Carrie's Caprice

By George Kalabry

Social networking and on-line gaming can be hazardous to your health, even when youre fully clothed. Carries predicament begins when she hooks up with a slick scoundrel. He turns out to be a drug dealer, and that makes him more exciting and desirable to an impressionable sixteen-year-old sophomore. Hungry for thrills and wild with innocence, she dives headlong into a situation she cant control. Her little trolly gets derailed, when she discovers that she is being used as a bargaining chip to satisfy a debt to a sex-starved ex-convict.
Carries mother goes berserk on finding out that her daughter has become intimate with a college student: On weekends when he comes home from SUNY Brockport, the youngsters engage in a relationship that most married couples would envy. Carrie also seduces two of her teachers to wangle passing grades in their courses.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781481750684

George Kalabry

George Kalabry grew up in a working-class neighborhood on the west side of Rochester, N. Y. what used to be Hy’s Delicatessen is now Ortiz’s Deli. Gone are the shade trees, pulverized by the growth of a city flexing its muscles. Only Holy Apostles Church stands intact against the ravages of time. The residents were hard-working and law-abiding, content to live in peace and conformity. Neighbors were vigilant and they kept an eye on each other’s children and property. The file on lawbreakers in this community was very thin. Melancholy and introspective, George preferred to read adventure stories instead of playing baseball. He practically devoured the Hardy Boy Mysteries in junior high school. A female acquaintance had once compared him to a brooding Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights. He became a Spanish teacher, and his career was defined by pique and contention. His conventional values flew in the face of the politically correct and limp-wristed administrators, who were the bane of his existence. As a young man, he’d adapted a set of absolute values derived from his Christian education. “He was so scrupulous that he couldn’t steal cheese from a rat”, one of his colleagues had once quipped. Permissiveness and mediocrity were never in his lesson plan. Having seen how the world was turning, he never rolled over with it. He still believes that political correctness is for spineless sycophants and mindless conformists.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Karl Klinger’s empty classroom depressed him. Upfront there was a gunmetal gray desk with a lecturn on it. Student desks with writing arms bore their scars as proudly as war veterans. Three casement windows were streaked with soot and the dingy beige walls were brightened only on the sunniest days. When the sky was overcast, the only cheerfulness came from the colorful posters of idyllic pastoral scenes taped to the walls. They reminded the teacher of his grandparents’ farm in rural Indiana.

Having grown tired of the drabness, he had purchased the art work at a flea market in the historic Cornhill neighborhood of Rochester. The fluorescent globe on the ceiling, though, highlighted every grease spot and smudge mark. The back wall supported book cases he had come upon for a pittance at a garage sale. His reading selections revealed an eclectic taste—leather-bound volumes of classic literature and best-selling fiction paperbacks.

When he looked around the featureless room, the pale colors and straight lines offered no resistance, nothing his mind could really grasp. The cheesy paneling and coarse industrial coloration was the least expensive the penny-pinching school district had allowed. Already there were motheaten spots and disgusting wads of chewing gum stuck to the stringy patches, now heeled and toed to the burlap.

Karl Klinger was sitting behind his utilitarian desk, so cluttered with loose papers and folders that they appeared to have been ransacked. He was concentrating on the screen of his laptop during his planning session. It used to be called a free period until the administration noticed that too many teachers, sometimes called facilitators, squandered their time in the faculty lounge, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes during school hours. These unproductive pastimes came to an abrupt end by official fiat.

Ms. P. V. Fletcher, the sullen Principal, had forbidden them in no uncertain terms. No more malingering. No more smoking on school property, not even in the privacy of your own car. Naturally the lady had the unflagging support of the Superintendent and the politically correct Board of Education, a cross section of the local gentry and the business community. On special occasions they appeared at faculty luncheons and strutted around like Swiss bankers. It was finally resolved that staff members with a caffeine addiction were forced to bring their own coffee to the classroom in Thermos bottles.

Disgruntled instructors with a tobacco habit had complained to the Steering Committee, clamoring for some space of their own. Students, however, continued to puff away between classes in the washrooms and out of doors during the lunch period. The wishy-washy VIPs on the fourth floor were flagrantly ignoring this open defiance of school rules. When it served their purpose, they knew how to keep their eyes closed and their heads down. Karl Klinger didn’t like those empty suits who thought they owned the world, assuming that their status entitled them to bully everyone else out of their way.

Pierre La Fleur, President of the Leander Teachers’ Association, known as the LTA, had made a perfunctory complaint in behalf of the smokers to the Board. Roundly rejected, the request had found its way to the circular file. Pierre had a secret agenda of his own, and the last thing he wanted was to offend the muckety-mucks who wielded the power.

He was also the French instructor and Chairman of the Modern Language Department. Proud of his Gallic heritage, he disliked being called Peter or Pete. With new instructors, he never failed to inform them that his ancestors had been judges and statesman dating back to the arrival of the Huguenots in North America. He spoke with a how-now brown-cow precision. Like a patient teacher explaining something to mentally slow pupils. His peers found him pompous and pretentious. He was a great one for exaggeration too, resorting to hyperbole to make a point. With finesse he kept his political fingertips sandpapered, and he possessed an uncanny ability to grab credit and avoid blame.

It was rumored that Pierre kept a private file on teachers who left the school grounds before 3:15. The contract required that the professional staff remain on campus for forty-five minutes after dismissal at 2:30. He knew how to feather his own nest and cover his ass. He was a goody-two-shoes and a suck-up whom nobody trusted.

