Various Positions (26 page)

My thoughts moved slowly, carefully, letting the clues fall into place. Roderick knew it was dangerous to put the moves on me. He wasn’t inside my head like I was, had no proof of how I might react. In his mind I might be a cluster of girl nerves, innocent and wired tight, frightened of the world. I might wind down the window and scream my tonsils red, open the car door and hurl myself into traffic, tell my parents and destroy his career. He was a smart man, a rational man, and harebrained risks were unthinkable. He needed to ensure that I’d be compliant, that I was up for his moves.

It was up to me to fix this, to give him what he was too scared to take. Roderick had probably driven home in a huff of disappointment. He was sitting in his condo now, drinking whatever he drank normally, perplexed by the inconsistencies in my behavior. I had caressed his hand in the hallway and now I was acting like a prude. His guard would be up and I’d have to proceed carefully. What I’d have to do was find that narrow space between his new doubts and his real desires and slip inside it. I’d have to pinpoint the very second I became irresistible to him, the second his eyes went funny and he started thinking with his dick.

I went downstairs to the drawer in the telephone nook. It was a mess of papers, receipts, and elastic bands, but I found the leather case of my mom’s digital camera. It’d been a gift for her last birthday and I’d seen her use it only once. I took it back to my room. I placed the camera on my desk, on an angle so that it faced my bed, and examined the view on the screen. It captured the top of my pillows, two rectangles of ivory cotton like giant tablets of chewing gum, and the white headboard against the pale pink wall. The desk was too high. I scanned my room for something better. My bookshelf. I took four large books off the bottom shelf:
An Encyclopaedia of Technology
,
The Pop-up Book of the Human Body
,
Balanchine’s Stories from the Ballet,
and a French-English dictionary. I made a tower of them in front of my bed, placed the camera on top of it, and inspected the screen. The image sat perfectly, capturing the lilac comforter and the space just immediately above the mattress.

I turned off the overhead light in my room and replaced it with my desk lamp and the lamp on my bedside table. I selected the timer setting on the camera and the automatic flash. I took off all my clothes and started taking pictures. I had no problem re-creating Mandi’s position, sticking my bum up at just the right angle so that it was curved and taut and exposing the skin in between.

The printer was with the computer in the basement, so I waited for my parents to go to bed before I tiptoed down. I uploaded the photos and chose four. I printed them and made sure I’d deleted everything before I went back to my room. At my desk, I picked my favorite, one where my eyes had the sleepy look of Mandi’s eyes and where my bum looked bright from the flash. I placed it on top and slipped all four photographs into the front pocket of my knapsack.

*   *   *

I waited until the end of the day to minimize the risk of distractions. It was Friday, so by four o’clock traffic had thinned in the stairwells and most of the staff had pattered off to their cars. I walked down the faculty hallway and knocked on Roderick’s door. When I heard his voice, I stepped inside.

“Oh.” He looked up at me. His eyes were soft and inky. He was sitting at his desk. The window was open a crack and his hair had a rumpled look. “Hi, Georgia.”

I pulled on the edge of my jean skirt, forced the waist onto my hip. I told myself to speak. “Can we talk?”

He looked perplexed. “Of course.” He put his pen down and straightened a couple of papers. “Now isn’t actually the best time, though. Is it something that can wait?”

“Well.” I looked down at my feet. I’d painted my toenails that morning with a polish that Isabel had left in the bathroom, and I imagined the muggy purple beneath my sneakers, like a row of squarish bruises. “No, I don’t think it can.”

He turned toward me now, more curious than annoyed. He crossed his hands in his lap and gestured in the direction of the extra chair. “You don’t want to sit down?”

I shook my head.

“Okay. Do you want to shut the door?”

I’d forgotten about the door. I turned around and shut it promptly.

“So?” He opened his hands and left them that way for a second. “What’s going on?”

I took a deep breath and lifted my chin. I would start the way I’d planned, with a smooth clear statement. But his eyes made this difficult. They were right there, dark and liquid, and my heart pumped. My mind whispered,
This is real, those are his eyes
. The air knotted in my throat. I cleared it with a thin fake cough.

“I’m all ears,” Roderick said.

