Teacher's Pet

by David Rose

them. Eye candy, you know?"

  Sam had gone quiet again.

  "So, who do you think is the prettiest girl?"

  There'd been a long pause.

  "Maybe Lisa?" Sam had offered, hesitantly.

  "Come on, Sam, Lisa's our friend. You've never looked at her like you think she's beautiful. Or have you been secretly nursing a burning lust for her?"

  Sam had turned toward Becky to defend himself, but couldn't speak. He just gaped helplessly.

  Becky had laughed merrily, "I'm kidding, you idiot! Hey, even I think Lisa's pretty, but I don't seriously think you're interested in that way."

  She'd paused for effect.

  "So, who do you like, really?"

  She'd fixed her wide eyes on his Labrador brown ones, demanding an answer from him.

  Sam had looked like a hare in the headlights.

  She'd shifted a little closer, put her nose a couple of inches from his, and coaxed, "C'mon, you can tell me. We've known each other since forever."

  And then she'd nailed him with her most plaintive murmur, "Sam...?" and lifted her face towards his.

  That had been this time last year, and they'd been inseparable since. Until the advent of Miss Guyot.

  Becky abruptly pushed her books away and stood up. She couldn't do any more work right now. And if she was going to stuff herself with pizza tonight, a pre-emptive strike against the onslaught of tubbiness would be a good idea. So she swiftly changed into her powder-blue training things, and set out for a quick run through the neighborhood, a small frown persisting between her eyebrows.

  Miss Guyot, she thought, failing to be distracted by the Selena Gomez coming through her earphones, was a lot like a pimple that just would not go away. She made life ugly, she was a pain, and there was no real cure for her. In Becky's view Miss Guyot was in the business of ruining other peoples' lives. Oh, the guys were all fascinated, and even a lot of the frustrated girls thought she was charming, jealous though they were of her.

  But Becky had noticed that however entrancing and beautiful Miss Guyot might appear to be, she had a mean streak. Last week, when Pierre hadn't finished his essay in time - mainly because of the hours he'd spent mooning over Miss Guyot, and giving her car the deluxe valet treatment - she'd just looked at him with fake sympathy and refused to accept a late submission. "I am so sorry. Non. C'est impossible."

  But Becky knew she had caught a gleam of pleasure in those startling green eyes. And Miss Guyot was quite unsympathetic to any of the girls with study problems, probably because she knew how much less susceptible they were to her.

  She'd started with Marcel Lambert in the first week, and moved on to poor Dean Kavanaugh, and then a string of others. None of them lasted for long, although sometimes she would reinstate a past favorite.

  Three weeks ago Pierre, a tall blond jock on the hockey team, had been Teacher's Pet. Last week it had been Lisa's ex, Jean Roux. This week, who knew? Sam? Becky's blood fizzed through her limbs and she upped her speed. Something Had to Be Done about Miss Dominique Guyot.

  Running with no set route in mind, Becky randomly turned right at a corner. Just as she remembered that this was the street Miss Guyot lived in, she saw the black Porsche pulling into the driveway. The top was down, and - was that Sam with her?

  Becky jolted to a halt, breathing hard. She'd been pushing harder than she knew, fueled by anger and frustration, and now she was blazingly, recklessly mad. Seething, she watched them get out of the car and go inside together.

  She jogged up towards Miss Guyot's house, and then angled in through the front lawn shrubs to go around to the back.

  Becky had no idea what she would do, but she just had to do something. So she started peering surreptitiously through windows, trying to see if she could find Sam. When she found the kitchen, Miss Guyot was there, pouring drinks. Becky ducked back in a panic and slipped around the corner.

  But the notion that Miss Guyot might be doing something with Sam while she cowered next to the house was driving her nuts. She took a deep breath and pulled herself together, and went back to checking the windows. The second window after that turned out to be the sitting room, and there he was! He was alone, and she was thinking about tapping on the glass to get his attention, but she hesitated. Sam didn't look right. His usual expressive face looked slack, vacant. And then he sagged onto the couch as if he'd just fallen asleep.

  Becky's mind slumped into total confusion - Sam had been wide awake just a few minutes earlier, she'd seen that for herself. How could he fall asleep so quickly? Had the evil witch drugged him? Why, what for? But Miss Guyot was a teacher! She might - Becky didn't know what was going on, but she was going to get in there to see that Sam was all right. One way or another. She just couldn't cope with trying the front door and coming face to face with Miss Guyot right then.

