Hide Your Eyes by Alison Gaylin Read Free Book Online Page B

as Daniel knew all too well, that wasn’t a sound any child should hear.

    ‘Louder please!’ said Nancy.

    ‘I want a cat,’ said Daniel.

    ‘I am a cat,’ said Serena, licking her palm. ‘See?’

    ‘No, you’re not,’ Nancy protested.

    ‘Am so. A Gumbie Cat.’

    ‘Gumbie Cats smell.’

    ‘Okay, listen up! You guys settle down or else I close the book.’

    ‘Sorry, Ms. Leiffer,’ Serena said.

    ‘That’s . . . all right. I’m just a little tired today, kids.’ I am a hungover, dried-up, gay-bar-frequenting preschool teacher. And Nate is a heartthrob .

    I cleared my throat, forced a smile and continued to read. A seemingly endless ode to a cat, sitting.

    Since I’d more or less memorized this poem, I kept reciting it - as slowly as I could - as my eyes meandered from the book to my watch and back again.

    On the facing page, over the title of ‘Growltiger’s Last Stand,’ was a hand-written word. It hadn’t been there on Valentine’s Day. I knew this because I’d read ‘Growltiger’s Last Stand’ on Valentine’s Day after the cops had left and, faint as the word was, I would have noticed it.

    As I paused between stanzas, I squinted to make out the four ghostly letters - letters written by an adult, with a pencil that had barely touched the page.

    I must’ve stretched out the pause a little too long because Daniel said, ‘What’s the matter?’ In an attempt to appear calm, I opened my mouth to say, ‘Nothing,’ but my breath caught in my throat and no sound came out.

    The word on the page was hide .

     
    ‘Peekaboo, teach!’

    Yale’s voice, achingly cheerful. The kids had finally left for the day and I’d been cleaning the room up slowly, avoiding the Book of Practical Cats , which sat, sprawled open, at the center of my desk. I looked up and saw Yale standing in the classroom with a poorly concealed grin and cheeks that were flushed for reasons other than the cold weather. ‘I’m in love and I’m taking you out to lunch!’

    Oh, Christ almighty . ‘I still have some stuff to do around here . . .’

    ‘I’ll wait.’

    I collected a few unused scraps of modeling clay and rolled them into a ball.

    ‘Need help?’ Yale asked.

    ‘No.’

    ‘So . . . why don’t I tell you who I’m in love with.’

    I tightened the lids on the jars of water-soluble paint and lined them up on their long, plastic tray as he launched into a monologuebuto a mon about his significant-other-of-one-night-so-far. The guy was a waiter named Peter Steele, but beyond that information, it was just a bunch of words to me, irrelevant as the brand names on the sides of the jars.

    ‘. . . took him home from an after-hours bar, Sam. I haven’t taken anyone home from an after-hours bar since they arrested Jeffrey Dahmer . . .’

    I placed the paint tray on top of the VCR, wheeled the entertainment system into the closet.

    ‘But, God, he was flawless . . .’

    I shoved the ball of modeling clay into its container, closed the lid, stuck it on a closet shelf.

    ‘. . . Drop-dead, soul-swallowing gorgeous as a fucking Venetian opera. Don’t look at me like that. You would’ve done the exact same thing.’

    I closed the closet door. Bolted the three locks. Click, click, click .

    ‘Cat got your tongue?’

    I looked at him. ‘You have no idea what a poor choice of words that is,’ I said, and showed him the T.S. Eliot book.

    Yale squinted at the word. ‘Who wrote that?’

    I shrugged my shoulders.

    ‘Okay . . . Let’s retrace your steps. Exactly where have you and the book been lately?’

    After reading ‘Growltiger’s Last Stand’ at story hour on Valentine’s Day, I’d marked the page and stuck it into my shoulder bag. I often did this with Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats as it was so frequently in demand and - replaceable though it was - a potentially catastrophic disappointment for my class if stolen.

    Since I hadn’t removed it from the bag until today’s story