flustered at finding it occupied, seemed about to slide it shut again, when she caught the sympathetic eye of Christina Tucci. Half-stepping into the room, the woman—slender, neatly dressed, aged in her mid-to-late thirties—leaned across to Christina, whispering something behind a dainty hand. The pale gold of her wedding band caught the light from the ceiling. Her silky blond hair, which was cut to her chin, flashed with the same light. Christina pointed outside and the woman smiled, shyly mouthing a thank you. She was gone as suddenly as she had come.
The trouble was, she wasn’t gone. If only I’d kept my eyes from following her figure out of the door, and closed my ears to the murmurings around me, I could’ve prevented the fatal knowledge from dawning. There was a stirring of curiosity about the room, in which I heard the word repeated: wife, wife. It was not every day that we caught a glimpse of a teacher’s spouse.
I watched through the slice of doorway, along with the rest of the class, as the lady was waylaid in the hallway by our dark-haired master. There was an upturning of palms on his part, a rueful shrug, before he glanced at his watch, nodded in the direction of the teachers’ lounge, and kissed her briskly on the cheek. I noted bitterly that in her low, sling-back heels she reached as high as his cheekbone—the same height I was when I stood before him in my oxfords.
“You can go early, sir, if you have somewhere else to be,” Marcelle quipped when he re-entered the room. He laughed off the comment, yet, I noticed, was unable to bring himself to look in the direction whence it had come. The last ten minutes of the lesson were taken up by his transparent attempts to make up for forty whole minutes of neglect—something that I hated him for, with every splinter of my shattered heart. As the bell went, he wished us a good weekend: “. . . though not too good. You have your essays to write on Tuesday.” I could not even begin to imagine how I would survive until then.
W HILE ANOTHER would have fled the scene at once, to lick her wounds in private, I was intent on making the bad situation worse for myself. Having shaken off my friends at the nearest bathroom, I turned back in the direction of my locker, possessed by a dangerous desire to see more. My hands were shaking as I turned my combination; I hung my head, concealed doubly by the cold metal door and the warm curtain of my auburn curls. I stood that way for ten deep breaths as schoolgirls filtered out of the area, attempting to dull the thudding of my heart. At last, I sensed movement farther ahead, and peered over the top of my locker. Sure enough, coming from the faculty lounge was Mr. Steadman, clad in his navy sport coat and arm-in-arm with his lady. I closed the door of my locker promptly, pressing an armload of books to my chest, and started forth in their direction with my chin held high. Steadman had his head inclined toward his wife and was speaking with small, intimate gestures. My eyes flashed at him, black and bright with pride’s suppressed tears. With my shield of books and my hair streaming out behind me, I was impossible to overlook. As I neared him, I saw something anxious come into his eyes—a pleading, craven look. His lips faltered on his story. This acknowledgment lasted only a fraction of a second, before his eyes glossed over and the factitious flow of his gestures was resumed. I lowered my eyes. We passed one another. She saw nothing, nothing.
In my chest, my dulled heart was hammering once again, spreading hot poison through my body. Angry tears burned at the corners of my eyes. Stopping at a trashcan, I rummaged in my bag for the envelope and shredded the whole thing to pieces, cursing his cowardice.
I F I didn’t end things then, it was only out of spite—a desire to haunt, to hurt the one who had hurt me. I had considered, among more drastic measures, not attending his classes that week; on Tuesday morning,
The trouble was, she wasn’t gone. If only I’d kept my eyes from following her figure out of the door, and closed my ears to the murmurings around me, I could’ve prevented the fatal knowledge from dawning. There was a stirring of curiosity about the room, in which I heard the word repeated: wife, wife. It was not every day that we caught a glimpse of a teacher’s spouse.
I watched through the slice of doorway, along with the rest of the class, as the lady was waylaid in the hallway by our dark-haired master. There was an upturning of palms on his part, a rueful shrug, before he glanced at his watch, nodded in the direction of the teachers’ lounge, and kissed her briskly on the cheek. I noted bitterly that in her low, sling-back heels she reached as high as his cheekbone—the same height I was when I stood before him in my oxfords.
“You can go early, sir, if you have somewhere else to be,” Marcelle quipped when he re-entered the room. He laughed off the comment, yet, I noticed, was unable to bring himself to look in the direction whence it had come. The last ten minutes of the lesson were taken up by his transparent attempts to make up for forty whole minutes of neglect—something that I hated him for, with every splinter of my shattered heart. As the bell went, he wished us a good weekend: “. . . though not too good. You have your essays to write on Tuesday.” I could not even begin to imagine how I would survive until then.
W HILE ANOTHER would have fled the scene at once, to lick her wounds in private, I was intent on making the bad situation worse for myself. Having shaken off my friends at the nearest bathroom, I turned back in the direction of my locker, possessed by a dangerous desire to see more. My hands were shaking as I turned my combination; I hung my head, concealed doubly by the cold metal door and the warm curtain of my auburn curls. I stood that way for ten deep breaths as schoolgirls filtered out of the area, attempting to dull the thudding of my heart. At last, I sensed movement farther ahead, and peered over the top of my locker. Sure enough, coming from the faculty lounge was Mr. Steadman, clad in his navy sport coat and arm-in-arm with his lady. I closed the door of my locker promptly, pressing an armload of books to my chest, and started forth in their direction with my chin held high. Steadman had his head inclined toward his wife and was speaking with small, intimate gestures. My eyes flashed at him, black and bright with pride’s suppressed tears. With my shield of books and my hair streaming out behind me, I was impossible to overlook. As I neared him, I saw something anxious come into his eyes—a pleading, craven look. His lips faltered on his story. This acknowledgment lasted only a fraction of a second, before his eyes glossed over and the factitious flow of his gestures was resumed. I lowered my eyes. We passed one another. She saw nothing, nothing.
In my chest, my dulled heart was hammering once again, spreading hot poison through my body. Angry tears burned at the corners of my eyes. Stopping at a trashcan, I rummaged in my bag for the envelope and shredded the whole thing to pieces, cursing his cowardice.
I F I didn’t end things then, it was only out of spite—a desire to haunt, to hurt the one who had hurt me. I had considered, among more drastic measures, not attending his classes that week; on Tuesday morning,
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