shower. Cringing hot, then shivering cold. It lasted until another bell shattered the quiet of study and began the huge noise of traffic between classes. Nakedness is only a state of feeling, both Joel's flesh and his feeling were raw by now-

Now get into your clothes and get out of here, go on. You hear me?

It was a new Mr. Gordon who spoke: his eyes looked vague and dreamy, like waking up; even his voice shook. It was one tone of brass all other time; now it shook, tasting itself like spit in the mouth before swallowing. Sweaty patches stained him and made his face shine in the light; his breathing whispered; his hands smoothed wrinkles out of his eyes, smothered infancy in his mouth before ideas became words. His arms shrank in a long body hug. Stretched, extended, and gave Joel a brotherly punch; a touch merely, almost a caress:

We won't tell anybody about this, will we? It will just make a lot of noise, anyway; like that fellow Harold Tanner.

But I wasn't-

What again, what again?

Joel stood still for a long, long moment. Mr. Gordon. His man parts had gotten all stiff and rigid, there was a damp stain covering his whole fly. Joel looked and tried to stop himself; but he went on looking. Mr. Gordon knew what Joel saw, resented Joel for seeing it—maybe a little psychology? Maybe.

For no reason, Joel was going to cry now. He knew it, Mr. Gordon knew it; resented Joel even more for somehow making him know.

Damn these kids.

But I wasn't, it wasn't fair-

Mr. Gordon raised his arm, high over the boy's bent head. Made a fist in the air, then straightened his hand for a slap:

Look at me, look at me. You pervert.

Then he struck. The averted face flinched in surprise, shuddered with pain; then went to pieces, crumpled, contorted-

Now get out of this locker room.

Joel Beck doesn't know what followed, he went to Mr. Kurkey and told him; then he went home. The student counselor smiled a bitter smile, tried to recall that Tanner instance; but the boy had gone home to his mother. He would have to make a visit there this afternoon. In his heart, Mr. Kurkey fumed.

III

THE MILLION THINGS

Mrs. Beck clearly was not listening to him, so Mr. Kurkey coughed twice and started again. I am sure there is some simple explanation, he began. But Mrs. Beck was simply a mother; she wanted more than a simple explanation. Her boy had come home crying; told her a teacher struck him. In his misery he even told her why. An instructor had hit her boy. She was on fire; she bristled with outrage, boiled with angry hot passion. She was a mother. Murmuring to oblivion, Mr. Kurkey went on that it was his opinion. But again Mrs. Beck was not listening

What are they going to do about that man, that teacher?

Mr. Gordon? Well, we don't know that anything needs to be done, now do we? We know, these incidents happen; routine, nothing more.

He hit my Joel——

Some young boys are, well, more likely to imagine slights than others. Who knows why? Who knows what really happens? I was not there at the time, but it

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