The Eliot Girls by Krista Bridge Page A

felt that he was harmless, ultimately. There almost seemed an element of play about it, though she knew that thinking such a thing was naive, that this exhibitionism had something much darker at its core. There was a true danger of these displays escalating.
    The students also found the flasher funny and considered it a badge of honour to be selected as his victim. Those who had actually been flashed basked in fame for weeks afterward. “Watch out for the flasher!” the girls called to each other when they set out in the direction where he was known to loiter, on the pathway that ran beside the fence on the school’s western border. Ruth understood their perverse fascination, the warped pride of the chosen ones. Larissa, however, was furious when she got wind of the flasher’s actions being taken lightly.
    â€œSo the question is, what can we do to keep our girls safe?” Larissa said, passing around handouts summarizing the flasher protocol. The teachers were to alert their classes to the threat and make clear the importance of notifying an adult if the flasher struck. Girls walking home must be always in pairs. Portable music devices, an impediment to hearing, were to be banned. It was essential that the students understand that the flasher was not a joke.
    Sheila nodded vigorously as she reviewed the handout. “Pairs, I like that. That could be a truly impactful solution.”
    Ms. McAllister stopped moving suddenly, as though someone had unplugged her internal wiring. Then she marched over to the dictionary and read aloud the definition of impact , and the list of its legitimate derivations. “This is the second time I have heard you employ the word ‘impactful,’ Sheila,” said Larissa. “‘ Cuiusvis hominis est errare, nullius nisi insipientis in errore perseverare. ’ ‘Anyone can err, but only the fool persists in his fault.’”
    Sheila nodded again, this time in perplexed shame, studying her handout.
    â€œIf I may ask,” said Michael, raising her hand. “Who was the victim?”
    â€œDeborah Fields.”
    Michael shook her head. “That poor, darling girl.” Always quick to appoint herself the mouthpiece for thwarted female justice in the world beyond the Eliot enclave, Michael stood now and gathered the teachers to her with an embracing, outraged stare. “Imagine simply being on your way home from school in broad daylight and being accosted by the sight of a stranger’s dangling phallus. Although God knows dangling is certainly preferable to the alternative.”
    Henry Winter, Ruth noticed now, was sitting near Michael, listening with apparent interest as she spoke. Ruth had hardly seen him since his introduction in the staff room, though she had nearly crossed paths with him just the other day in the parking lot. She had been applying lipstick in her rear-view mirror when he pulled in next to her in his car, a beaten-up old black Saab with a dented door and red duct tape where the glass was missing from one of the brake lights. Through her peripheral vision, Ruth saw him register her presence, and after he locked his door he paused for a moment between the cars, possibly waiting for her to get out and accompany him into the school. Wanting to avoid early morning small talk, she had pretended to rummage around for something in her briefcase until he disappeared. On her way into the school, she noticed on his car a bumper sticker that said, “My other car is a bicycle.” She was surprised, having failed to detect in him any environmental zeal.
    â€œHow dare men use their genitalia as a threat. A weapon of intimidation.” Michael’s voice had fallen to a haunted, impassioned hush. “It’s sickening. I remember back in my single days how awful it was never having a moment’s peace when I was out with my girlfriends. Men constantly interrupting. Pushing themselves into our conversations. Insisting