In fact Mr. Sandman didn’t wink at me at such times. When he made his pronouncements which were meant to make us laugh, and yet instruct us in the ways of the world, he didn’t look at me at all. He’d arranged the classroom seating so that “Violet Kerrigan” was seated at a desk in the first row of desks, farthest to the right and near the outer wall of windows, a few inches from the teacher’s desk. In this way as Mr. Sandman preened at the front of the classroom addressing the class I was at his right hand, sidelined as if backstage in a theater.

Keeping my eye on you. “Vio-let Rue.”

Each math class was a drill. Up and down the rows, Mr. Sandman as captain and drillmaster calling upon hapless students. Even if you’d done the homework and knew the answer you were likely to be intimidated, to stammer and misspeak. Even Mr. Sandman’s praise might sting—“Well! A correct answer.” And he’d clap, with deadpan ironic intent.

As Mr. Sandman paced about the front of the room preaching, scolding, teasing and tormenting us an oily sheen would appear on his forehead. His stiff, thinning, dust-colored hair became dislodged showing slivers of scalp shiny as cellophane.

It made me shiver, to anticipate Mr. Sandman glancing sidelong at me.

Keeping an eye on you. “Vio-let Rue.”

Ever since you came to us. You.

These were quick, intimate glances. No one saw.

STAYING AFTER SCHOOL, IN MR. SANDMAN’S HOMEROOM.

This was a special privilege: “tutorial.” (Only girls were invited.)

Told to bring our homework that had been graded. If we needed “extra” instruction.

Mr. Sandman stooped over our desks, breathing against our necks. He was not sarcastic at such times. His hand on my shoulder—“Here’s your error, Violet.” With his red ballpoint pen he would tap at the error and sometimes he would take my hand, his hand closed over mine, and redo the problem.

I sat very still. A kind of peace moved through me. If you do not antagonize them, if you behave exactly as they wish you to behave, they will not be cruel to you.

If you are very good, they will speak approvingly of you.

“‘Vio-let Rue’—you are a quick study, aren’t you?”

With the other girls Mr. Sandman behaved in a similar way but you could tell (I could tell: I was acutely aware) that he did not like them the way he liked me.

Though he called them dear he did not enunciate their names in the melodic way in which he enunciated Vio-let Rue. This was a crucial sign.

Edgy and excited we bent over our desks. We did not glance up as Mr. Sandman approached for Mr. Sandman did not seem to like any sort of flirtatious or overeager behavior.