Under Lock and Key

7: Times of Trouble

Chapter Seven: Times of Trouble

Lee Clarke, March 21st, 1945, Crescent City

I pushed Richard's hand away, but it was placed back on my knee instantly. Then a squeeze, which made me jump, which made the desk thump loudly.

"Mr. Clarke, is there a problem?" Mr. Reeves, the teacher, approached, concerned. I'm one of the quietest fellows in class, so he probably thought I was sick.

I shrugged and shook my head, looking back down at the page with intent, picking up my compass and tracing the correct circle with the accurate circumferences.

For now, Richard's wandering hand was immobile, his eyes innocently focused on his book, reading and turning the page with his right hand.

I got through two more problems when I felt his left hand slide upwards towards my thigh, then pause again. Then his pinkie finger stroked a little on my pants, then the ring, then his middle finger, then the pointer, then finally the thumb. Only to repeat again, with a little more pressure and a little harder.

I swallowed and cracked my neck from side to side.

Then his hand moved up my thigh again. Rubbing with his whole hand to the inside of my leg, to the outside and back again. All under the table of course, completely hidden. So no one knew.

Except me. And him.

I could feel my face begin to flush as he edged slowly up my thigh one more time.

"Excuse me, sir? May I use the restroom, please?"

"Excuse me, sir?" Richard mimicked quietly under his breath, moving his left hand back to the top of the table.

"Of course, Mr. Clarke."

I bolted from the room, and rushed down the hallway, pushed into the communal washroom and leaned over the sink. Trying to get my body part back to the position it should assume during school hours. It helped to imagine the ocean. The cold, cold ocean. Finally I relaxed and was able to splash water on my face, drying it carefully, before leaning against the locked door.

=

We didn't talk on the way home today. Sometimes we didn't. Most of the time Richard blathered along, and I just nodded in the right places.

But today he was quiet. I kept sneaking glances at him. And he smirked and caught my eye. Then looked away, scooped up a handful of rocks, chucking them into the woods happily.

I could still feel his hand on my thigh. I tried not to think about it.

We kissed occasionally, since that day in November by the river, after we saw our dads have sex. Sometimes just a quick press of the lips, stolen at recess, behind the school. Sometimes in the hollowed out redwood where he kissed me the very first time. One time, in his bed, with the door locked, his hands on my back, both of us laying on our sides, his leg thrown over mine, holding me close to him, close enough that we could feel how much we both enjoyed it.

But that was scary. Overwhelming. Good and bad, equally mixed. Because I knew it was wrong. But I still wanted to.

It was like if my mom made a cake, an amazing sweet vanilla cake with thick chocolate icing and studded with strawberries. But she told me that it was for some get together with her friends. I couldn't have any. As if, she said to me, here's some bread you can have instead.

I don't want bread. I want cake.

But I'm not supposed to have cake. The cake isn't for me. It's for other people. I'm supposed to have bread.