The Red Lesson
by Jill Barth
When the girl came to me for help, my initial thought was not concern, certainly not concern but stupid confusion. What is she asking me? I couldn’t recall if she was in my second or third period, this student had made no impression on me, why would she ask for anything from me?
I nodded my head yes as she was talking and whirling her small hands like I could help, but I was focused on other things: my untied shoe, her unzipped aqua backpack, my wooden desk drawer slightly ajar.
She was touching her back here, then her face here, and then she said these words: He kissed me, Mr. Brooks.
She kissed the air in front of my mouth. Even after she had pulled away and started talking again, that kiss was still floating there, nearly visible: Red, sticky and shiny.
That is not OK at school, is it Mr. Brooks? She popped a hip to the side, is it Mr. Brooks? She leaned in slightly, an open palm on my blotter, her hair falling onto my desk. Well, what do you think, can we do that in school? Here, Mr. Brooks?
I could smell her lip gloss, something tropical and moist in the dry air of the school. I shook my head, no. She wasn’t exactly beautiful, but she was vivid. The room was disturbing and alive, as if the empty desks and the pull-down maps were watching, voyeurs enjoying the moment.
The girl kissed me. She kissed me.
Then she walked away.
Jill Barth lives just outside of Chicago with her husband and three young children in a house built before the Civil War. She has been a recent contributor to Boston Literary Magazine and Virtual Writer, a literary project in County Longford, Ireland.