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Authors: Zoë Heller
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in Connolly’s manner as he stood before her desk. When she smiled at him, he would not meet her eye.
As soon as he and the Kilbane boy had been registered, they retreated to the back of the room, where they began tipping back on their chairs and whispering. Sheba could not make out what they were saying, but she had an uncomfortable sense that it was obscene in nature and connected, in some way, to herself. The suspicion grew when Kilbane got up and approached her desk to ask for more paper. Kilbane is an unpleasant boy with an ugly, yellow face and an insolent, insinuating attitude. A thin line of fur skulks on his upper lip, like a baby caterpillar. He gave Sheba the creeps. As she burrowed in the desk drawer for paper, he seemed to be standing uncomfortably close to her chair, but only when she sat up did it dawn on her that he was attempting to look down her shirt. She handed him a sheet of paper and sharply ordered him back to his desk. “All right, all right,” he said mockingly, as he strolled away. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” Sheba glanced at Connolly. He had been watching this exchange intently. As he met her eye, there was a hard, unfriendly look on his face.
Sheba felt betrayed. She had thought him special, and here he was exchanging spitballs, plotting with his horrid friend to get a peek at her chest. At the same time, she registered a definite twinge of—what was it? Excitement? Titillation? For a split second, she found herself imagining what it would be like to lie beneath him, to have his hands on her. She shook her head in fright. She ought not to have been so easy and sweet with him, she told herself. Now, she would have to draw back.
Towards the end of the first half hour, Kilbane and Connolly started play-fighting with one another—rolling around on the floor while the rest of the H.C. group screamed encouragement. Neither of them responded, she says, when she got up from her desk and stood over them, ordering them loudly to stop. Finally, she threatened to send for Mr. Mawson if they did not immediately desist and accompany her outside. This worked. The boys got up from the floor, still laughing, and trooped out into the corridor. But once Sheba had closed the classroom door and was facing the two of them, she was at a loss. Her one thought had been to remove them from their encouraging audience. Now that she had done so, she struggled to find her next gambit.
I happened to be walking through Middle Hall, on my way to a meeting with the head, when Sheba and the two boys emerged. I heard Sheba’s voice, shrill with admonition, before I saw her. And then, when I turned the corner, I spotted the little confrontational knot at the far end of the corridor. Sheba’s feet were planted firmly in the ten to two position, as if in preparation for a plié. Her hands were on her hips. She looked like the tarot card symbol for wrath. The boys, who were well versed in the postures of this teacher-pupil tableau, were slouching against a wall, their hands thrust deep into their pockets.
Given that I was already in danger of being late for Pabblem, and given that my relations with Sheba had reached such a difficult pass, I was tempted to ignore whatever contretemps she was having with the two boys and simply walk on. But as I drew nearer, I distinctly heard the taller boy call her a “silly cow.”
“What was that?” I said sharply. Whatever my personal feelings towards Sheba, I was obliged to address the boy’s incivility. It would have been a dereliction of duty to do otherwise.
The three of them looked around at me. Sheba had a slightly wild look in her eye and the telltale patch of scarlet on each cheek.
“Are these boys giving you trouble, Mrs. Hart?” I asked.
“I’m afraid so, Miss Covett,” Sheba said. There was a quaver in her voice. “They’ve been talking and generally creating a disturbance since the beginning of H.C. And now they’ve started fighting.”
Together,
As soon as he and the Kilbane boy had been registered, they retreated to the back of the room, where they began tipping back on their chairs and whispering. Sheba could not make out what they were saying, but she had an uncomfortable sense that it was obscene in nature and connected, in some way, to herself. The suspicion grew when Kilbane got up and approached her desk to ask for more paper. Kilbane is an unpleasant boy with an ugly, yellow face and an insolent, insinuating attitude. A thin line of fur skulks on his upper lip, like a baby caterpillar. He gave Sheba the creeps. As she burrowed in the desk drawer for paper, he seemed to be standing uncomfortably close to her chair, but only when she sat up did it dawn on her that he was attempting to look down her shirt. She handed him a sheet of paper and sharply ordered him back to his desk. “All right, all right,” he said mockingly, as he strolled away. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” Sheba glanced at Connolly. He had been watching this exchange intently. As he met her eye, there was a hard, unfriendly look on his face.
Sheba felt betrayed. She had thought him special, and here he was exchanging spitballs, plotting with his horrid friend to get a peek at her chest. At the same time, she registered a definite twinge of—what was it? Excitement? Titillation? For a split second, she found herself imagining what it would be like to lie beneath him, to have his hands on her. She shook her head in fright. She ought not to have been so easy and sweet with him, she told herself. Now, she would have to draw back.
Towards the end of the first half hour, Kilbane and Connolly started play-fighting with one another—rolling around on the floor while the rest of the H.C. group screamed encouragement. Neither of them responded, she says, when she got up from her desk and stood over them, ordering them loudly to stop. Finally, she threatened to send for Mr. Mawson if they did not immediately desist and accompany her outside. This worked. The boys got up from the floor, still laughing, and trooped out into the corridor. But once Sheba had closed the classroom door and was facing the two of them, she was at a loss. Her one thought had been to remove them from their encouraging audience. Now that she had done so, she struggled to find her next gambit.
I happened to be walking through Middle Hall, on my way to a meeting with the head, when Sheba and the two boys emerged. I heard Sheba’s voice, shrill with admonition, before I saw her. And then, when I turned the corner, I spotted the little confrontational knot at the far end of the corridor. Sheba’s feet were planted firmly in the ten to two position, as if in preparation for a plié. Her hands were on her hips. She looked like the tarot card symbol for wrath. The boys, who were well versed in the postures of this teacher-pupil tableau, were slouching against a wall, their hands thrust deep into their pockets.
Given that I was already in danger of being late for Pabblem, and given that my relations with Sheba had reached such a difficult pass, I was tempted to ignore whatever contretemps she was having with the two boys and simply walk on. But as I drew nearer, I distinctly heard the taller boy call her a “silly cow.”
“What was that?” I said sharply. Whatever my personal feelings towards Sheba, I was obliged to address the boy’s incivility. It would have been a dereliction of duty to do otherwise.
The three of them looked around at me. Sheba had a slightly wild look in her eye and the telltale patch of scarlet on each cheek.
“Are these boys giving you trouble, Mrs. Hart?” I asked.
“I’m afraid so, Miss Covett,” Sheba said. There was a quaver in her voice. “They’ve been talking and generally creating a disturbance since the beginning of H.C. And now they’ve started fighting.”
Together,
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