Now I was self-conscious. The feeling was lawless, spreading everywhere at once. I looked back at my sneakers. I wished I could enter again, exterminate my stupidity.

“Georgia?”

I looked up. Roderick’s forehead crinkled with a teasing sympathy and he leaned his face into his hand. “Take your time. It’s okay.”

“Thanks.” I nodded once. “Okay.”

I gazed past his head and out the window. His office looked out onto another building and I could just make out the silhouette of a computer and a desk. It occurred to me that I had never thought about this building before, never questioned what kind of offices it housed. I held my chin up and felt my earlier resolve blow in like a weather front, irrepressible and smooth. I closed my eyes for an invisible second so that I could have a moment alone. There was a coolness in my head, sharp as a newly sucked mint, and I reveled in the clarity.

“So.” He lifted the hand from his face. “Tell me.”

I took a step toward him, then another. I reached out and lifted his hand from where it rested on his knee. It was heavier than I’d expected and the logistics of lifting a hand that didn’t know where it was going were a little weird. I had to take another step toward him. When his arm was roughly at a forty-five-degree angle, I forced myself to meet his eye again. He looked surprised, maybe a little tense, the side of his face turned to me in a question. I paused. Then I felt it, the resistance in his hand. He sat up straighter, pulled it away.

“What did you want to talk about?” he said firmly.

I looked down at my blouse. It was going wrong already.

“Georgia, maybe we should talk another time.”

“Us,” I said quietly.

“I’m sorry?”

“I want to talk about us.” I couldn’t meet his eye.

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

He
did
know what I meant. I felt a charge of confidence, looked up and met his eye. His expression wasn’t what I’d been expecting. It was jumpy, alarmed. He scratched the top of his head.

“Do you want to chat tomorrow?”

I looked at him, kept my eyes level. “I know what’s been going on,” I said.

“Regarding…?”

“Regarding me.” I willed myself to continue. “Liking me,” I whispered. My eyes dropped to my sneakers.

“Liking you?”

I kept my head down. I’d said it. He knew what I meant and I had only to bide my time for a second, wait for him to absorb it and take action. After a moment I looked up.

“I know how you’ve been…” The dryness in my mouth stung. My voice had cracked into breath. “Interested.”

Roderick’s mouth opened just a little. His eyes were on me and a familiar expression flashed across his face. It was his sneer, subtler than normal, but recognizable all the same. “Georgia, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Horror came over me. I didn’t know what to think. He looked me in the eye. I struggled to keep speaking.

“Just … I mean about the attention.” I had to say more. “There’s been a lot of attention.”

“Oh.” The sneer was instantly gone. “You feel I’ve been…” He paused. “You’re saying there’s been pressure. Too much pressure.”

My stomach was contracting, caving in toward my spine. My stupidity banged like a second pulse. I had done everything wrong. He hadn’t understood. I looked down and made the sickening realization that I wanted to cry, that I was going to cry.

“Hey,” Roderick said. “Hey.” His voice was gentle.

He got up and pulled over the chair I had refused earlier. I took a step backward without looking up, let my body sink into it. The embarrassment was unbearable. I rubbed my hands over my cheeks, pushed my fingers into the recesses beneath my eyes as though pressure could stop the tears.

“Hey,” he said again. He leaned down a little, put his hand on my shoulder. “This can happen. The program is so intensive. Really. This is … I see this all the time.”

I swallowed a sob. His hand was all I could think about. He slid it down so that his fingers were on my upper arm and he squeezed through my blouse. Every increment of the squeeze brought him closer to me. He shifted his weight and the cuff of his shirt grazed my shoulder as he moved away. He went back to his chair, wheeled it toward me. We were almost knee to knee. I could feel his pant leg on my calf.

“Hey.” He ducked his head down, tried to get a glimpse of my face. “Everything all right in there?”

I sniffled, nodded.

“Good.”

