Everything You Want Me to Be(52)
I jumped up and muttered an apology, then ran back to the house. I even locked the front door, which I don’t think had ever been locked before, and watched his comings and goings through the curtains of my bedroom for the rest of the afternoon. Maybe it was the book, or the way his eyes seemed to be on fire, but that night was the first time I had an orgasm. I’d tried masturbating before, but apparently it was all about motivation.
Since I’d fallen in love with Peter, motivation was never a problem.
Still, nothing I’d imagined in my bed at night had prepared me for what happened in the Erickson barn. His anger scared me and I’d almost lost hope, until suddenly he grabbed me and dragged us to our knees. I remembered everything, how he ran his hands over every part of me he could reach, how I burned every place he kissed me. He was sweaty and hard and demanding and then it was over as quickly as it started.
“We can’t do this,” he’d said, pushing me away.
I dove back into him, kissing his neck, running my hands through his hair. He smelled so good. I wondered when boys stopped smelling like boys and started smelling like his tangle of musk and soap and heat. Or maybe Peter had always smelled that way. What would I have done if he’d walked by me in a mall when he was sixteen? Would my eight-year-old nose have smelled its match and followed him through the food court? I smiled into his collarbone and murmured, “I have condoms.”
He groaned and nuzzled my temple, then framed my face in his hands. “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”
“No, Peter.” I shook my head as much as his hold would allow. “I’m trying to help you live.”
“Drop the act, Hattie. Tell me what you really want.”
“I want you. I just want you.” I said it over and over again, closing my eyes and rubbing my cheek against his hand. His thumb ran over my mouth and I let it fall open, hoping he’d keep kissing me, but he didn’t.
He stood up and dragged himself away.
“You’re not eighteen.”
My heart flip-flopped. “What’s a few weeks?”
“Legally, it’s the difference between getting fired and getting fired, arrested, and thrown in jail.”
I noticed he didn’t say anything about getting divorced, but I didn’t want to bring it up and spoil my chances. “So what are you going to give me for my birthday? A party? A present?”
“A spanking,” he said, almost to himself, and then shook his head and started laughing. It wasn’t a happy-sounding laugh.
“Hey, I’m going to be eighteen.” I stood up and crossed my arms. “You can’t talk to me like I’m a kid after that.”
He just covered his face with his hand. I walked over and pulled it down so he had to look at me.
“If anyone’s getting spanked, it’s you. You’re the naughty one here, having lusty feelings for your underage student.”
I tsk-tsked him in my best sexy-teacher voice, but he wasn’t in the mood to play. His eyes raked over my face like he was desperate for something and not finding it. I didn’t know how to assure him when he didn’t believe anything I said. Finally he groaned again, a self-defeating groan, and wound me into a hug, resting his forehead on mine. It was the sweetest gesture he’d made toward me yet, and my heart slammed in my chest. The hope almost choked me.
“There’s not enough punishment in the world for either one of us, but that’s not why we’re here, is it?”
I didn’t want to say the wrong thing, so I said nothing. I just closed my eyes and leaned into him.
“When will you be eighteen?”
“January fourth,” I whispered.
He was quiet for a minute. And then he said the thing that threw my heart into a cardiac trauma level of happiness.
“I’m taking you to Minneapolis.”
We set the date for the weekend after my birthday. He told his wife he was visiting some old friends and I told my parents I was going to look at the U of M. Dad had insisted I apply there in case I decided to go to school closer to home next year and they were both thrilled—or as thrilled as they could get—when I told them I was going to take a campus tour. When Mom offered to drive up and back with me, I told her I’d arranged to stay with a girl I’d known freshman year whose family had moved up to the suburbs.
“She wants to take me to the casino for my birthday,” I told them one night over beef stroganoff. Dad chuckled and Mom frowned and both of them told me I wasn’t allowed to lose more than twenty dollars, but that’s all it took for my story to become rock-solid. That was usually key with my parents. By admitting a slightly bad thing, I could blind them to any other possibilities of misbehavior. And even if they suspected anything else, it was probably along the same line of things I could do now that I was turning eighteen—getting a tattoo or buying cigarettes. Sleeping with my married English teacher was so far off the radar it was laughable.
The rest of December moved like a freaking iceberg. Every day dragged out. My shifts at CVS were an endless line of customers. Tommy took me to the drive-in and tried to feel me up under my sweater. Portia got a cold and then gave it to me, with a sore throat and cough and everything. The only good part was Peter’s class, where I sat in front as always and pretended not to ogle his every movement. I chatted with Portia and Maggie and argued most of Peter’s lecture points, just like I always did. The only physical contact we had was when he collected homework assignments; he had everyone pass their papers to the front and then he walked along the front row picking up the stacks. I handed him my row’s papers and our fingers brushed. That was all.