Chapter 3: The Proposal
Sophia knows that she might be wrestling with the bull of fate by the horns by actually going to the library after her classes. She had decided against it, but somehow little things kept popping up, compelling her to listen to reason. But whether or not it is imperative to actually go to the library now—at the same hour indicated by Brad's note—is really beside the point. She tries to push it out of her mind, barricading herself behind alibis that are so mundane they're essential: there's a book she must check out, a research she has to make. By the time she's browsing the shelves of the References Section, she has abandoned all pretense and is fully aware that she's here because of Brad's little note. She fights the urge to glance at her watch, but the almost-empty library tells her the approximate time. The library is an old two-story brick structure that had served another purpose a few years before the last World War, when it was built. And the References Section is in a far corner on the second floor, five tall shelves of musty books, the least frequented spot in the entire building. She understands why Brad would choose that spot—to corner her, to be alone with her, but still surrounded with the best, easiest alibi of all: books. If something awkward happens, they could just retreat smoothly to their supposed original purpose, anyway, which is to look for that so-and-so volume, neither of them feeling bad for having been saved by an easy excuse.
Sophia reads the titles on book spines, tilting her head to an angle. She isn't in a hurry. She's encumbered with a withering sense that Brad will appear at any moment right beside her, and she could not make up her mind and heart about what to feel about the possibilities. Better stick with the facts, she thinks. She's his teacher, and there's nothing inappropriate about this "chance" meeting. Besides, the first thing she'll say when Brad arrives—she pulls out a book from the shelf, the title suggests an earnest critique of the works of Kingsley Amis—is she's actually doing a research for her lesson plan. "That note you gave me, that's brazen. And I'll have to give you an F if you don't turn in an actual proper essay tomorrow," she will say, rehearsing the words in her head to make sure they come out sounding convincing. She's flipping through the pages of the book, realizing she should find another one, when she hears that sound. It's more of a whimper, like a whispered cry from pain. She thinks a kitten must have sneaked in through the window and could not find the way out. She peers around and realizes the sound is coming from the other side of the book shelf. Someone's moaning, or making a sucking sound with their mouth, and a flash of recognition sends her heart in a thump. Carefully, as soundlessly as possible, she parts two books to get a view. She sees them, a couple making out in that stuttering, unrefined boldness of youth. The boy looks familiar, probably one of her own, but with his back to her and the subdued light, it's hard to tell. Maybe he's mentally recording everything for recounting, in detail, to his leering friends. A proof of his apex machismo. Sophia would not be surprised if the boy already has naked pictures of his girl—in love, girls of that age are putty in a boy's hands. They are so easily manipulated. The girl seems much younger, maybe in her early teens, her chest bulging, heaving. Sophia, the mistress of forbidden sexual fantasies, stands there frozen. Confronted with an actuality, Sophia is enthralled, turned to stone.
"That's quite a show."
Brad materializes by her side. She nearly jumps in fright. Sophia's eyebrow arcs up to shut him up. Peering at the couple on the other side, watching them like this, Sophia feels she's an accessory to a crime. Her impulse is to step away, to dissociate, pounce on these two horny youngsters and drag them by their ear to be disciplined. But the sheer arrogance of these two for choosing this corner of the library to grope and fondle each other fascinated her—when she was their age, she didn't have the balls for this. She would have been mortified at the mere suggestion. But these two—aren't they a thing?
"Shouldn't we get them?" Brad whispers.
"Yes, we should." But she doesn't move.
Also: "we"—when did they become a unit?
The boy has started pulling down his pants while the girl looks on when a voice down the hall bellows. The boy panics: simultaneously pulling up his pants and trying to run to the other end of the narrow corridor, like one of those silent movie actors in a slapstick comedy scene. Sophia would have laughed, except she has also ducked down, as if the voice is an exploding grenade that sends them hiding from the shrapnel. Brad is still standing, pretending to browse some book on eye level. Seeing him so nonchalantly treating the situation, Sophia remembers who she is and where they are, and pretends she's also looking for a book on a bottom shelf.
"Hey," says the voice, now clearly that of a woman's. Footsteps drawing near. "Oh, Mr. Silverstone, you're here."
Sophia looks up. It's Mrs. Chatham, the librarian, her plump, fifty-something form isn't helped by her preference for wearing things with ruffles. She stands there with a clipboard on an arm, her old rheumy eyes flicking from Brad to Sophia, then back to Brad.
"Just helping out Miss Masterson find a book."
"What book would that be?"
Brad hesitates. He shrugs. "Anything by Philip Larkin."
Mrs. Chatham's double-chin quivers as she laughs. "Then you're in the wrong section, my dear. You can find one over at Literature."
"I thought I saw 'A Girl in Winter' here the other day," says Sophia.
Mrs. Chatham flashes that I-know-where-everything-is-in-my-library kind of smile. "Miss Masterson, you know you won't find fiction in the References Section, don't you?"
Sophia stammers. Brad comes to the rescue with a gesture of his hand and a dismissive, "It's okay, ma'am, we'll manage."
A pause, and Mrs. Chatham leaves without a word.
"Philip Larkin?" Sophia says, rolling her eyes.
"Well, that was off the top of my head."
