Free The Wood of Suicides by Laura Elizabeth Woollett Page A

betray anything further, however; no inappropriate feelings, no bubbling, uncontrollable lust. It wasn’t the gaze of a felon, on the brink of committing statutory rape. At most, it was an aesthetician’s glance, with just the hint of something fatherly that was also an extension of his profession—a desire to protect, perhaps, to edify and see succeed one of his most gifted and sensitive students. It was a glance that I thought I’d seen before.

    O N W EDNESDAYS , we continued to see the rowers from the classroom window. I wasn’t at all interested in them, but it amused me to gauge Steadman’s reaction to the weekly disruption. Every Wednesday, there were jokes about forgotten binoculars and pleas for him to let us take the lesson outdoors. Mr. Steadman would fold his arms and affect weariness, before resorting to terse humor, even threats.
    “Careful, girls, or I might have to have a talk with the rowing instructor about their training hours.”
    Or: “Marcelle, if you don’t stop gawking soon, I’m going to have to draw the curtains. And that will make the room dark. And stuffy. And no fun for anyone.”
    He said this with a sly, gruff, tiger-glance my way—challenging me, perhaps, to find a better specimen than himself among that group of boys. If that was his game, I played along, smiling past Marcelle’s shoulder with my chin in my hands. I gazed out only for as long as it took his own gaze to settle on me. Then my narrow eyes darted back to him and my lips tightened into a subtle yet knowing smile.
    That I could come out with stuff like that despite my shyness and inexperience, was a testament to how well-versed I had become in the arts of seduction. Still, there were times when I forgot myself; times when, walking alone in the hallways, I lost face completely at the sight of him. I would purse my lips instead of licking and pouting them. Instead of swinging my hips, I would tug at my kilt and attempt to pass him by as quickly as possible. I could never be sure whether I turned his head or not, at such moments. Nevertheless, I had faith in the lure of my long legs, the grace of my gracelessness.
    I was convinced that I was on the right track; that I had done nothing so far to repel him. All the same, I knew that more needed to be done to set myself apart from the crowd and make a lasting impression. I considered and discarded a number of ideas, before hitting upon a plan of genius. Remembering how I had arrived late to his first lesson, and how he had stared at me so openly when I walked through the door, I was inspired to restage the scene. I wouldn’t have to miss too much of his class, I assured myself: only enough to ensure that I entered the room alone and that he would be compelled to look my way.
    The first time that I tried this, it was a great success. I had loitered in the restroom for some minutes after second bell, making myself pretty, before setting off at a leisurely pace for English class. As predicted, everyone turned the heads when I entered the room, including Mr. Steadman. I met his eye and read his relief, barely restrained and bordering on jubilation.
    I repeated the act the next day, and the day following that. By the third time, I could see that he was suspicious; that he had come to expect the performance, without knowing exactly what it was about. Even Marcelle and Amanda had noticed that something was up, wanting to know why I was late for English and nothing else. He said nothing about his suspicions, however; only raised his dark brows and smirked, as if daring me to come later the next day. Lesson after lesson, I did just that.
    It was only after it had been going on for more than a week and his smug looks had prompted me to arrive a full fifteen minutes late, that I knew the game was up. He didn’t turn his head when I entered the room; merely carried on intoning, moving his hands emphatically, before assigning some pages of reading to the class. I had barely begun on the