Her family lived close enough to the school that she could ride her bike there in good weather and she did so that morning, arriving, as she had all that week, in a state of anxiety and, somewhere underneath, unacknowledged, anticipation. She had managed to avoid him so far, except for that moment in the lunchroom. She knew that in a school as small as Ridgeton Community College she couldn’t hope to avoid him forever, but felt that maybe if enough time went by it would erase what had happened between them, if only partially.
So when he came into the library while she was studying there that afternoon she restrained herself from picking up her books and fleeing.
There was a good chance he wouldn’t see her: the long table at which she sat was almost around the corner of the L-shaped room and partially obscured by a chest-high set of bookshelves. It was an unpopular table because there was no window, and the light wasn’t good, which was why she had chosen it. She could see across the library but was somewhat in shadow herself.
And even if he did see her they were in the library, and the librarian was a tight-lipped old harpy whose devotion to silence rivaled that of any monastic order. He could say nothing to her.
But having him not see her would be even better. She bent her head over her book, trying to summon her powers of invisibility.
But she wasn’t reading, of course, not even trying. She was looking over the tops of her glasses, following his every movement.
He was wearing tan chinos and a navy blue polo shirt. He had an average physique, not tall or short, neither muscular nor flabby, but he had broad shoulders that made him look a little more imposing. His brown hair and his sideburns were both a little longer than the school dress code permitted, but as a soon to be graduating second-year he could get away with it.
His face was less dramatic than she had colored it in her memories. Not exactly handsome, but not unpleasant to look at, the slightly largish nose balanced by the blue eyes under his dark eyebrows and broad forehead.
Strangely, she could find no hint about him of the power he had wielded over her. In fact, his movements, as he made his way to the shelves, seemed a little hesitant, as if he weren’t quite comfortable in his body. He was fairly popular, she knew, and was active with both the yearbook committee and the drama club, in the latter of which he had taken small parts in various productions. But there was something shy, something inward about him. She could hardly believe that this was the same boy who had barged into the girls’ bathroom that day and changed everything she thought she knew about herself.
The boy who had seen her.
But it was the same boy, she reminded herself firmly. And she continued to watch him with her complete attention as he made his way along the shelves, moving toward her but still safely distant. He stopped occasionally to read a book title, sometimes tilting his head to do so, once taking out a book and glancing at the flyleaf before putting it back and moving on.
God, he was still moving in her direction! Why didn’t he find whatever it is he was looking for and leave?
A few moments later he had nearly reached the juncture of the shelves he was looking at and the shelves behind which she sat. If he did, and turned to his right, he would see her for sure!
She kept her face down, tried not to breathe, and prayed that…she wasn’t sure what. Her left hand gripped the side of the table, already slick with sweat, as he reached the corner, began turning to his right… And dropped out of sight, hunkering down to look at the books on the shelves in front of her.
She let her breath out silently but did not relax, because she knew this was only a momentary reprieve. Any second now his head might pop up, looking right at her!
Oh god, there it was!
Quickly she ducked below the table, as if reaching for a fallen pencil. She waited there as long as she could, breathing as quietly as she could, half-expecting to see a pair of chino-clad legs appear on the far side of the table. But after a while, when they failed to appear, she raised her head, cautiously, and saw him walking away, book in hand.
This time she allowed herself a full sigh. She watched him approach the librarian’s desk, check out his book and then leave.
She became aware then that her throat was extremely dry. She waited a few minutes longer, then rose from her seat and went out into the hall, checking in both directions before seeking out the nearest water fountain. The first one she came to was broken, so she had to walk some distance to find another. She savored the cold water, endlessly thirsty.
When she returned to her seat she noticed that something had changed: the book she had left lying open on the table was now closed. Odd.
When she sat down and opened the book to its former place she found a scrap of notebook paper there. Written on it in ballpoint pen were the words, “Bad little girls get punished, but…”
Her head whipped up and she darted her glance into every corner of the library. No. But how could he have… Where was he?
Her mind was in turmoil as she turned the paper over. In the same writing, it continued: “…good slaves are rewarded.” What in the world…
It was just at that moment that she felt a hand gently grasp her ankle.
She didn’t quite jump out of her seat, although she might have had her ankle not been held in such a firm grip. She did, however, let out a gasp that drew the attention of everyone in the library, including an especially disapproving glare from the old watchdog at her desk. Jane managed to pretend she had swallowed the wrong way, working up a short but convincing coughing fit and looking apologetic.
After a while she subsided and pretended to go back to her book and everyone soon returned to their studies. But even then she couldn’t bring herself to look under the table. There was no point, anyway; she knew who it was. And of course she didn’t dare speak, even in a whisper–especially to someone under the table. What she didn’t know was what he was doing there, or planning to do, or what he meant by “good slaves are rewarded.” But she was sure she would be finding out very soon.
Almost immediately, as it turned out.
She could tell from the placement of his hand around her ankle that he must be sitting cross-legged in front of her. She felt him lifting her foot off the floor and pulling it towards him, then felt his other hand at her heel, gripping and then gently removing her shoe. Then her foot being settled on what must have been his crossed ankles. His hands rearranging themselves on either side of her foot.
A pause…and then his thumbs, massaging the ball of her foot.
Her eyes went wide for a moment, but she kept her face down towards her book.
Well. This wasn’t so bad, even if having her foot massaged by a boy under the table in the school library was a little unnerving. She felt his thumbs moving along under her toes, finding the spaces between the bones and probing deeply. Was this her ‘reward’? A kind of apology? She didn’t care; it felt wonderful.