The first door on the left, next to Hell.

"Are you talking about the story?"

We freeze, Kristin and I. Or more specifically, she freezes; she was halfway through explaining to me in a soft murmur what my job will be during our lunchtime band meeting. We look at each other with embarrassment, and some guilt.

"I guess not," says Ms. A primly. "We would appreciate it--we're trying to have a discussion, over here, about the story. We would like if you would join in."

Ms. A does that a lot; talk in the royal plural, I mean. But she's right, of course; we are in English class and supposed to be doing something or other connected to this short story, not divvying up band duties. Nor should Louise be doing statistics homework, nor should Ashley be studying my physics notes, nor should the rest of the class be sitting in distracted silence...but true. We should be paying attention.

Kristin's ears turn a little red. Sorry, my fault, I mouth at her, because I asked her the question.

Ms. A is back in her "discussion" now, and I am listening. I was, actually, listening before, but honestly the discussion is not the type that requires one's full attention. I sound like a jerk, saying that--perhaps I am. Even Ms. A, though, was not offering her full attention: getting up, rummaging through her desk, finding papers, organizing things, etc. etc. To assure her that this time I am Paying Attention, I affix her with a burn-holes-through-your-head stare. She is the sort of person who does not believe you are listening if your eyes are not on her head. I make eye contact with people I feel comfortable and respect. I do not often make eye contact with Ms. A.

I should say Mrs. A, she goes by Mrs. and I am not such a wild feminist that I affix a Ms. to your name no matter whether you want it or not. I am just a neurotic who has often addressed a Mrs. with a Miss or a Miss with a Mrs., and I am sick of picking wrong, so I just got in the habit of using Ms. with everyone. G, last year's English teacher, always went by Ms. G, which worked very well. Ms. G used to call me Puglisi, and that worked very well too. I have this thing about first names; they feel very personal to me, like they contain something of who you are. I feel very awkward calling someone by their first name if we are not good friends. It feels way too intimate for that. I liked being Puglisi. It was more respectful than distant. It was nice.

This is all quite beside the point. I am in Ms. A's class now. Here is the point: we were analyzing the short story Rape Fantasies by Margaret Atwood. Our short story unit has been quite hurried, all things considered: we have a schedule, we go home, we read the story, we answer the questions, we come to class, we are divided into groups, we "discuss the questions" which really means all agree on the most respectable answer, Ms. A directs us to answer each question aloud, we start, she interrupts us to talk for a while, we gamely try again, she interjects some more, we finally give up and let her just talk, she asks us why we aren't talking, we sit silently, she is annoyed with us. We have read perhaps 20 short stories this way; each time she is progressively more annoyed. Each time I am progressively more bored.

Ms. A is not a horrible person, but I doubt that she will change this format just because it works poorly for us. I get the feeling that she is just pretending to care what we have to say. Not that I mind lecture; I do not. I do mind lecture that masquerades as discussion, however. Either tell me, or ask me--do not ask me in order to put your words in my mouth.

But again I digress. We are reading Rape Fantasies. This is a very odd short story, about just what it says. There is a narrator, named Estelle, who is talking (to someone, I suppose, but I will go into that later) conversationally about a bridge game with some girl friends of hers. One of them brought up the topic of rape fantasies, and then they take turns describing a few of theirs. Estelle's friends' fantasies are typical, romanticized, bodice-ripper-type stories.

Then Estelle describes hers--and hers are quite different. In hers, she is always set upon by the rapist in some unusual way, and then is able to get out of it rather cleverly, in almost comic ways. In one she asks him to hold her purse, which he does quite politely, and eventually she produces lemon juice which she squirts in his eyes. In another, they both have awful colds, she offers him a tissue, and they end up watching the Ed Sullivan show together instead. In another, his zipper gets stuck and she says, "Oh, honestly," and he begins to cry, and she tries to bolster his self-esteem and eventually gives him the number for her dermatologist so that he might clear up his acne. And so on, and so forth.

The end of the story is rather peculiar, and this is what I have come to class to discuss. At the end of the story, Estelle's already conversational tone becomes quite hurried and almost urgent. She reveals that she is in a restaurant, or perhaps a bar, getting a drink, alone. She knows the waiters, she says, so if anyone were bothering her...well. She explains that in reality, if she were approached by a rapist, the thing to do, she thinks, would be to get a conversation going, to share a bit of your thoughts and your life and your story. So that he knows it's a person, you know? Because she just doesn't see how anyone could go through with it once it's a person who you've had this whole conversation with. That, she just doesn't understand.

