Pretty Girls Dancing(12)
The thought of his hands on her made her body convulse in revulsion. Slowly, fingers stiff with resistance, she took off the clothes, piece by piece. Ballet slippers, scuffed and barely white anymore. Leotard. Tights. Everything in her size, or close enough. Her body racked with trembling as she hesitated on her bra.
“You have ten more seconds.”
That had her moving. She could slide the released garment down her secured arm only to the length of chain. And when she removed the panties, shame and disgust crawled over her skin. Knowing he was out there, looking at her . . . but oh, God, if he touched her . . . she couldn’t handle that. Every news show she’d ever seen about a missing kid flashed through her mind again, and she started to pray all the prayers that Pastor Mikkelsen had ever taught at Bible camp, and that was a lot.
“Now come to the front of the stage as far as the chain will allow, and get down on your hands and knees. Face the wall. Quickly now.” She moved as directed, crouching to clasp her knees, trying to make herself as small as possible.
“The rules are ranked in ascending order, up to the most important.” His voice sounded more distant now. Something had shut down inside her. She was going far away. “And of course, breaking the most important rules result in more serious consequences. A lash for each one broken. That’s five, in case you lost track.”
Alarm filtered through her numbed mind as she heard the snap. She raised her head, tried to look over her shoulder when the first flick of the whip cut through her skin. Searing agony exploded across her back. All thought vanished as the whip fell again and again, slashing skin, bruising muscle.
On the third blow, Whitney started to scream.
Janie Willard
November 4
10:43 a.m.
“Janie?” Mr. Latham folded his arms across his chest, resting them on top of the pudge of his belly that strained the buttons on his sweat-stained shirt. “We don’t have all day. Name one comparison and one contrast between the Greek god Ares with his Roman counterpart, Mars.”
It wasn’t that she hadn’t heard him. Of course she had. And she knew the answer. But as soon as he’d called her name the first time, her heart had sped up until its pounding rocketed in her chest. She tried to moisten her lips, but her mouth was dry. Knots tightened in her stomach as she felt everyone in the room looking at her. Mocking her. So stupid. She doesn’t know anything. Weirdo.
That’s your imagination. It isn’t real. Dr. Drake’s words sounded in her mind as she struggled to lasso her careening thoughts. No one is judging you. No one but the sadist in front of the room, his ample ass hitched on a corner of the desk. “Ares . . .” The violent hammering of her heart sounded in her ears. Her palms felt like a flash flood had struck. “They’re . . . they’re both . . .”
“Mr. Latham, you know Janie doesn’t talk.” A few titters followed Heather’s interruption. “It’s just mean to try and make her. It’s like punishing a dog that can’t learn to shake hands.” Outright laughter now, from more than a few. “It’s really not fair to the dog.”
The teacher’s indulgent smile defused his next words. “Heather, that’s not appropriate.”
The burning inside Janie’s chest turned to anger. No real weight behind the reprimand, not for Heather Miller. Because when Latham “accidentally” pushed books off his desk, Heather was one girl who was always willing to go up front and pick them up for him, usually making certain he got an excellent look at her cleavage when she bent down to retrieve them. Heather had never said no when asked, as Janie had, in an automatic, emphatic explosion of sound that had left Latham red-faced and her classmates howling with laughter.
Sometimes pride could come to her rescue, beating back the waves of panic. She battled for it now, the words coming out of her in a rush. “Ares and Mars . . . they were both considered gods of war, but the Greek god Ares wasn’t revered by the people, where the Roman god Mars was given a more dignified . . .” The bell rang, and there was an instantaneous shuffling of feet, of possessions being gathered.
Latham got up to circle his desk and peer down at his lesson plan. “Quiz tomorrow, and you’ll be asked to compare and contrast Greek and Roman gods. Make sure you bone up on them.”
“Boner exam,” some guy in the back muttered, and laughter burst out again.
Latham looked up, frowning. “Who said that?”
Everyone was crowding toward the front in a wall of people that always had Janie remain glued to her chair until they’d passed. She could feel someone at her side. Knew without looking who it would be. “I hear the most prestigious school scholarships value communication more even than test scores.” Heather’s voice sounded in her ear. “I hope you realize you’ll have to do a verbal presentation. The days of you getting a free pass because of your poor dead sister are almost over.”
“Shut! Up!” As comebacks went it ranked at about first-grade level, but it was all Janie could manage. Impotent fury was welling, most of it directed inward. She hated the anxiety that could still grip her, but even more, she hated allowing herself to be victimized by it. Stuffing her laptop in her backpack, she stood suddenly, and Heather stumbled back a few steps, only to be brought up short by a desk. She placed her hand on it as if bracing herself from falling.