"No complaints. How about yourself? You haven't had anymore run- ins with Benson, I hope."

"No."

"He'll probably leave you alone. But let me know if he causes you any trouble."

"I think you put the fear of God into him."

Mr. Kramer shook his head. "You never know, a guy like that. You'll have to keep your eyes open. Don't let him catch you alone. There's no telling what he might do, and I'd sure hate for anything to happen to my best student."

"I'll be careful," she said.

"Speaking of which, maybe you'd better buckle up."

"Planning to crash?" she asked, and reached up for the safety harness.

"I'll sure try not to. But you may have noticed, you keep getting hurt when you're around me."

"Yeah. Guess you're bad luck." She drew the strap down between her breasts and snapped its metal tab into the buckle by her left hip.

"Now you won't have to worry about a rendezvous with the windshield."

"Yeah. I'd look lousy at the play with blood all over my clothes."

"I do like that outfit," he said, glancing at her. "You haven't worn it to school, have you?"

"Not this one."

"I've seen you in something similar, though. A blue denim jumper with white lace. A mini, as I recall."

"Oh, that." She felt a warm stir, pleased to find out that he actually remembered what she wore to school, but slightly embarrassed that he recalled the jumper. "Probably too short," she said.

"I wouldn't say that. You've got the legs for it."

"Thanks," she said, heat rushing to her face.

He swung the car to the curb and stopped. Lane gazed at him, her heart pounding. Why'd he stop? He turned on the overhead light. He smiled at her. Then he reached inside his blazer and took a sheet of paper from his pocket.

Just checking directions, she realized.

"Okay," he said. "Aaron's at 4980 Cactus. Should be just on the next block."

Lane felt a pull of disappointment. Their time alone was almost done.

She hoped she would get to sit with him in the theater, but it didn't work out that way. Sandra, bending his ear about something, followed him down the aisle and into the row. There was no way for Lane to get past her without making a spectacle of herself.

Mr. Kramer took a seat beside a college student. Sandra sat beside him, and Lane found herself between Sandra and George, with Aaron at the other side of George.

She felt cheated.

I'm here to see Hamlet, she reminded herself. Not to be with Mr.

Kramer.

He likes me, though. He really does. He likes me a lot.

George, squirming in his seat, brushed against her arm. "Excuse me," he whispered.

"That's okay," she said without looking at him.

"I didn't mean to do that."

She looked at George and nodded. "I know. It's okay."

"I guess guys are probably always bothering you, you know? It must get annoying."

Lane shrugged. "It all depends on the guy."

"Yeah. I guess it would. That makes sense. Well, you don't have to worry about me. These seats are kind of close together. That's the problem."

"You shouldn't worry about it."

"I just don't want you to get the wrong impression."

"I won't."

"It was nice talking to you, though." George turned his face forward, leaned the other way and scanned the audience ahead of him.

His lips were pressed together. With his far hand he adjusted his glasses and brushed some stray hair off his forehead.

"George?"

He jerked his head toward her so fast that Lane feared he might've hurt his neck.

"If it makes you so nervous sitting next to me, maybe you should trade places with Aaron."

For a moment he looked hurt. Then he said, "Sure. If you want me to."

"I don't."

His eyebrows lifted. "You don't?"

"Not unless you want to."

"Me? No. I mean-"

"You sit way in the back of the class. I don't think we've ever even talked to each other."

"No, we haven't."

"You're really good in English."

"You, too. You're the best in the class."

"When I don't lose my place?"

He smiled. "Oh, that was nothing. I lose my place all the time. I get to daydreaming, and that's all she wrote."

"I'll bet you want to be a writer, don't you?"

His head tilted. He frowned. "How did you know?"

"You have that look about you."

He wrinkled his nose, making his glasses rise slightly. "The look of the nerd."

"Don't let my dad hear that. He's a writer."

"A real writer?"

"He likes to think so. You've probably never heard of him. Lawrence Dunbar."

George's frown deepened. "No. I don't think so."

"He writes penny dreadfuls. Or, as he likes to say, $3.95 dreadfuls."

George laughed. "That's a good one," he said.

"I really liked the story you read in class. The guy whose bones dissolved?"

His face went bright red. "You did? Thanks."

"Have you got any more?"

"Are you kidding? I've got piles of them. My parents think I'm doing homework all the time, but I'm actually up in my room writing stuff.

Boy, would they be pissed." He cringed. "Excuse me. That just slipped out."

"I say it all the time."

The theater lights went dark.

Lane leaned toward George. "I want to read some of your other stories, okay?"

"Do you mean it?"

"Sure." The curtain started to rise. "If you want, I'll even have Dad take a look at some of them."

"Jeez, I don't know."

On the stage it was night and two sentries stood on the parapet of Elsinore, looking very cold. George settled back in his seat. When his shoulder brushed against Lane, he leaned away to break the contact. Lane swept her elbow up past the arm of the chair and nudged him. Again he snapped his head around.

"I don't bite," she whispered.

She tried to pay attention to the play. But her mind kept drifting.

She felt good about her talk with George. He seemed nice. A little like Henry. Not as weird, though. Those two should really hit it off.

Awfully shy, but he would get over that once they knew each other better.

And we will, she thought.

Maybe it was fate that she ended up sitting with him. And fate that she'd broken up with Jim last night.

George would never act like Jim. He probably never even would've had the nerve to talk to me, she thought, much less ask me out.

Probably still won't ask me out. I can ask him, though. Why not?

I never would've gotten anywhere with Mr. Kramer, anyway.

Thinking that, she felt a hollow ache.

He's a teacher, she told herself. He can't get involved with me even if he wants to.

But her mind dwelled on him, lingering on the way he looked, the things he'd said to her, the way he'd handled Riley Benson, the way he'd caught her when she fell from the stool, how his hands had felt when he touched her bare ribs and leg, when he'd accidentally touched her breast as he took the books from her yesterday.

He remembered her denim jumper, though she hadn't worn it for nearly two weeks. He recognized her car in the lot yesterday. Didn't those things prove that he cared for her?

Maybe he likes me as much as I like him.

She wondered how it would feel to kiss him.

The lights came up for intermission, and she realized she'd hardly paid any attention at all to the play. Not that it mattered. She'd read it a few times, and seen both the Olivier and Burton movies.

Mr. Kramer stayed in his seat and talked to Sandra. Aaron went off, probably to find a bathroom since he couldn't be going for refreshments-the theater had no snack counter. Lane turned to George. He was looking around the auditorium, but not at her.

Intentionally not at her, she suspected.

"How do you get to school?" she asked.

"Me?" Now he looked. Straight into her eyes.

"Yeah, you."

"Oh, my mom drives me."