For Karl Klinger things were different in his home state of Indiana. There most people were hardworking, conservative folks who tended to mind their own business. Teachers were called teachers, not facilitators who belonged to the National Education Association. No matter how you sliced it, the NEA was still a labor union that disseminated secular, socialistic propaganda. The dues they collected were spent on the most progressive, left-wing candidates running for high public office. These, in turn, repaid the rank-and-file by supporting educational causes, no matter how flaky or bizarre they were. In some circles teachers were embarrassed to admit that they voted Republican and supported conservative inititives.

At Leander Central School Karl Klinger often saw staff members operate selfishly in their own behalf. But you had to be careful whose ox you gored today, because tomorrow they’d be waiting their turn for you. He hated the phoniness of so many people: The fast and immoral tempo folks seemed to live by, not to mention the horrible emphasis on promiscuous sex.

Sycophantic staff members spent more time and effort trying to score brownie points rather than serve the students. Karl was surrounded by this kind of mentality in New York, probably the most liberal state in the country after Massachusetts. Sometimes he thought that the Almighty had tipped over the United States, letting all the hypocrites and fornicators slide down to the east and west coasts to California and the Northeast, while the righteous people found themselves in the Midwest. He saw politics as the second oldest profession, convinced that it bore a striking resemblance to the first.

Even the janitorial crew was often slipshod and careless. Many mornings instructors entered their classrooms only to find the chalkboards unwashed and the wastepaper baskets filled to overflowing. Some custodians submitted time sheets for work never performed.

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Seated behind his clunky desk, the teacher snapped the laptop shut and bridged his nose with thumb and forefinger. Yawning lazily a few times, he rubbed his tired eyes. Something in the gesture made him keenly aware of the emotional turmoil brewing inside of him. The Dollar-Tree clock on the wall above the door read 1:40. Still remaining was his last lesson that started in five minutes, and this one was the most rambunctious of the day, especially on Fridays.

He wasn’t so concerned about petty school politics today. Problems of a more personal nature were plaguing him. Would he be forced to spend another weekend alone? Some nights he was assailed by a loneliness so dense that it was palpable. Sleeping alone was getting boring. He longed to be intimate with a perky female lying beside him and to feel her warm breath against his skin. Even if such activity was reserved exclusively for legally married couples. Only once had he ever been inside a woman, and that was the time his mother had taken him to visit the Statue of Liberty.

Karl Klinger was hungry for the sound and sight of happy people around him. Everyone but him seemed paired off. Never a loner during his college years, he’d always had congenial roommates and frat brothers. He was the one they had sent out for pizza. There’d been sympathetic female acquaintances too, who’d treated him like a brother or a buddy. Never a lover. Sometimes he got kissed but never laid. He treated rejection like getting back on a horse after you’ve been thrown.

As a student he’d learned that the way to achieve self-satisfaction and self-esteem was through duty and service. Teaching was not merely a job. It was a vocation like fatherhood or the ministry. He seemed to have little interest in the world of commerce or the accumulation of money.

He spent a lot of time analyzing his feelings, and he was compelled to admit that he was no wiser or more sophisticated than he’d been during his undergraduate days. During his first year of teaching, he had been too indulgent with his charges. Turned out to be a pushover. This year he was striving to be more demanding, but he couldn’t seem to find the right combination. As far as dating was concerned, there was little time for a social life. When the rare occasion occurred, well, it more often than not turned out badly for him.

Contemplative by nature, almost everything he thought and felt concerned his own aspirations, fears, and despairs. If he’d learned anything since his college days, it was that hope was not a good strategy but only a good companion. It made the disappointment hurt all the more.

Strangely enough for a bluff young man, he was aware of his intense egoism. Though he possessed many virtues, humility was never one of them. Maybe he was trying too hard to fall in love. There wasn’t much of real romance around these days, so he had to fake it as if he were playing a con game on himself. He needed all the vicarious thrills he could scrape up. Anybody could tell the math teacher that you can’t take the square root of love or bisect a relationship into neat, equal pieces. Emotions don’t work that way.

When he managed to wangle a date, he put the young lady to sleep with his run-on stories that often included his doting mother, who apparently exerted a great influence in his life. That was a red flag for his bored listeners, and he seemed impervious to polite yawns and subtle put-downs. He pestered some females long after they’d rejected him. His contemporaries humored him, while the middle-aged ones found his adolescent cowlick irresistible. It was better than being completely ignored. All of his life he defended the fair sex, pretty and plain alike. He loved them, pedestalized them, and asked nothing but a bit of affection in return. At the end of the evening, they usually sent him packing.

He struggled to comprehend the female persuasion. Nobody ever told him anything. His friends had expressed surefire ideas about sexual attraction, their favorite topic of conversation during bull sessions in the frat house. One guy thought that women expected a guy to be masterful and take the lead. Another opined that if you treated them rudely, they would return for more. A third claimed that women were interested in money, good times, and handsome features. Karl remained confused with no clue of his own. One of the greatest thrills of his life was the annual swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated and he still couldn’t come to terms with the fact that he was scared witless of females.

He felt like a dufus most of the time, but he was certain that he could score major poontang. All he had to do was apply himself more effectively. There were plenty of nubile Christian women in Sparta, enough so that he should never lack for female company.

Love angles were big news in a town full of gossipy people, who enjoyed creating scandals to compensate for their own loveless marriages. He blamed his dismal social life on his demanding career. Perhaps one of the reasons he toiled so much was the fact that it was easier than competing in the whirling dating scene. It was a real rat race out there, for which his bible-college education had not equipped him. Everyone was getting some but him.