It struck me when reading this that she is very probably talking to a potential rapist, here, and the entire story is exactly that--an attempt at conversation, yet another of her quick-thinking scenarios to get out of the situation. I shall not bore you (more than I have already) with all the textual evidence, but this is what I would like to discuss.

In fact, I could not wait until class to discuss it; I pestered my friends with the idea beforehand, getting their opinions, asking them if they had seen it in that light. We had a bit of discussion, ourselves, but we are not sure sure that this isn't just something my brain has invented.

This is why I am slightly bored while Ms. A explains the gender-inequity of rape fantasies to us, as if we hadn't understood it. I confess readily that it is selfish and self-centered of me, to want to talk about my view of the book, what I saw in it, etc. etc. But Ms. A seems eager to share her view of it, and since no one else in the class bloody talks, I figure that I can say about whatever I like.

Except now she has reprimanded me and Kristin for talking while she is explaining how the title "Rape Fantasies" is oxymoronic (she cannot find that word, for ages; I understand what it is like to misplace a word, but honestly). I decide immediately that I will not share my question/observation today. It is petty of me, but I decide it. Although Ms. A doesn't like me, she does like it when I talk, because I am the only person who is able to talk on and on and on. (Not because I'm the most articulate or the most eloquent; I'm just the most tenacious and opinionated--it is difficult to keep on through all Ms. A's interruptions, to be frank. I refuse to accept her opinions as my own without at least letting mine be stated, first.) It is my little revenge, then, not to participate in the discussion at all, today.

They continue to "discuss." (Pardon the scare quotes. I think they are warranted.) It is a very awkward-pause-ful conversation, truly. Not even really a conversation. We have the discussion questions, and Ms. A asks them, and the assigned groups read what they wrote, and Ms. A asks a follow-up, usually...and no one says anything.

The reason no one ever says anything is because Ms. A is always looking for one answer, and we are nervous to give the wrong one. One answer. She often tells us this, when trying to formulate a question. "I know what I want you to answer, I just don't know how to phrase the question..." Ms. A would be good at Jeopardy, I think sometimes. I am not good at Jeopardy, or at giving the answers Ms. A would like. I don't know why. I used to be good at it, very good. Go figure.

This terrible lopsided discussion goes on, and I continue to stare at Ms. A silently. Childish, childish I am. I am paying attention, my stare says, see? Just like you wanted. Now tell me what to say.

We are perhaps ten minutes from the end of the period, now. Ms. A is asking another follow-up that no one will answer. "What is different about Estelle's rape fantasies?"

She is not asking my group. The group she is asking, is silent.

"What is different about them? Is her role different, is the outcome different, what?"

Nothing. Ms. A is getting a little exasperated. Louise looks at me like for God's sake just talk before she starts yelling at us.

"They are different," I say, and most people turn towards me. Ms. A looks over at me--we are at opposite sides of the room, her and I, but we have a clear line of sight and I make direct eye contact as I speak. "They are different because--well, her friends have normal rape fantasies. Rape fantasies are fairly common sexual fantasies, about ten percent of the female population has them, which are characterized by a chance sexual encounter with a man who they do not know, and by sexual submission. Of course, naturally, they are complete romanticizations of the concept of rape, but they are fairly common." I pause, and continue; my tone is very cool, and I do not mean that it is neat. "Estelle's fantasies, however, are completely different. Firstly, they aren't rape fantasies per se...there is actually no sexual component. Secondly, they are not fantasies of sexual submission--actually, by talking the man out of it, or otherwise gaining control of the situation, Estelle actually asserts a position of dominance. So she actually reverses the roles. Rape is an act of control and dominance, not sex--as the sort of naive fantasies of Estelle's friends would imply--and Estelle's fantasies turn around that paradigm."

The bell rings. We put the books back and sit down. She likes us to sit down so that she can hold us a minute or two before we go every day. I think it's a power thing; if it makes her feel a little more secure in her position in the classroom, fine. My physics class is pretty close anyway, I won't be late.

I duck out of that classroom as quickly as possible. "God," I seethe to my friends quietly, "I just wanted to show her that we understand this stuff; it's not our fault that we aren't speaking up, no one can get a word in edgewise."

We walk past my sophomore English classroom, the door of which we referred to as the portal to Hell because that class would literally destroy your soul.

"Are you sure A isn't worse than R?" Louise asks me, as if I have some special say in the rating of teachers. The R she refers to is the inhabitant of that special hellish classroom which sits right next to the hellish classroom we had just departed from.

"Getting closer," I say grimly. We hurry along to physics. It takes until lunchtime, though, to recover from Ms. A. It always does.


*ETA: On second thought, names have been omitted to protect the innocent and not-so innocent...the latter, of course, being myself.