny window, which was frosted over. Hardly any daylight came into the cloakroom. There was one bulb, and its light was yellow. There was a smell of wet wool, sock sweat, and now the soap Wayne had wanted to get away from. Mr. Henry moved close to Wayne and rested a finger on his jawbone and drew a line along Wayne’s face, up to his ear and exquisitely, painfully, ever so lightly, around the back of Wayne’s ear, where no one had touched him before. The skin was so sensitive Wayne was scared it might break. Flowers were bursting open between his legs, but the flowers were ugly flowers that he did not like. He had no room to back up. Behind him was the radiator. If he touched it, it would burn right through his shirt. As it was he could smell the cotton getting hot, like it did when his mother ironed his shirts. Didn’t Mr. Henry have to go back to the class? Where did everyone think he was?
“I just wanted to get something out of my coat pocket.”
“I need to get away by myself sometimes too.” Mr. Henry took hold of a piece of Wayne’s hair, which Wayne vowed to cut as soon as he got home, if he ever got home out of this, if Mr. Henry did not take all the grade five coats off their hooks and smother him. The teacher held the lock of Wayne’s hair the way Wayne’s mother held knobs of cold shortening with flour streaming down as she tenderly made pastry, using only her fingertips so as not to heat the silky mixture, then he let it go.
“If you ever need someone to talk to, about special things, things you don’t want anyone to know” — Mr. Henry’s voice was so low it was deadly, as if he were saying Wayne could murder someone and tell Mr. Henry about it and Mr. Henry would help him conceal the crime — “you can come to me.”
The bell rang, and it was so loud and shrill it made Wayne’s heart jump twice, and the corridor outside was filled with everyone yelling and clanging lockers open. The smell of chicken pies — the cheap kind in frozen boxes heated at 425 degrees for forty minutes — wafted around the doorpost, and the moment of Mr. Henry’s tenderness was, luckily for Wayne, finished. Mr. Henry spun on his shoe and barrelled towards the staff room without even saying goodbye to the boy he wanted. Wayne knew Mr. Henry wanted him. He didn’t know how, exactly, but he knew it had to do with appetite, and he avoided being alone with that man again. No matter what Mr. Henry did to meet Wayne alone, Wayne was a step ahead, even if he had to run. So he escaped from Mr. Henry, but he could not escape from the fact that a man had wanted him, and that his body had responded to that man with a secret desire of its own. An exquisite stirring, unwanted, involuntary, mysterious. A child of eleven awakens to sexual ecstasy and keeps it to himself, and thinks for a brief time that he, or she, is the only one in the world to whom this has happened. For a little while Wayne’s ecstasy remained hidden, like the bulb of any bloom, underground.
“It’s like Dad is mad at me all the time.” Wayne sat on the tall stool at the kitchen counter, talking to his mother while she cut onions. “How come?”
“He’s not mad at you.”
“He is.”
“He’s probably just tired. He wants
“Did you need to get away by yourself?” Mr. Henry’s
voice was softer than it should have been. Wayne wanted to run out of the cloakroom, but it was small and narrow, and he would have had to run right under Mr. Henry’s armpit. He stayed by the tiny window, which was frosted over. Hardly any daylight came into the cloakroom. There was one bulb, and its light was yellow. There was a smell of wet wool, sock sweat, and now the soap Wayne had wanted to get away from. Mr. Henry moved close to Wayne and rested a finger on his jawbone and drew a line along Wayne’s face, up to his ear and exquisitely, painfully, ever so lightly, around the back of Wayne’s ear, where no one had touched him before. The skin was so sensitive Wayne was scared it might break. Flowers were bursting open between his legs, but the flowers were ugly flowers that he did not like. He had no room to back up. Behind him was the radiator. If he touched it, it would burn right through his shirt. As it was he could smell the cotton getting hot, like it did when his mother ironed his shirts. Didn’t Mr. Henry have to go back to the class? Where did everyone think he was?
“I just wanted to get something out of my coat pocket.”
“I need to get away by myself sometimes too.” Mr. Henry took hold of a piece of Wayne’s hair, which Wayne vowed to cut as soon as he got home, if he ever got home out of this, if Mr. Henry did not take all the grade five coats off their hooks and smother him. The teacher held the lock of Wayne’s hair the way Wayne’s mother held knobs of cold shortening with flour streaming down as she tenderly made pastry, using only her fingertips so as not to heat the silky mixture, then he let it go.
“If you ever need someone to talk to, about special things, things you don’t want anyone to know” — Mr. Henry’s voice was so low it was deadly, as if he were saying Wayne could murder someone and tell Mr. Henry about it and Mr. Henry would help him conceal the crime — “you can come to me.”
The bell rang, and it was so loud and shrill it made Wayne’s heart jump twice, and the corridor outside was filled with everyone yelling and clanging lockers open. The smell of chicken pies — the cheap kind in frozen boxes heated at 425 degrees for forty minutes — wafted around the doorpost, and the moment of Mr. Henry’s tenderness was, luckily for Wayne, finished. Mr. Henry spun on his shoe and barrelled towards the staff room without even saying goodbye to the boy he wanted. Wayne knew Mr. Henry wanted him. He didn’t know how, exactly, but he knew it had to do with appetite, and he avoided being alone with that man again. No matter what Mr. Henry did to meet Wayne alone, Wayne was a step ahead, even if he had to run. So he escaped from Mr. Henry, but he could not escape from the fact that a man had wanted him, and that his body had responded to that man with a secret desire of its own. An exquisite stirring, unwanted, involuntary, mysterious. A child of eleven awakens to sexual ecstasy and keeps it to himself, and thinks for a brief time that he, or she, is the only one in the world to whom this has happened. For a little while Wayne’s ecstasy remained hidden, like the bulb of any bloom, underground.
“It’s like Dad is mad at me all the time.” Wayne sat on the tall stool at the kitchen counter, talking to his mother while she cut onions. “How come?”
“He’s not mad at you.”
“He is.”
“He’s probably just tired. He wants
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