He would never guess that he was a sexual retardate, and still tied to his mother’s apron strings. Except for a humiliating encounter with a hooker planned by his college buddies, he was still a virgin. Little did he know about the hard knocks of life, because his mother had protected him like a hothouse tomato. In high school he was voted the Most Likely to Achieve Sainthood.

He got his scanty sex instruction from his grandfather. He’d told the lad to practice abstinence until he got married. If he couldn’t restrain his libido, he should avail himself of condoms and never impregnate a girl out of wedlock. Since the female of the species is smaller and weaker than the male, nature equipped her with superior mental mechanisms. They lie better than men and they can fake orgasms, when it serves their end.

He was handsome enough in a personable sort of way: Fair complexion. Aryan features. Six feet tall but neither muscular nor athletic. A dorky haircut. Except for a minimum of facial hair, he might have looked effeminate. His pencil mustache was a pale peach fuzz, which was meant to make him look older. It was almost transparent except when he drank coffee. Then it resembled the tassels of a wilted ear of corn.

When he started his teaching career, he could pass for seventeen and most teachers at first took him for a new transfer student. When adult conversations veered away from shoptalk and academic matters, he often fell into aw-shucks adolescence. Growing up, he was vulnerable and needed protection. Like the time in the tenth grade when the Esposito twins down the block had de-pantsed him just for the fun of it. There were always roughnecks who’d sneered at him and called him unflattering names. These used to push him into snow banks and play childish tricks on him. He’d grown up with sissies and weaklings getting bullied in the schoolyard. Though he felt compassion for them, he never lifted a finger to protect anyone either.

There were, however, certain co-eds in his classes nowadays who were smitten with him, apparent in their flirtatious mannerisms. But everyone knew that students were strictly off-limits for high-school instructors. Though painful to admit, he felt a gnawing hunger for a taste of the forbidden fruit. He was still half-amused and half-annoyed when a girl had scribbled her fax number in lipstick on a test paper.

Karl Klinger was twenty-four and still as bashful and tongue-tied with the opposite sex as he’d been at the age of fourteen. When he tried to impress adult women with his knowledge and insight, he didn’t realize what a colossal pain in the neck he could be. His dancing never impressed anyone either. Somewhat weird, his steps were certainly unique, resembling those of a wooden mannequin. Rarely did he move in tandem with a partner. More a dissonant soloist, he danced his own peculiar step to his own lonely rhythm.

One evening he had ventured into the college town of Brockport in search of romance. His selection was a venue where nobody knew him, and he wasn’t likely to stumble upon students from Leander High School. Nor was he anxious to patronize a singles bar, not even an upscale one like the Limelight Lounge. At first glance it was cozy and seductive, but the decor was nothing to enthuse about. Scattered around were tables with leather-cushioned chairs and a glass bar along a panelled wall. All very posh and discreet—a place designed for young status-seekers.

For a long while he sat like a statue, sipping a sweet fruity drink topped with a little paper umbrella. He felt outclassed, sizing up the patrons dressed to the nines—the men in suits and sport jackets, the ladies in convincing knock-offs or business suits. A normal bunch, only more polished and affluent in demeanor.

Karl Klinger had observed the bourgeoisie in action with a jaundiced eye. Professional types costumed for pleasure, there was something lecherous about them. The dancing was nothing but debauchery, all the grosser for its pretense. What stopped them from tearing off each other’s fine clothes and fornicating outright? Their animal parts were dominant, dragging you places where you shouldn’t go. These people were nothing more than bags of flesh and bones, covered with the thin veneer of refinement. Nor was he into one-night stands, because he was no match for such a worldly-wise level of experience.

Somehow the rejection by young women his own age made him feel all his social-life traumas more acutely. Maybe the prospect wouldn’t be so daunting, if he were not surrounded by so many smooth-talking phonies on the prowl. These were slick fellows—all style and no substance, strutting around in custom-made suits. His own off-the-rack threads and the pencil caddy in his shirt pocket made him look like a geek. His competition always sized him up, observing his fumbling technique and awkward attempts at humor. They disdained his pathetic openers when he said something silly like: What is an angel like you doing so far away from heaven?

The bell ending sixth period interrupted Karl Klinger’s reverie. A flurry of activity followed in the corridor as students streamed out of classrooms, yakking away and jostling each other boisterously.

During the several minutes of passing time between lectures, some kids slipped into johns for a quick pee or a forbidden smoke. Slowly and lethargically, boys and girls started trickling into their algebra class. It was Friday and the last period of the day. Nobody felt more relieved than the instructor.

Oh-oh, Carrie Riley was coming. The tilt of her head with a touch of arrogance gave her an air of entitlement, as if she deserved the best and was sure she would acquire it. Earlier in the day he had seen her leaving the Guidance Office on the ground floor. Modestly attired, she was wearing tailored jeans, a sweatshirt, and expensive sneakers. Nothing unusual. It was the official uniform.

Now she was sashaying into the classroom sporting a slinky black dress with spaghetti straps. With her every step, the flimsy fabric swayed and clung to her like a second skin. Everything inside her outfit was Carrie and nothing was stamped with a union label. The top of the garment was cut deeply enough to accentuate rather than conceal the curve of her voluptuous figure. Honest to God! A siren like this one could stop traffic. A pair of mile-high heels and fishnet stockings completed her outfit. She held her books clasped against her abundant breasts with both hands the way girls do.

The teacher’s burning eyes shot her a raking glance that lingered briefly on forbidden territory. Rounded in all the right places, he could visualize a wide pubic airstrip between flat hips. Already he had seen some in the glossy girlie magazines. Many a night he’d lain awake in bed, imagining what she looked like in her birthday suit.

