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sage and pine and the cultured smell of Europe. I was transported into a foreign universe where we were lovers, driving along sinewy roads in the Alps toward a glorious mountain lodge where he would light a blazing fire and feed me champagne and strawberries.
    â€œI’ve yet to try maple syrup. I hear it’s sweeter than sugar,” he said. He had been talking about foods he hadn’t sampled yet since moving to Quebec.
    I concurred and said, “I’d like to try caviar. Have you ever had caviar?” I exhaled my (imaginary) Virginia Slims through the window into the alpine air as we drove past Neuschwanstein, the German castle I pictured looming beyond the Swiss Chalet diner ahead of us.
    â€œWhy on earth would a girl your age want to try fish eggs?”
    â€œWhat would you know about ‘a girl my age’? A girl my age likes a lot of things.” I turned to him. “I have been to Europe, you know.”
    He looked at me with a smirk. “I’m sure you have. Trust me, a girl your age would not like caviar!”
    I fell into a silent tantrum and sat tight-lipped and pouting for a long juvenile while. Lover had turned into disapprovingparent, snatching the cigarette from my lips and tossing it out of my daydream.
    â€œI am not a kid,” I finally said.
    â€œI can see that. You’re a lovely young lady.” He turned and looked at me with the eyes of an onscreen lover. His gaze lingered on me, then travelled south. How much of this was my imagination and how much was real, I wondered. I felt a mix of arousal and repulsion that now coalesced into fear. I was a kid. I wanted to be a kid. I was ready to try new things, yes, but sex? That was still something reserved for big-bodied, adult mammals. Also, what did I know about Mr Black, really? His life was in shadow. Who was he? Did he have a girlfriend, a wife, an ex-wife? A fiancée, perhaps?
    â€œTurn over there,” I said, relieved to see the blinking Dairy Queen sign with its familiar frosty white cone welcoming me home. As he pulled up to my doorstep, he turned to me and smiled vaguely, wishing me a fine weekend. Before I shut the door, he added, “Apologize to your parents for me for having made you miss your bus.”
    I nodded, then watched him pull away. He seemed so dull and perfunctory, but it occurred to me that he was trying to restore the official bonds that fell within the lines of the law. He was harnessing his desire and nudging his pupil back behind her desk.
    In my bedroom, I saw my calorie diary tucked on the shelf and my heart sank. I opened it and resolutely put pen to paper, as if to restrain my unwieldy imagination and desire.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Ham sandwich = 230 calories (As I watched him in the school yard.)
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Bag of potato chips = 250 calories (When he caught me staring at him.)
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Chocolate brownie = 430 calories (The embarrassment his look brought on.)
    I put the calorie diary back on the shelf and lay on the bed, head under my pillow.

    Within weeks we had a drama club set up in an empty classroom. Mr Black assigned me the role of Juanita, a jaded Spanish mistress, probably because she and I shared the same tawny racial shade and full figure. The scrawny white girls in the club would play fair maidens who, unlike the temptress, were fated to happy endings.
    In rehearsal, Mr Black and I had our first real argument. According to the script, when Juanita, a poor farm girl, is dumped by her married lover, she goes mad and spends the rest of her days in an asylum. When I argued that losing her marbles over a man who did not love her would not be true to her character, Mr Black pointed out that this was not up for negotiation and that, “the director’s job is to carry out the vision of the writer, and the actor’s job is to carry out the vision of the director. Is that clear?” I had been chastened and put in my