"Actually, that was clever. I'm pretty sure Mrs. Chatham couldn't tell the difference between Larkin and Caligula."
Sophia carefully returns the book and strides out of that place, a little too hurriedly, while Brad trails behind her. He touches her shoulder. She stops and faces him.
"About that note," he stammers.
"Exactly," Sophia says, in that talking-down tone, which is not really having the intended effect as she's looking up at him. Then proceeding from her mentally rehearsed line, "You realize you're getting an F if you don't hand in a proper essay first thing tomorrow?"
"Well, I have a proposition."
Sophia says nothing, but her heart secretly jumps at the word "proposition." In one millisecond, she thinks of flinging herself onto Brad's broad chest. She eyeballs a low table at the far end of the hall, where it is relatively dark, and imagines taking off her clothes, spreading her naked self on it like a delicious seduction, as she whispers, "Tell me more about that proposition?" But she shakes her head and gazes at Brad's face as if seeing him for the first time.
"I need a tutor, and I think you're the best person for me."
"Tutor?" Sophia incredulously echoes. "What for?"
"You know I'm behind my lessons. I just need to make sure I'll meet my academic goals at year's end. My father would not accept anything lower than an A+."
Sophia mulls this for a moment. There's something unreal about what Brad is saying, especially if it's coming from those glistening, fresh-looking, nibble-inviting lips. Tutoring a struggling student is not exactly unheard-of in Camden High. But Brad is hardly a "struggling student"—he's smart, he has traveled the world, he has been working with his father since his early teens. He even has time to work out and build up those terrific biceps. Brad exudes that refined confidence of having known more things about life than any of his peers—he could easily pass off as a 25-year-old executive if not for that beautiful, hairless face.
"I'll think about it."
"Please, Miss Masterson."
"I said I will think about it. I'll let you know in a few days, maybe."
Brad nods. He grabs her hand, squeezing it. "Thank you so much, Miss Masterson!"
As if she just said yes.
And that's it. Sophia drives home in a daze. She just watched two teenagers almost have sex in the library, and she did nothing about it. What's happening with her moral compass? And when Mrs. Chatham arrived, she behaved as if she were guilty, too. She gazed at her eyes' reflection on the rear-view mirror: what's happening with you, Sophia? Are you losing control?
The thought makes her uneasy, but the unease is overwhelmed, watered down by an excitement for committing something forbidden. Brad Silverstone is compelling her, seducing her—whether it is his intention or not—to let her fantasies bleed into reality. There's a thin wall, more like an eggshell membrane, between these two worlds, and Brad is smashing through it with his little moves. If he were somebody else, he would have been easy to ignore—but this is Brad Silverstone, and his charm, and power, and immense wealth are a powerful soporific—she could breathe it all in and just say yes to her growing sense of need.
And above all, she's on fire—she's horny. She needs a good fuck. And she needs it as soon as she gets home. Damn those two kids for reminding her what she had missed in high school. The dashboard clock says it is ten minutes past seven. She's sure Derek is already home, barring any of those important, last-minute emergency meetings.
When she arrives, there is activity in the kitchen. She hears glasses or plates clinking. Derek loves to cook—it is one of his qualities that she finds endearing—and tonight he's probably fixing up something he's just learned on the internet to surprise her. Standing in the half-darkness of the living room, Sophia is struck with an idea: what about she surprises him? She drops her bag on the carpeted floor and begins removing her clothes, starting with her blouse. She unhooks her bra and throws them on the couch. Her panties are already soaking wet, and removing it left a trail of moisture down the inside of her thighs. She sits on the couch, wearing nothing but her high-heeled shoes, her legs spread as blatantly wide as possible. Derek finds her in this state a few moments later, holding an unopened bottle of wine. A look of delighted surprise on his face. He forgets about the wine. His hands fumble with his clothes, with stupid buttons, but he's naked quickly.
"I want you," she purrs. "I want you so much!"
There's no foreplay. He hungrily thrusts his cock into her wetness and begins fucking her furiously, like he's fucking a prostitute he just met. His mouth finds hers; they lap up each other's tongues. Sophia makes so much noise, she squeals and digs her fingers in the couch and says things like, "fuck that pussy!" This drives him even crazier.
"Oh, Brad," she whispers, in-between intakes of ragged moaning and breathing. "Fuck me all you want."
Hearing another man's name excites Derek even more—he knows they're now in a game, in one of those fantasies, and unless he says the safe word, she doesn't have to stop. And why would he want her to? This is the best aperitif he's ever had in weeks. Sophia's loud moaning, the needy way she meets his hips at every thrust, to let him in as deep and full as possible, her eyes all white, her mouth all "Fuck me, Brad, that's it, harder, harder," he shoves his tongue down that mouth and he can still hear the same words, over and over, and in a fleeting millisecond, a confused jealousy creeps in, only to be demolished and drowned by tidal waves of need, fulfillment, a delicious, soul-withering release.
When she comes for the third time Derek also lets go, timing his own orgasm with that of her. They crash on the couch, panting, catching their breath.
"Who's Brad?" he asks.
"New student," she says, matter-of-factly. Sophia's hand seeks his manhood, finds it still erect. She climbs on him, the dinner forgotten.
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