Holding herself erect, she skated splendidly to her seat with a fluid grace that was serpentine in its languor. Every head, both male and female, turned in her direction when she made her grand entrance. She was candy for the eyes.

The instructor was too disconcerted to speak. Often he cajoled his co-eds to wear more modest attire for their own self-respect, certain that they were unaware of the stirring effect they had on men. The effete administrators were no help either. They failed to enforce the dress code, though it was clearly defined in the Student Handbook.

Students were permitted to wear practically anything they fancied these days. Beach apparel was the only exception. Eventually somebody was going to cross that line too. Leander was, after all, a public institution, not the ultra-conservative bible school that Karl Klinger had attended. There you needed a permit to read the New York Times or listen to CNN.

Mr. K, as the students affectionately addressed Karl Klinger, called his class to order and took attendance. He jotted down the absentees on a special form. Afterwards, he told his charges to silently read the math problem on the chalkboard. Today his scholars would be grappling with linear equations with two variables. Once seated in her chair in the middle row, he observed Carrie’s rheumy eyes filled with boredom and never let him out of her sight. Perhaps she had a fondness for older men, the unresolved Oedipus complex and all that stuff. No big deal. Every female had to contend with this rite of passage, he supposed.

Bill Taylor, a linebacker with broad shoulders and a bull-like neck, was the prototype of a high-school football player. He might even play for a junior college some day. He wasn’t smart enough for a real college. During the off-season, he hung out with the burnouts and freaks. He was snapping his bubble gum, completely oblivious to the task at hand. Slicked back with a cheap pomade, his long hair left a greasy stain on the back wall. His eyes were as dead as soap and his sleepy manner suggested that his little impudence required all the concentration he could muster. His big secret was that he placed wadded up socks in his undershorts to make himself look more manly. Why not? Don’t girls wear push-up bras?

It annoyed the teacher that two co-eds were applying makeup to their faces, a practice which was against the rules in the classroom. Their complexion was the color of coffee with cream, and their hair was braided in glossy cornrows dotted with yellow beads. Another pupil was painting her fingernails purple. She looked pretty until she smiled. He wondered how much lipstick the average girl ate in a year. On the teeth it was a definite turnoff.

The instructor coughed authoritatively a few times. Very few students were cooperating with him. Some were typing on their laptops, while others were checking e-mail or cruising the Internet idly. Not all classroom technology is progress these days. Not even the best teachers can compete with sex dot com.

In a stentorian tone above the hubbub of the classroom, the teacher asked, Would someone do us the honor of reading the problem aloud?

Nobody uttered a peep. Some kids stared at the ceiling, while others chose the carpeted floor. A few deadheads closed their eyes and yawned. In a gesture of exasperation, the man in charge slapped his forehead with the flat of his hand and read the problem himself.

Harry bought 7 apples and 6 oranges for $4.50. Larry bought 10 apples and 3 oranges for $4.20. Find the price of one apple and one orange.

With the words scarcely out of his mouth, Bill Taylor waved both hands in the air for the teacher’s attention.

Yes, Bill, Mr. K acknowledged with a grateful nod. This underachiever was not prone to display interest in academic matters, never having mastered anything more cerebral than memorize some football plays. Frankly, he was as dumb as a box of rocks. Since his old lady was a big muckety-muck in the PTA, he felt entitled to take undue privileges. Are Harry and Larry brothers? he asked with a shit-eating grin. The class snickered and Bill Taylor’s buddy clapped approvingly. Everyone seemed to be amused with one exception.

Mr. K stood up slowly behind his cluttered desk. Remaining outwardly composed, he clenched his fists until the knuckles turned white. Displaying anger would be a loss of control. Quick on the uptake, he retorted, Don’t pull my leg, Bill. It’s already long enough. Cocking a theatrical eyebrow, he asked with mock seriousness, Haven’t you heard? Harry and Larry got married.

Laughter, whistles, and hoots rang out that were heard in the corridor. Bill Taylor’s smirk disappeared as quickly as a chalkboard wiped clean with a wet sponge. He was mortified. The corded muscles in his thick neck revealed the embarrassment he was experiencing.

With a backward glance, Carrie focused her attention on the class buffoon with an icy stare. There was bad blood between these two that dated back to junior high school. She said stonily, I guess he put you in your place, stupid. Let Mr. K do his job, okay? She made an imaginary pistol with thumb and forefinger, pointed it at Bill, and pretended to pull the trigger. Bang, bang. You’re dead, she caroled for the whole class to hear. It was getting out of hand. Since Columbine High School, stunts like Carrie’s were no longer funny. When Bill realized he was the object of stares, he fell silent and slipped down lower in his chair, working hard at casual cool.

The teacher listened and kept quiet too, letting the scene unfold. Many students winced or sucked breath, while the class clown cringed. A big macho type like Bill Taylor couldn’t stand being dissed by Carrie Cream Cheese, as the football players referred to her.

She used to be a cheerleader until she sprained her pelvis, enough to require a trip to Emergency in an ambulance. She still kept pictures in her locker—snapshots of herself in midair, legs spread widely in a split kick, the pleats open and billowing above her lacy underpants. Smiling. Arms spread. She still enjoyed the prestige of being associated with this select squad of girls, but inwardly she scorned them. Most were cute dumbbells who fawned over the male athletes with intimations of sexual favors, rarely delivered. That kind of girlie stuff was never her bag. She was too independent of spirit to kowtow to those of the steroid persuasion.