He put his hand on my knee, patted it. Air snagged in my throat. He was touching me. What did that mean? Maybe I hadn’t screwed up. This time I wasn’t going to chicken out like a freak. I moved to the very edge of my chair. Just a foot separated our heads and I searched his expression for signs of alarm, but he seemed pleased that I was relaxing. So I moved in more, put my hand on top of his as my face lifted toward him. In a single motion, I placed my lips on his lips. It was the strangest second, blind mouths pushing against each other. I could feel resistance in his muscles, so I lifted his hand and put it on my boob. I held it there for a moment, training it to stay. I moved my lips and things got softer. We were kissing. The realization hit me like a slap and then I was falling backward. I felt the seat of my chair as it rolled away from me and my spine pounded as I hit the floor. The pain was the deep ache of bone. He stood over me, staring.

“Christ.” He ran his hand through his hair and his face shook. The anger in his eyes was terrifying. For a second I thought he might hit me, but he rolled his shoulders back, as though keeping the impulse lodged in his arm. Then he walked out of the room.

I didn’t move. Everything had been so fast. Had he pushed me away? It was impossible. I wasn’t thinking straight. He would come back and apologize.

My lower back hurt and I felt dizzy. Had my head hit the floor too? I picked myself up and tried to remember my plan. I took the photos from my back pocket, realized I’d forgotten a paper clip. It was important they didn’t get separated. Through my jean skirt, I pulled off my underwear and tights. I wrapped my underwear around the photos. The zebra pattern made a beautiful ring that held the paper in a coil, made it look like an ancient scroll. I opened the top drawer of his desk and placed it inside.

PART 2

FIFTEEN

I am standing alone on the sidewalk. I have read the sign a thousand times now but the fact of it is still abstract to me.
SCHOOL CLOSED
. It’s an idea that’s not quite convincing, like a smudge in the sky someone says is a galaxy. I look up and there’s an appropriately puffy cloud, white and organized, with storybook contours that don’t bleed into the blue. Sixty has joined a group of grade nines in front of the portico. Their conversation is a hum to me, a shapeless drone without words. I listen to this as something both dim and sharp pulls on the muscles in my chest. I force the feeling down, knowing how easily it could well up and find my eyes, spill out as tears.

Sixty looks over her shoulder and beckons me with her hand. I shake my head. I see the others behind her, Veronica and Anushka. They move their hands as they speak, their expressions earnest. Veronica crosses her arms over her parka and shakes her head with grown-up disapproval. Anushka bites her lip and nods. Do they suspect that I have something to do with it? The feeling in my chest is rising. It’s hot and spiteful but not something I can name. I shake away images, snapshots fragmented like jigsaw-puzzle pieces. My hand on Roderick’s thigh. The skin of his face up close. The back of his shirt as he left the room.

I feel warmth in my hand, a tug, and realize Sixty is standing beside me. Her shoulder rubs against mine and the closeness is saddening. I am still a million miles away.

“Chantal,” she whispers.

“What?”

“We have to find her. This is probably all her fault.”

She tells me the group of them have discussed it. Chantal is the root of this mess. Her parents must have sued the academy, and school would need to be canceled throughout the trial.

“It’s probably a regulation,” she says. “So that more girls don’t stop eating. Like, while the case is on.” Sixty nods. It’s a private nod, as though she’s considering her own assessment. “We need to find out.” She pauses for a moment, taps her foot on the concrete as she thinks. Then her face flushes with an idea. She reaches into her shoulder bag and pulls out her phone. “Call her.”

I hesitate. My stomach knots and I avoid her eye. I fight off another memory, the strangeness of Roderick’s lips on mine.

“It’s important,” Sixty adds. “She’s ruining things for everyone all over again.”

I take the phone and punch in the numbers quickly, as though the whole thing will be easier if I get it over with fast. It rings once, twice and there’s a voice I don’t recognize. I tell her who I am.

“Georgia?” the voice repeats as a question. “This is Chantal’s mom.”

I don’t like the way she says it and I worry instantly that she knows my name, has heard all about the eating schedule.

“Thanks for calling, Georgia. Chantal will appreciate it so much.”

“Oh.” I look at Sixty. “Great.”

“Will you be able to visit? I’m sure Chantal would love that.”

“Um … visit where?”

“Oh, I thought the school would have told you. We’re at the Hospital for Sick Kids.”

The knot of worry yanks hard enough to snap. “Why?”