Mr. Knoll unzips, revealing mint-green boxers. The color looks almost childish, like something in a baby’s nursery. But there’s nothing childish about this. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing this to be a dream, willing myself to wake up.
“You need to work with me, Mara,” he says softly. “Open your eyes.”
I shake my head, clenching my eyes so hard that fireworks explode behind them.
“Open. Your eyes.”
His still-gentle voice sears through me and I obey. I glance toward the door, but it’s closed tight, the black paper teachers have to roll down when we have intruder lockdown drills covering the rectangular window.
“This is an easy solution, Mara,” Mr. Knoll says, leaning back a little. “Don’t be stupid.”
I don’t know what to say, what to do. What does he want me to do? I just stare at his face, my breathing so fast and shallow I feel dizzy.
He waits, watching me gulp at the air. The quiet is deafening, a ringing in my ears drowning out the sound of my lungs contracting. The pungent smell of dry-erase markers and teen-boy sweat stings my nose. My senses are in overdrive, a bitter tang on my tongue, goose bumps rippling up and down my arms and legs, even under my sweatshirt and jeans.
“You’re overthinking, Mara. It’s not a big deal,” he finally says. “I’ve seen the way you blush when I talk to you. You’re a beautiful girl. It’s okay. It’s natural to be curious and to have a little crush.”
“I . . . I don’t . . . I . . .”
“Don’t do that. Don’t be coy.”
I shake my head, at a total loss.
“Come closer.”
“I . . . I can’t—”
But he doesn’t let me finish. His hand encircles my wrist and he pulls me toward him. I gasp, but instead of letting me go, he puts my hand on him. It’s a complete shock and I try to pull back, but he holds tight.
“It’s okay,” he whispers.
He moves my hand, forcing my fingers to do what he wants. I feel like a puppet, a smiling master above me manipulating my limbs as though they’re connected with strings.
“See?” he says, his breathing raspy. “We’re just having fun, right?”
“I . . . I . . .”
He reaches for my face, trailing his finger down my tear-stained cheek before palming the back of my neck and pulling me closer. “Soon you can go and have the summer that you planned with your friends, with your family. You wouldn’t want to ruin that, would you?”
Somehow I manage to shake my head and Mr. Knoll smiles.
“Good girl.”
I’m sobbing silently now, tears on a mad mission to escape my eyes. All I can think about is how Owen wrinkled his nose the one time I told him I thought Mr. Knoll was kind of cute. Dude’s a total creepster, he’d said. I’d rolled my eyes and defended Mr. Knoll. Mr. Knoll, who was always kind. Mr. Knoll, who was always patient. Mr. Knoll, who was always smiling. Mr. Knoll, who never touched anyone, girl or boy. Not even a pat on the shoulder.
Mr. Knoll, whose hand is buried in my hair and pulling me closer to him. His fingers massage my neck and bile rises up in my throat. He’s busy with my hand on him, and his grip on my neck slackens a little. I sip at the air, too terrified to inhale deeply. Just when I’m about to wrench myself away, his hold on my hair tightens, fingers tangling in the curls.
I throw myself backwards anyway.
Pain lashes across my scalp and I trip over the bag I’d dropped on the floor, landing hard on the dingy tiles. I scramble to my feet, hooking my arm through my bag’s strap, an animal-like sound escaping my throat as I move away from my teacher and press my shoulder blades into the painted cement wall. The pencil sharpener digs into my ribs, but it almost feels good. It feels like safety.
Mr. Knoll watches me impassively. There’s a glint of anger in his eyes, but mostly, he just looks disappointed. He does nothing to cover himself, just flicks his hand out into the space in front of him. Several strands of my long hair cascade to the ground.
“You’re a stupid little bitch.”
I don’t wait to hear what he’ll say next. Eyes clouded, bones trembling, nothing but adrenaline pushing me forward, I manage to get the door open and stumble into the hall.
I walk fast, keeping my eyes down. I get myself home. I don’t even remember how, really, but later that night my mother fussed at me for the mud that I’d tracked into the front hall.