Mr. K gloated inwardly, struggling to keep a deadpan face. He made a slicing motion in the air with his hand to cut out the nonsense. Glancing down at Carrie, he shot her a look of mute surprise, wondering what game she was playing today. It was difficult not to notice her appearance, since her outfits generally fell somewhere between skimpy and obscene.

The teacher turned testy. Let’s get down to business. The lesson for today is linear equations with two variables. Refer to your notes from yesterday.

Finally his charges conformed after several minutes of class time had been squandered. There was the sound of loose-leaf notebooks being snapped open, as everyone extracted scratch paper. Finally the class became quiet and busy with the math problem on the board.

From behind his desk, the instructor began to steal furtive glances at Carrie. Yawning, she stretched her arms over her head, protruding breasts so inviting. The outline of her bra was clearly visible behind a revealing dress. When she caught him staring at her, he averted her vision with a sheepish grin.

He was mesmerized by the visual treat she was so freely offering him. Snap out of it, he kept telling himself. It was immoral and illegal to think of a minor in a physical way. Despite her womanly proportions and mature bearing, she was still a child. He snorted with disgust at himself for his weakness of the flesh.

Seated next to Carrie, another girl with a complexion like peaches and cream was grinning, as if she knew a guilty secret. Dressed very decently, Miriam Levy displayed more modesty than custom dictated. Never would she strut around like Carrie, whose mother must be something like the offspring, he speculated incorrectly.

Mr. K glanced down at his index cards from which he was silently reading, struggling to stay a step ahead of his students. His roaming eyes kept wandering up her abbreviated black outfit. The tops of her pink garters contrasted sharply with the white thighs above the stocking line. Though reluctant to admit it, she was arousing his baser instincts and giving him unclean desires. He decided to walk around the room, helping students here and there. When he rose to his feet, his legs felt rubbery and the lightweight material of his summer pants was stretching in front. Quickly he resumed his seat, hoping nobody noticed his throbbing embarrassment.

Carrie was making him acutely uneasy. How could any normal male ignore such a delectable body. She was offering herself on a silver platter. It was like someone tossing a bag of goodies in his lap. Spreading her legs slowly, she gave her observer an even better view. On seeing that she wore no underpants, the roof of his mouth went dry. He wondered if she had blond hair all over her body or only where it showed. It wouldn’t do for him to approach her and ask, Would you raise your hemline and give me a little peek of your pussy, so I can make a comparison with the hair on your head?

For an instant he visualized her spread-eagled—ankles and wrists tied to imaginary bedposts with silk scarves. Not a holy state of affairs for a God-fearing Lutheran and ex-Sunday school teacher. He enjoyed staring at her competent hips strain tightly against the fabric of her dress, whenever she shifted her weight. She was teasing him and he probably resented it. All the same he was captivated by her, and he felt impotent to correct the situation. Simply changing her seat wouldn’t solve the problem either. Nor would having her transferred to another math class. It was too late in the academic year.

Disregarding this unmitigated exhibitionist was impossible for Mr. K, his eyes having a stubborn will of their own. Every now and then, she lifted her vision from her written work only to mock him. Keenly aware of his interest in her body, she did nothing to change her position or rearrange her provocative attire. By the second he was growing more disconcerted with her as well as himself, but he was still ogling her with drooping camel eyes. She could make an eighty-year-old bishop renounce his vow of celibacy, he pondered cynically.

Miriam Levy sitting next to Carrie raised her hand. When she failed to catch the teacher’s eye, she coughed in a ladylike manner. Finally he glanced her way. I solved it, she announced with bubbling enthusiasm.

He rose from his homely desk and sidled over to where the girl was seated. Until now he had hardly noticed her. Very intelligent and unobtrusive, she wasn’t mediocre enough to fit into the conventional mold. A self-motivated scholar, a teacher had only to point her in the right direction.

Her long brown hair, parted down the middle, lacked any imagination and begged for attention. It might have been combed with a steam iron. In grade school she had been a stuttering wren of a child with no personality, but those days were behind her. A prim little dress of avocado green with a white top and a Peter Pan collar covered her very demurely. Plaid knee socks. A pair of unadorned brogans. This wasn’t a silly or frivolous girlie-girl who thought that a designer purse or a new pair of pumps were the most important things in the world.

Mr. K knew that she had a great figure, but her unflattering outfit managed to hide the natural curves of her body. Barely five-two, he wondered how so much woman could fit into such a small package. With her pink-white and full-lipped mouth, she radiated the innocence of a faded old photograph.

Peering over her shoulder, the teacher took note of her written work, Mmmm. It looks good, Miriam. Would you please put your solution on the board for the class to share? he suggested with a lilt in his voice.

Certainly, sir. He loved it. Who addressed adults so politely any more? Miriam was just the kind of all-American girl he admired the most.

Smiling from ear to ear, she sauntered leisurely to the front of the classroom. There she displayed her knowledge of the subject matter. In algebra she was a whiz-bang. Next year she would be taking Advanced Placement courses. In no time she completed her calculations on the board and stepped aside, looking cute and self-satisfied.

The instructor nodded with approval. Stellar achievers like this one made his job worthwhile. Would you explain your procedure? he requested.

Miriam swooned and her eyes assumed a faraway look. Let x represent the apples and y the oranges. I made two equations like this, she outlined with the aid of a wooden pointer. In the second equation I eliminated the y portion by multiplying it by positive two, then subtracted it from the first equation: 13x = 3.90. An apple costs 30 cents and an orange 40 cents, she concluded.