  She'd noticed that the house had an old-fashioned cellar, and she figured she might be able to get in that way. The cellar had the kind of double doors that you have to pull up to open. They weren't locked, so with some trepidation she quietly opened the doors, wrinkling her nose at the unpleasant odor rising from the damp cellar, which intensified as she crept down the steps. It smelled something like drains overflowing.

  She was almost at the bottom, where the steps opened into the cellar, when she heard another door being unlocked, over to her left. She froze. That must be the door going up to the interior of the house. But why would Miss Guyot come down right now? Had she seen Becky, or heard something? Becky's heartbeat, already fast, began to race as her adrenalin spiked.

  Miss Guyot announced with malicious enthusiasm, "Hallo again, mon cher. I told you I would not be long!"

  An unintelligible groan responded from her right hand side, and Becky bent down and edged her head around the door-frame.

  At the far end of the dimly lit cellar, shackled to the wall, naked and filthy, was Dean Kavanaugh, not drowned after all. She barely recognized him, but for his signature blue eyes. His entire body seemed to be covered in bruises and cuts under the dirt, and he was skeletally thin.

  A noise to her left drew her attention and there was Miss Guyot herself, taking down a bullwhip from a selection of instruments of punishment on the wall.

  With a wide smile of anticipation she bared her perfect teeth at Dean and cracked the whip. Dean flinched.

  Becky gasped, and Miss Guyot turned and saw her. Those cat-green eyes widened, and her nostrils flared.

  Becky fled, her heart outracing her feet. She reached the top of the steps and fought her instinct to hide in the flowered bushes in front of her, instead turning on the ball of her foot and sprinting back towards the street.

  Her head whirled with shocked thoughts. Dean - was alive - still. But - Miss Guyot! She had to hide. Now. Like a whisper from a guardian angel the idea came to her - not Miss Guyot's garden, but one of the neighbors'. She needed to get off the street, fast, and Miss Guyot wouldn't know where she'd gone, if, that was, she was out of sight by the time Miss Guyot got onto the street. Acting on the thought she darted up the next driveway, alongside a carport and pushed her way into a thicket of evergreens behind it.

  Taking a grip, she made herself slow her panicked breathing and crouched low. She couldn't see. But if she tried to look, her face would show against the evergreens, clear as clear. She lay down, curled around a small trunk, and with her face in shadow at ground level, she saw Miss Guyot stalk by in the street, head swiveling. Becky froze in place, not even breathing. As she watched, Miss Guyot turned back towards her own house. A long minute or so later the Porsche buzzed down the street. Was she leaving? No, Becky thought - she's prowling the streets, waiting for me to come out. And then? An image formed in her mind's eye: her own crumpled form in jogging outfit, lying in front of the car with Miss Guyot wailing about how she'd just appeared from nowhere.

  What could she do? But - Miss Guyot wasn't home... and Sam was still there. Still drugged. The idea of going back inside terrified her, but she also realize
d it was the last thing Miss Guyot would expect. And, what about when Miss Guyot decided to come back and dispose of any evidence?

  Becky found herself on her feet, moving.

  "What are you doing?" A strident woman's voice cut into her consciousness, and she jumped. You look really guilty now, she told herself, glancing at the house to see a sour-faced middle-aged woman at the back door.

  "Sorry!" she called, "Nothing - I made a mistake." And she broke into a run.

  "I'm calling the police!" the woman shouted after her, but Becky was already turning back towards Miss Guyot's house. She felt almost dizzy with fright, but she was going back for Sam.

  "Oh!" she exclaimed to herself, and reached into her pocket for her cell. She dialed 911, still running, and began to speak as she made for the cellar once more. The house might be locked, and there was no time.

  The cops were coming, she thought wistfully, did she really have to do this? The cellar entrance gaped before her. But she pushed herself down the steps. What if Miss Guyot came back before the police arrived, with Sam still helpless?

  Reaching the bottom, she stepped into the cellar. Dean was still chained to the wall, his head hanging down.

  "Help's coming, Dean," she threw at him in passing, making for the open door which Miss Guyot had come through. Dean hadn't stirred; he looked unconscious. She wished she could free him, but