We Need to Talk About Kevin_ A Novel - Lionel Shriver [178]
The first semester of Kevin’s sophomore year in 1998 was dominated by that scandal. Rumors had circulated for weeks, but we weren’t in the loop, so the first we heard about it was when the administration sent that letter around to all Ms. Pagorski’s drama students. I’d been surprised that Kevin elected to take a drama course. He tended to shy from the limelight in those days, lest scrutiny blow his Regular Kid cover. On the other hand, as his room suggested, he could be anybody, so he may have been interested in acting for years.
“Franklin, you should take a look at this,” I said one November evening while you were grumbling over the Times that Clinton was a “lying sack of shit.” I handed you the letter. “I don’t know what to make of it.”
As you adjusted your reading glasses, I had one of those juddering update moments when I realized that your hair had now passed decisively from blond to gray. “Seems to me,” you determined, “this lady’s got a taste for tenderloin.”
“Well, you have to infer that,” I said. “But if someone’s made an accusation, this letter’s not defending her. If your son or daughter has reported anything irregular or inappropriate . . . Please speak to your child . . . They’re digging for more dirt!”
“They have to protect themselves.—KEV! Come into the den for a sec!”
Kevin sauntered across the dining area in tiny dove-gray sweats, their elastic ankles bunched under his knees.
“Kev, this is a little awkward,” you said, “and you haven’t done anything wrong. Not a thing. But this drama teacher, Ms.—Pagorski. Do you like her?”
Kevin slumped against the archway. “Okay, I guess. She’s a little . . . ”
“A little what?”
Kevin looked elaborately in all directions. “Hinky.”
“Hinky how?” I asked.
He studied his unlaced sneakers, glancing up through his eyelashes. “She like, wears funny clothes and stuff. Not like a teacher. Tight jeans, and sometimes her blouse—” He twisted, and scratched an ankle with his foot. “Like, the buttons at the top, they’re not ... See, she gets all excited when she’s directing a scene, and then . . . It’s sort of embarrassing.”
“Does she wear a bra?” you asked bluntly.
Kevin averted his face, suppressing a grin. “Not always.”
“So she dresses casually, and sometimes—provocatively,” I said. “Anything else?”
“Well, it’s not a big deal or anything, but she does use a lot of dirty words, you know? Like, it’s okay, but from a teacher and everything, well, like I said, it’s hinky.”
“Dirty like damn and hell?” you prodded. “Or harder core?”
Kevin raised his shoulders helplessly. “Yeah, like—sorry, Mumsey—”
“Oh, skip it, Kevin,” I said impatiently; his discomfiture seemed rather overdone. “I’m a grown-up.”
“Like fuck,” he said, meeting my eyes. “She says, like, That was a fucking good performance, or she’ll direct some guy, Look at her like you really want to fuck her, like you want to fuck her till she squeals like a pig.”
“Little out there, Eva,” you said, eyebrows raised.
“What does she look like?” I said.
“She’s got big, uh,” he mimed honeydews, “and a really wide,” this time he couldn’t contain the grin, “like, a huge butt. She’s old and everything. Sort of a hag, basically.”
“Is she a good teacher?” I said.
“She’s sure into it anyway.”
“Into it how?” you said.
“She’s always trying to get us to stay after school and practice our scenes with her. Most teachers just want to go home, you know? Not Pagorski. She can’t get enough.”
“Some teachers,” I said sharply, “are very passionate