Mr. K clapped with admiration. Attagirl. I couldn’t have done it better myself. Many pupils regarded the little scholar with undisguised awe. A few deadheads like Bill Taylor scoffed at her. It wasn’t cool to be smart in some circles.

On noticing the quartz clock on the wall, the teacher groaned audibly. Ten minutes still remained, and he was caught with a short lesson plan. He frowned and squirmed, a perfectionist unprepared in a glaring oversight. He shuffled the index cards in his hands, each with an algebraic problem neatly typed on it. Picking one at random, he scribbled it quickly on the board, then read it to the class:

Admission to the movies is $8.00 for adults. Children are admitted for half price. If the theater sold 300 tickets for $2,040, how many adults and how many children bought tickets?

Miriam Levy solved it before the period ended. When she raised her hand, she blushed a little. The teacher put a finger in front of his mouth for silence, looking at her intently without blinking. The girl understood and remained mute.

When the bell finally sounded, there were whoops of unrestrained joy. The students started rumbling toward the door, moving with the loose-limbed ease of teenagers in their natural habitat. Quickly the hallways were thronged with humanity standing in tight groups, gulping down soft drinks, talking too loudly, and some hurtling their way toward the exits.

Elbowing a path through the noisy crowd, Miriam approached Carrie. The latter was surprised by the encounter. To call these two girls friends would be a gross misstatement. Despite the fact that they had known each other since elementary school, they could hardly tolerate each other’s presence. Cheerleaders and nerds were as different as chalk and cheese.

Carrie always thought of Miriam as a scared rabbit, who would scamper away if a boy as much as asked her to dance. Breathe on her too hard and she would blow away like a leaf in a breeze. Miriam, in exchange, envied Carrie for the deft way she handled herself around the boys. Her social life was flawless, and she appeared incapable of making foolish mistakes that plagued her peers.

Hey, Carrie. Wait up, Miriam hailed. What’s going on between you and Mr. K? I saw him staring up your dress, she stated without regard for consequences.

Carrie shot her a scornful glance from head to toe, appraising her dreadful clothes. Rarely did Miriam get her hair styled. Most days she just slapped it back into a ponytail. For all intents and purposes, she was almost invisible among her classmates. What’s it to you? Can’t you guess? He’s got the hots for me, she dissembled outrageously.

Miriam met her stare with equal disdain. You certainly made it easy for him in that… that obscene outfit. She lowered her vision to Carrie’s hemline. He probably knows the color of your panties.

Carrie chuckled hoarsely. Don’t make me laugh. I’m not wearing any, she boasted as if it were the latest fashion statement.

Miriam gasped in horror, earnest brown eyes behind hornrimmed glasses. Why not? she inquired tentatively, unable to fathom the idea of leaving the house in the morning without underpants. It simply wasn’t proper for a young lady.

Shifting her weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other, Carrie was becoming annoyed with these inane questions. I got tired of his lectures on modesty and self-respect, so I decided to find out for myself if he was a real man or just a pompous windbag. Satisfied now? See you around, I gotta split.

In a few measured strides, Carrie put some space between herself and her nosy critic. Unable to resist the barb, she wheeled around and blurted out, By the way, you dress like Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. Did you get that outfit at Kmart?

Miriam curled her upper lip impudently. She watched Carrie stroll away, envious of how anyone could navigate so gracefully on stiletto heels. You may think you’re a woman, but you don’t act like a lady, she shouted back over her shoulder.

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Mr. K took a well-deserved respite. The last student departing from the classroom had slammed the door behind him with enough force to make his ears ring. Alone now, he rose from his seat and paced around the room. Reaching down, he picked up empty water bottles, gum wrappers, and other detritus some thoughtless students had left behind. His stint today, especially the last period, had been especially stressful. That vicious vixen, as he privately referred to Carrie Riley, had really got under his skin and revealed the lust in his heart.

Today he wanted to return to his apartment early. The teachers’ agreement, however, required him to remain on duty for another forty-five minutes. The few students who did return on occasion for tutorial help were the scholars, who did not need additional instruction. Some kids only wanted to hang out for a while. In student circles Mr. K was considered a nice guy.

He was deluged with a sea of paperwork that he had neglected lately. On his cluttered desk sat a bunch of quarterly reports that needed attention, and the Guidance Office was clamoring for them. In addition, there was a pile of tests that had to be corrected.

Contract or no contract, Mr. K was going to make an early departure today. After collecting his books and uncorrected test papers, he stuffed everything into his bulky brown briefcase. It was 2:50. Only twenty minutes had crawled by since the dismissal bell. The clock seemed to move in slow motion.

After adjusting the bolt on his door, it locked automatically when it closed. Peering down the cinderblock corridor, there was nothing to see but lockers punctuated by art posters that hung on the cream-colored walls. Wearing scuffed loafers with leather heels, he could hear his footsteps clicking on the hard, empty floor.

The only creature he saw was the weird Wendell Dodsworth, the head honcho of the English Department. His desk was immaculate, especially for a socialist. He wore his hair parted on the right, which was unusual for a man. Nobody ever accused him of being handsome, but when he smiled, his homeliness had a quirky charm. Chomping hard on an unlit cheroot, he was pulling dried leaves from his mournful little philodendrum. All his plant needed was some tender loving care.

So tall and gaunt, he resembled a figure of doom. Behind his back, his students referred to him as The Grim Reaper. His British accent was of dubious origin, since he had never lived or studied abroad. He still dreamed of visiting the sacred places that Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot had visited during their travels through Europe.

