Justice. Faye Kellerman

      My head was reeling. “Chris, that isn’t possible—”

      “Sure it is.” He began to pace. “It’s just perspective, Terry. That’s all it is. I can view you this way. Or I can view you that way. You can be my girlfriend. Or you can be my tutor. Or you can be my model. It’s just perspective, compartmentalizing. You know what I’m saying?”

      I stood and slipped the strap of my bag over my shoulder. “No, I really don’t.”

      “Terry, please don’t leave.” He grabbed my hand. “Just sit a moment, okay?”

      With great reluctance, I sat back down. He sat next to me. Calmly, he said, “Just tell me what you want.”

      “I don’t want anything, Chris. Everything’s okay.”

      “Then if everything’s okay, we’ll go back to the way it was. You’re my tutor, I’m your student. I’ll see you on Monday then.”

      I kneaded my hands. “I think …” I cleared my throat. “It really would be better if you found another tutor.”

      The room turned silent and cold. I started shivering. He rubbed my arms.

      “Is that what you want, Teresa?”

      My eyes became moist. “I don’t know.”

      “We’re both too tired to make decisions. Let’s talk on Monday.”

      “Chris, this past week has been real intense. I need a break. How about if you call me in a week, okay?”

      He stared at me for a long time.

      “Please, Christopher. If it’s love, it can wait a week.”

      His eyes never left mine. Staring me down. Finally he shrugged. “Sure, I’ll call you in a week.”

      Suddenly, I could breathe. “You’re not mad?”

      “Mad at you?” His smile was wide but off. “I could never be mad at you. Sure, I’ll call in a week.”

      We both knew he’d never call again. He dropped my hands and scratched his head. “In the meantime, I’ve said some things to you in confidence.”

      “You know I’m very trustworthy.” I laughed nervously. “Besides, you have some pretty detailed drawings of me. In the leverage department, you’ve got a clear advantage.”

      He laughed out loud. “Yeah, you’re right about that.”

      “Can I have the drawings, Chris?” I gave him as earnest a look as I could muster. “Please?”

      But he shook his head no. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep them locked up. No one but me will ever see them.” He crossed himself. “That much I swear.”

      “Why can’t I have them?”

      He smiled slowly. “Because they’re mine.”

      9

      Over the weekend I had second thoughts. By Monday, I was determined to talk to him. I spotted him before first period. He was with his friends, Cheryl Diggs on his lap, his hands traveling her body like ants on a sandhill. She was equally demonstrative. From a distance, it looked like he saw me. He paused, then brought Cheryl’s face to his and devoured her mouth.

      Something snapped inside as I walked away, a long-buried aching that surfaced as a ravenous need for love and affection.

      I became moonstruck and boy, did Chris know it! For the next three months, he drew me into a horrid game of “I told you so.” And the more he tortured me, the more I lapped it up. I knew I had reached rock bottom when I found myself flirting with Steve Anderson just to get close to Chris. Next thing I knew I was going to the parties.

      The parties.

      There was always some house available, somebody with out-of-town parents. The drugs were plentiful, the booze flowed like tapwater, and sex was open and often. Chris sprawled out on the floor, one hand up Cheryl’s blouse, the other down her pants. Her hands on his crotch, teasing him to a massive erection.

      I looked away.

      But I always came back for more. The only thing I can say in my defense is that I never let Steve touch me in public. In private, though I guarded my virginity like a chastity belt, I had no choice but to give him something if I was to keep him. And I needed to keep him because he was my link to Chris. I hated doing things with him. I wondered if he told his friends about me. I wondered if he told Chris. How I despised myself.

      But I kept going back because I needed to see Chris. In fact, what I saw was an alcoholic in the making—my former student packing away shots without breaking a sweat. Drinking made Chris gregarious—a foreign entity to my eyes. He’d smile, he’d joke, he’d become a good ole boy with lots of fans. Lots of drinking also made him amorous. After an hour of raging, he’d disappear with Cheryl into a back room.

      Always making sure I saw him go with her.

      My grades started slipping. I became despondent. Lying like a lump in bed, listening to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, thinking suicidal thoughts. Out of desperation, with no one to turn to, I turned to prayer—to my obligation of confession. Dense as I was, it finally hit me. It wasn’t that I had posed nude for Chris. Had he loved me as he should have, I would have died for him. It was debasing myself for a boy who regarded me as dirt.

      I unburdened my soul, asking Jesus for forgiveness and acceptance. For me, confession had always been a painful process even when I did it on a regular basis. But a yearlong neglect of my spiritual duties made me feel even more shameful and guilty. But I forged ahead, seeking penance from God. After it was over, I felt better. But guilt continued to gnaw at my bones. Because my heart still ached for Chris.

      But righteous actions first. Maybe the thoughts would come later.

      I went cold turkey. I broke up with Bull Anderson. No more parties, no more torture. Then I started avoiding Chris. The hardest period was orchestra. He always had a crowd around him and was very good at catching my eye.

      Then one day something drew my eye away from him. Perhaps it was Jesus guiding my soul. Or maybe it was the scent of another wounded animal just like me.

      His name was Daniel Reiss. Besides being in orchestra with me, he was in my math class. He was a computer junkie, an almost nerd with glasses that often fell down his nose. He was skinny but at least he was tall. He was staring at Chris, a piece of his flute in each of his hands. His eyes weren’t resentful. They were simply perplexed, saying: Why would God who made a Chris also make someone like me?

      Violin in hand, I walked over to Daniel. “It won’t work unless you put it together.”

      Slowly he turned, amazed that I was talking to him.

      “You’ve got to put the pieces together.” I smiled briefly. “Then you’ve got to blow.”

      I walked away.

      He followed.

      Daniel was wonderful in his simplicity. He was sweet, and gentle, and didn’t expect a thing sexually. So anything I gave him was met with unbridled excitement. He gave me back my sense of self, and because of that, I wanted our senior prom together to be extra-special.

      With my tutoring money, I could have afforded almost any dress I wanted. But store-bought wasn’t good enough. I wanted something unique—handmade.

      Which meant made by me. Every day after school, I rummaged through fashion magazines. Once I settled on the design, I started my hunt in the fabric stores. I found a bolt of teal-blue taffeta woven with gold thread that cost a fraction of its original price.

      I cut, I snipped, I sewed. I adjusted and pinned until my eyes gave out. But when I was done, I had my one of a kind—a backless and strapless bodice attached to a form-fitting miniskirt that gave my body a sexy embrace.

      But