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pushes in all the way, grabbing my ass and pressing me even closer. His face looks pained for a moment as inside me it burns, and something rips, and I know he’s torn skin from my very flesh. I yelp, and tears blink down my face. The wool scrapes across my belly a few more times until he finishes with a groan and pulls away. He rubs his eyelids, not looking at me, and slides up his briefs and jeans from the tangle around his ankles.
    I’m sticky all over, and I slip my hand between my legs and bring it to my eyes. His semen mottles slickly over my fingers, dappled with my own blood.
    That’s it?
    I feel ripped off, and disgusting. As I hop off the ladder, the rest of his semen trickles out of me. I need a shower, I’m meeting the girls later and—
    “Are you all right?” he asks, pulling the “Rydell High” banner off the ladder and bunching it into a pile. “I didn’t know you were a virgin. I wouldn’t have . . . ”
    Tears come from somewhere and work their way into my throat, but I will never, never let them fall in front of him. I don’t feel brave, or sexy, or any of that anymore. I feel like a stupid little girl. I don’t have any words.
    “Rennie?”
    “I’m fine.” And suddenly it’s very cold on the stage, and I snap on my bra and pull my sweater back over my shoulders and button it, thelittle peekaboo sweater that seemed sexy when I picked it up this morning, figuring I’d see him after school, the sweater that now seems shitty, uninspired, dirty.
    “This is just between you and me, Rennie.” He leans close and kisses me. “Our secret.”
    My mind is a swirl. I pull on my underwear, and I know when I go to the bathroom later, when Cherry and Amy and I’ve been hanging around at the college downing the scotch or tequila or vodka or what-ever Amy’s swiped from her parents’ liquor cabinet, there’ll still be blood and semen clinging to the cotton panel, staining it, staining me.
    “You’re a very special woman, Rennie. You’re absolutely beautiful. Perfection.”
    I’m seventeen years old and now I am a woman. A very special one. Perfection.
    I slide on my stockings, their feet damp with my own sweat. “Do you have any smokes? I’m out.” The mundane request centers me somehow, and as I’m pulling on my Doc Martens, I notice my hands shaking. I do need a smoke.
    He pulls a rumpled pack from his pocket and hands me one. Cupping his hand near my face, he lights mine first, then his. “Did you like it, Rennie? You didn’t, did you? It was too fast.”
    I pull in some smoke and answer as I’m blowing it out. “It was fine, great.” And a tiny part of me feels it
was
great, it’s sexy to have an affair with a teacher, he’s gorgeous, I’d be crazy not to want him as a lover. Tendrils of smoke curl over the stage, drifting into the auditorium. We smoke together quietly for a while, watching the empty audience; the show we’ve put on is over. My cigarette burns down to the filter, and I stub it out on the floor. “I have to go. I’m meeting my friends.”
    He bundles the banner in his arms. “I need to take this to the Laundromat.”
    Because you can’t wash it at home, Dawn might see. “Whatever.”
    “When can I see you again?”
    “You see me every day, in drama class.”
    “That’s not what I mean.”
    I gather my backpack and my script from the corner of the stage. They seem the accoutrements of a grammar school girl, someone I’m not anymore. I don’t know who I am now, who I want to be, what face I will show when I’m with my girlfriends later. Will they worm it out of me? Do I want them to? Do I want to have sex with Mr. Schafer, Rob, Mr. Schafer again?
    I just open my mouth and let words fall out of it. “Sure, we’ll do it again. Maybe we can go to a hotel or something. Sex onstage is kind of weird.” And as the words come out of my mouth I feel that dizzying heat again, the buzzing in my ears, the excitement of our secret.
    “It’ll be better next