He’d revealed privately to Mr. K that he was terribly unhappy and unfulfilled, because he couldn’t complete the second half of his Great American Novel. With a demanding wife and two children to support, he was forced to spend most of his time and energy earning a living. On weekends he worked part-time as a bartender in a country club. At any rate, he was planning to quit teaching as soon as some big-time publisher in the Big Apple recognized his genius and encouraged him to complete his morbid, tragedy-filled masterpiece.

The English teacher had allowed Karl, as he called him, to read his incomplete manuscript. The turgid prose reminded him of Mein Kamph. In addition, there was something contemptuous of the human race about it, which Karl found offensive. What can you expect from an admirer of Che Guevara? If that wasn’t horrid enough, Wendell scorned organized religion and practically worshipped Charles Darwin. He was probably a cynic and a misanthrope. Nonetheless, Karl enjoyed eating lunch with him on occasion, if only to exchange ideas and pick his brain.

There was nothing remarkable about this budding novelist, except the usual demeanor of extreme discontent and bizarre wardrobe. Today he was wearing an outfit that resembled the one that President Lincoln might have worn on the day of his inauguration. The black frock coat reached to his knees, and a pair of wire-rim spectacles gave him just the right intellectual air. Missing only was the stove-pipe hat.

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If the teacher hurried to his car, he might beat the impending downpour. As he descended to the ground floor, there was a crack of thunder that reverberated like an echoing cannon. All he had to do was reach the trophy case unseen and he would be home free. The rain began beating down in a fury, and he scurried toward his Volkswagen in the faculty parking lot. In less than a minute his clothes were soaked through. Oh, no! Look who was standing there on the passenger side of his vehicle. Like a mourner at a funeral gravesite. That vicious vixen with globs of mascara and face powder running down her cheeks.

Carrie Riley was wet and bedraggled. The wind was strong enough to mold her dress to her body, delineating her shape so precisely that it left little to his imagination. She had a perfect heart-shaped ass. The cloth seemed to have liquefied and poured over her. With admirable chivalry his eyes moved back to her face. She was downright irresistible and something in her demeanor told him she was available. Consorting with this co-ed could only lead to trouble, his conscience shouted, but such trouble had never been so titillating until now.

It would have been churlish of him to leave her standing there like a waif—so helpless and miserable. Later he would regret having played the role of Good Samaritan, but for the moment, there was only the here and the now. He could do no less than offer her a ride home. When she informed him that she’d missed her bus, he didn’t believe her for one second. No chance encounter. He was certain that her presence had been as spontaneous as a church service.

No sooner had they angled into the low-slung front seat of the car, when she reached into her backpack for what appeared to be a cigarette. No big deal. Kids started smoking in junior high these days. He was not about to lecture her on the effects of nicotine. Now and then he smoked a cigarette himself, but he was not addicted to them. When he put his VW into motion, she offered him a drag, not from a Marlboro or a Newport, but from a stick of marijuana. The odor was unmistakable. Though he could have refused the weed, he accepted it greedily and the smoke scorched his lungs when he inhaled. The feather lightness he felt in his head and the giddiness that overtook him clouded his usual good judgment. He never heeded the alarm bells.

Since Carrie’s seatbelt was unfastened, it was easy for her to edge closer to the driver and make yumyum with him. Before long, his right arm was wrapped around her shoulders. Almost instinctively he started toying with the spaghetti straps of her wet dress, clinging to her in some places and ballooning out in others. He slipped a hand under the fabric and even tried to unfasten her bra. Unsuccessfully he fumbled with the elusive hook until he almost broke the clasp. He thought he’d die of delight when she allowed him to stroke her large breasts with no resistance. He did not know his next move, wondering if there was some code of behavior that he was not observing. How far did he dare to push the envelope?

A huge gust of wind disturbed the stillness of the idyllic spring day, as falling twigs and leaves got caught in the windshield wipers. Raindrops as heavy as lead sinkers were splattering the roof and the hood. Broken branches of trees lining his route obstructed the path like track hurdles. Visibility was greatly impaired, and the driver’s attention was certainly diverted. He turned left down an unpaved country road, dotted with struggling farms on both sides. After finding a convenient place to park on a soft shoulder, he switched off the ignition. Teacher and student finished their smoke, poking at it until it became a roach. In minutes they felt the euphoric effects of the narcotic, giggling all the while.

Mr. K was apprehensive and unsure of himself, while his passenger plunged ahead with every confidence. He felt her mouth everywhere on him: tasting his skin, licking, sucking, and biting softly. He found out that his nipples had erectile tissue, brought alive by her teeth. What was he supposed to do after she’d aroused him so shamelessly? How could he restrain himself from returning her intimacy? The sensation for him was delicious and he was startled by her sheer hunger for his body. Indeed he was flattered by the attention, even if unsanctioned by common traditions.

He was panting so hard that the blood pounded in his veins like evil drums. His mouth reciprocated with a will of its own. He loved the taste of the underside of her tongue and the deodorant taste of her armpit. Pulling her against him, he felt emboldened and touched her everywhere, skimming his fingertips across her compliant body. The hem of her dress rose to an alarming level. Under the back of his hand, he could feel the garter-belt strap fastened to the top of her fishnet stocking. She was wearing panties now, the outline of her vulva clearly discernible through the flimsy fabric. Spellbound, he gazed at her pudenda with unblinking eyes. He could smell the clean muskiness that emanated from her body. Meanwhile, the rain was still beating mercilessly on the car, creating a cozy atmosphere inside.

