"I don't think so."

Lane closed her eyes. Gently, Mr. Kramer rubbed her hip bone and the side of her rump. His other hand brushed her blouse upward.

"Pretty red," he murmured. "You'll probably have a whale of a bruise."

"Moby bruise," she said, then sighed as he began to massage the side of her ribcage.

"Tender?" he asked.

"Yeah. A little."

His hand roamed higher, fingers kneading, soothing the soreness.

"Any sharp pain?" he asked.

"No." She moaned when his wrist brushed against the underside of her breast.

"It hurts here?" he asked, pressing her ribs. The wrist moved slightly, rubbing her.

"Just kind of an ache," she murmured.

He massaged her side, his wrist staying against her breast, caressing Lane through the thin fabric of her bra.

Doesn't he realize it's there? she wondered.

She hoped not.

If he realized, he would stop.

His other hand eased lower. Lane's skirt was no longer in its way.

She felt him stroking and squeezing the side of her leg, high up.

"Better?" he asked.

"Yeah."

He continued to rub her.

Doesn't he know what he's doing to me? she wondered.

Lightly, he patted her leg. "Okay," he said. "Why don't we get you to your feet now?"

Lane considered telling him she wasn't ready. Any more of this, though, and it might become all too obvious that his touch was doing more than just soothing her injuries.

He took a firm hold on her upper arm, placed his other hand at the base of her neck, and helped her sit up.

Her blouse unrumpled and drifted toward her waist. Her skirt was as high as she had suspected. She glimpsed glossy blue between her legs, and dropped a hand to conceal it.

A little late for modesty, she thought.

Mr. Kramer held onto her arm until she was standing.

"Thanks," she murmured.

When he let go, she looked down and straightened her skirt.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah. I think so." She raised her eyes. "At least I was wearing clean undies," she added, and smirked, and couldn't believe she'd said that.

"Always should," Mr. Kramer said, a smile spreading across his face.

"You never know when you might be in an accident."

"As Mother says."

"As all mothers say."

"Shit," she muttered, and lowered her head.

He put his hands on her shoulders, rubbed them. "I'm just glad you're all right. I feel responsible, you know."

"I'm such a klutz."

"You're a terrific young lady. Don't ever think otherwise."

Lane looked into his eyes. They were clear blue, gentle, knowing.

"Thanks."

"I mean it. Now, you'd better run along."

"But I haven't finished putting up the-"

"I'll take care of the rest. If I were you, I'd take a long, hot bath.

Really soak. That'll help the soreness."

"I will."

Lane waited until after dinner that night, then went into the bathroom. She still wore her school clothes. She lay down on the floor.

There, she hitched up her skirt and blouse so they were just as they'd been after the fall. She arranged her legs to match her earlier position: left leg straight and flat against the carpet; right leg raised a little, bent at the knee, angled outward. Bracing herself up with her elbows, she stared down at herself.

This is how I looked to Mr. Kramer.

Holy cow.

Then she noticed that her right leg had a faint purple hue. The imprint of Mr. Kramer's hand? That must be where he grabbed me to break my fall, she realized. It was just below her groin. "Man," she whispered.

She thought she could still feel his hand there, as if it had left a ghost of itself.

If Jim had grabbed me there...

Forget Jim, she told herself.

She got to her feet, stepped in front of the mirror and again lifted her skirt. Her panties were tight and clinging, the blue fabric nearly transparent.

She grimaced at her reflection. Her face was very red.

"He sure got an eyeful," she whispered.

But he never got funny. He acted like a perfect gentleman. That's the difference between a mature, sensitive man like Mr. Kramer and a horny teenager like Jim.

Lane stoppered the tub and ran water for her bath. While the tub filled, she took off her clothes. She returned to the mirror. There were bruises over the jut of her left hipbone and low along the side of her rib cage.

She stared at her left breast. Leaning backward, she studied its underside where Mr. Kramer's wrist had rubbed it through the bra. The skin looked smooth and white.

What did you expect? she asked herself.

But it didn't seem right for there to be no visible evidence of his touch.

Shaking her head, Lane turned to the tub. She crouched and shut off the faucet. Then she climbed over the side.

She settled down into the hot water. She sprawled beneath it, squirming under the fluid caress, and once again arranged her body to match its position on the classroom floor. She closed her eyes.

She remembered the feel of Mr. Kramer's touch. In her mind the teacher stopped massaging her ribs. His hand closed gently over her breast and he sank down onto her and covered her mouth with his. She wrapped her arms around him. She squeezed him hard and sank into the moist heat of his kiss.

Twenty-five

Jessica woke up. Keeping one eye shut, she squinted at her bedside lamp. Then at her alarm clock. Almost three. In the morning?

What is this? she wondered. What's the lamp doing on? She rolled onto her back and sat up.

Kramer, naked, stood with his back to the closed door of her bedroom. His left hand rested against the switch plate. His right hand, down at his side, held a straight razor.

Jessica felt as if her heart had been stomped.

"Aren't you glad to see me?" Kramer asked. He spoke in a normal voice, not a whisper. It was very loud in the stillness.

Jessica struggled for a breath, then whispered, "My folks'll hear you."

"Think so?" he said, speaking even louder than before.

Maybe not, she told herself. Her door was shut. Her parents' room was at the other end of the hallway, and they were sound sleepers.

Kramer let his hand fall away from the light switch. He stepped slowly toward the end of the bed.

Jessica gazed at the razor swinging near his side.

Why did he have that?

He'd warned her that he might come back with a razor.

She panted. She couldn't seem to get enough air into her lungs. "I didn't tell," she said. "I didn't... tell on you. What do you want?"

He said nothing. A corner of his mouth curled up. He stopped at the foot of the bed. Eyes on Jessica, he reached down with his left hand and dragged the covers toward him.

She didn't move.

The blanket and top sheet slid off her lap, down her legs, and dropped off the end of the mattress. Her short nightgown, rucked up and twisted while she slept, left her bare below the waist.

"Nice," Kramer said. "Now, lie back and relax."

She shook her head. She lifted her left arm and rested its cast against her thigh, her hand blocking the teacher's view.

"That's no way to behave. You'll get low marks for cooperation."

He lifted the razor close to his face and shook it in a scolding gesture.

Jessica moved her arm aside. She lay down.

The mattress shook as Kramer crawled onto it. He knelt between her legs. He lifted her nightgown and slit it up the middle until it parted between her breasts. With the end of the blade, he flicked the fabric aside.

"Don't cut me," she whispered. "Please."

"I'm not happy with you, Jessica."

"I didn't tell."

"I know." She whimpered as cold steel slid down her belly. Raising her head, she saw that it was the blunt side of the blade.

"But you might," Kramer said.

"I won't. Never."

"I saw how you looked at Lane this afternoon. You were thinking about it, weren't you?"