Free The Wood of Suicides by Laura Elizabeth Woollett

love psychology books!”
    I was still reading it on the bus ride home, in bed that evening, and over the spillages of lunch hour the following week. By far the most frequented section was one titled “Seven Signs that She has Sex on her Mind,” which Marcelle and Amanda read aloud over my shoulder on Monday afternoon.
    “ ‘ Number one: preening the hair. Preening in front of a man is a way for the woman to show that she cares how he perceives her. By flicking her hair back, the woman also disperses pheromones, which we all know are nature’s most effective perfume.’ How do I smell, Mandy?” Marcelle flicked her hair and thrust her neck in Amanda’s face.
    “Like B.O. Go away.”
    “ ‘ Number two: licking and pouting the lips. By licking and pouting her lips, the woman makes them appear fuller and wetter, signaling the ready state of her genitals . . .’ Oh, yuck! Listen: ‘Lipstick in bright red shades is an easy way for the woman to suggest her own flushed, engorged labia . . .’ ”
    “Marcelle, oh, Marcelle !” Amanda snaked her tongue over her lips salaciously.
    “ ‘Number three: the limp wrist. Drawing attention to her weak, slender wrists allows the woman to arouse feelings of dominance and protectiveness in nearby males . . .’ ”
    “Well, that’s just stupid. You look like a queer.”
    “ ‘Number four: crossing and recrossing the legs. The woman who crosses and recrosses her legs in front of a man does so to draw his attention to that part of her body . . .’ blah blah blah. ‘Number five: swaying the hips . . .’ ”
    “Boring. Next.”
    “ ‘Number six: self-touching.’ This is a good one! ‘When in the company of a man she likes, the woman may call attention to the most sensitive areas of her body, such as her neck, her thighs, and her earlobes . . .’ ”
    “They forgot the clit.”
    “Mandy! ‘. . . Touching these areas lets her show him what he’s missing out on, while also acting as a socially acceptable form of self-gratification. Number seven: touching a phallical object . . .’ ”
    By this point, Marcelle was so crippled by laughter that she was unable to go on.
    I took to consulting that list mentally during his classes, asking myself whether I was doing everything I could to capture his attention. Could he see my wrists? Were my lips wet and plump? Was I touching the sensitive skin of my body or, better still, a phallical object? I had, often enough, caught myself performing these gestures, along with other positive signals—steady eye contact, arched back, body angled toward his—without thinking. Once brought to my awareness, however, I had them down to a science, even adding flourishes of my own.
    I occasionally committed the faux pas of wearing a black brassiere beneath my white blouse or of fiddling with my collar and buttons, in a manner reminiscent of undressing. One day, when he came and did his crouching trick by my desk, I made a point of tossing my hair from my throat, tugging at my collar and rubbing the nape of my neck, my clavicle and, beneath my shirt, my shoulder blades, as he spoke to me in smooth, murmured tones. Another time, when I noticed that he was calling girls up to his desk to discuss their essay results in private, I covertly undid an extra button of my blouse so that he could see my bra when I bent over. I’ll never forget the juxtaposition between his large, hairy hand and my elongated white one over my A-grade assignment; the way that his dark eyes skimmed over my small bust as lightly as they did my face; the way he told me that my paper was meticulous and well-researched, though could have benefited from some more specific examples. “Have you read any Milton?” he asked me irrelevantly before I went back to my desk.
    It was evident that he saw me, from the way that his eyes were occasionally drawn to my swinging legs or paused often and for a longer time on my face; even that he saw me as a nice-looking girl. His gaze did not