Every curve and hallow of her body beckoned to his lips and hands. He shifted her weight to face him, so he could continue to fondle her lovely breasts through her bra, still hiding her loveliness. He stood far back in his mind, aghast at what he was doing, but he couldn’t restrain the impulse. If he was thinking rationally even for an instant, he would realize that he was breaking all the rules of propriety. At first he was having his way with her, and she made no effort to resist his advances. Focusing lower now, he attempted to diddle her crotch. Never had he toyed with a woman down there, and he felt entitled to do anything to her he wanted. That made him obligated to be gentle and considerate.

Anticipating where he was going, she crossed her legs protectively and slapped his hand hard enough to make him wince with pain. She wasn’t ready yet to surrender her pussy to him. No! she ordered sharply as she rolled away from him with an unholy shove. Evaluating him, she concluded that he was attempting to seduce her. The erection bulging in his pants spoke for itself. So much for virtue. Was he just another windbag after all?

Her voice became arctic. What do you think you’re doing, Mr. K? You expect to hit a homerun your first time at bat? I don’t spread my legs for every guy who gives me a ride. Her eyes revealed a certain defiance mixed with pride. She patted him gently on the wrist. We will have other opportunities, she said encouragingly. Your patience will be rewarded. Right now take me home, she snapped, then gave him her address. Sitting up primly, she started to rearrange her disheveled clothes. She enjoyed watching his facial contortions, when she reached inside her dress to readjust her bra, which had proven to be too elusive for him to remove with one hand.

You made me do this, Mr. K panted, trying to exonerate himself. He was bewildered. What kind of interpretation should he attach to her words? Was she saying yes or no? If he was nurturing any notion that his pupil had a schoolgirl crush on him, he was going to be surprised on that score. His face changed from mere dread to horror. Pulling back from her, he stared into her eyes as though searching for an answer. One minute she was so sweet and docile, and now… she so rudely slammed the door in his face. Painfully he realized that she had made a willing dupe of him. Now he was wise enough to admit that the speed with which she’d melted into his arms was not altogether accountable to his boyish cowlick. Sadly he could acknowledge his disgraceful weakness, but its acceptance did not diminish his desire for the girl. He still yearned for her. For the second time today, he slapped his forehead with the flat of his hand. When he regained his wits, it suddenly dawned on him that he’d forgotten his briefcase full of uncorrected test papers on his desk.

CHAPTER TWO

Before developing womanly proportions, Carrie was as non-descript as a pea in a pod. Practically anonymous, she’d taken her place in line in the schoolyard, the cafeteria, and the washrooms. Just like all the other pretty little girls. During her prepubescent years, she was treated with no deference. Resenting this lack of recognition, she’d become sullen and rebellious. When hall monitors relaxed their vigilance or went to lunch, she sneaked into the faculty powder room to use the facilities. Thumbing her nose at the rules and getting away with her little defiance gave her a great deal of satisfaction. Soon she would learn how long she could overstep the boundries, before someone made her toe the line.

Academically she did not shine, though she was a precocious reader with a retentive memory and a lively imagination. Her classroom recitation was mediocre at best. A ludicrous string of Cs and Ds abounded on her report cards. A chronic underachiever, she took little interest in school work. The only exceptions were American Studies and Sex Education. Here she excelled with flying colors.

Almost overnight, it seemed, she’d reached puberty, and her body started to blossom like a lovely tropical flower. Bulging breasts and buttocks pressed hard against the pull of tight sweaters and revealing skirts. Soon her physical appearance belied her tender years. So mature in appearance for her age, substitute teachers often mistook her for a member of the faculty. Sporting the right kind of dress, warpaint, and spike-heeled shoes, nobody would take her for less than a full-grown woman. An early bloomer, she’d crossed from childhood to adulthood, seeming to have skipped the innocent times in between. Running into the future that her new body represented, she never looked back.

Boys had hardly noticed her when she was gangly and flat-chested. Suddenly they were vying for her attention. My Lord, how she loved the adulation. All those guys, both handsome and unhandsome, checking her out. Whispering and nudging each other when she strolled by. Letting loose a wolf’s whistle on occasion.

Seeking to bask in her popularity and curry favor, her admirers offered to let her copy their homework, loan her lunch money, and chauffeur her around town. Boys! They were such children about their virility, and of course, she took advantage of their foibles and shortcomings.

Before graduating from eighth grade, she was proud of her stout breasts, round hips, and shapely figure. Standing nude in front of a mirror, she felt hot and desirable. She had all the right assets: 38-22-34. She stood five-six with legs that never ended. Her hair was tinted so tastefully the color of dusty cornsilk that nobody suspected she resorted to the bleach bottle. Her curved mouth was sensuous and her cheekbones piqued, while the eyebrows were white and thick forming perfect arches over piercing blue eyes. She favored her father in coloring and her mother in bone structure, but bearing no striking resemblance to either.

At home she defied her parents, making it impossible for them to impose any discipline on her. Her cold silence was as close to praise as she would bestow on them. Willful and disobedient, she was driven to control the world around her, and her own needs had to be met first.

She hooked up with certain boys in senior high school, old enough to have a driver’s license. They sported fraternity windbreakers in the fall and muscle shirts in the summer. No matter how mature they acted, they always trotted after her like panting dogs in heat. Up to a certain point, she was generous with her sexual favors and she liked to titillate more than satisfy. She made a game of selecting her partners carefully, so that nobody got too heavy on her. She flaunted the fact that her father was a detective to discourage pursuers from taking undue advantage of her.

Often she lay passively beneath some pimple-free face without helping or hindering his efforts. Fully clothed, some hot horizontal necking sessions ensued, referred to as dry humping. One swain had got aroused so violently that it startled her. Just before the inevitable climax, he’d slipped off his