Savage Tales

found good seats. Everyone seemed to know everyone, the parents, and Eric's father was there but he kept his eyes on the game and said little. However, every time I looked his way, I noticed he moved. I looked in the opposite direction at one point, and asked my husband to see what he was doing. Jim said that Eric's father was watching me.
    I tried to forget about it. I watched the game.
    Eric's team didn't really gel. It was only their second game together, and there wasn't much sense of direction. They lost, 10-2.

    The next day in class I asked the students to write a story. Here is Eric's story:
    Once there's a girl who is a slave in China. She makes clothes for Americans. She is poor. Her family hits her and her father is always gone. She has a dog and likes to dance. One day she is walking and sees a magic man. The man says she can be free and rich if she does one thing. She does it and the man says she will be rich and free tomorrow. She goes to bed that night happy. She thinks in the morning she will be rich and free. Next morning she wakes up. Everything is the same. She cries and goes to work.
    At recess time I asked Eric to stay and speak with me a moment. When the other students had gone, I said, "Eric, I wanted to talk with you about your story. About the girl in China."
    "Oh yeah."
    "I just wanted to tell you – I love this. Seriously, it's hilarious. I love it."
    "Thank you, Mrs. Marz."
    "How did you ever come up with this story?"
    "I just wrote it."
    "Well, it's great. I think the class should adapt it into a film and put it on YouTube or something."
    "Well…"
    "It's okay, I know you're shy, Eric, and you don't need to make a decision now. We can film a few other stories from other students as well so you don't stand out, but yours is the one I want to film."
    "Well…"
    "Just think about it."
    "Okay. Mrs. Marz?"
    "Yes, Eric?"
    "I love you."
    I told Eric to go out to recess. After school I offered him a ride home. I knew he lived far away and would have to wait in the school library for his father to pick him up. I told him I would call his father and let him know that I had taken him home. He agreed.
    When I had cleaned up the classroom, Eric and I went to the staff parking lot.
    "Mrs. Marz?"
    "Yes?"
    "You have a crap car."
    "It's called a Ford Fiesta."
    "It doesn't look like a fiesta," said Eric.
    "Hop in."
    Eric lived in the worst part of town, where teenagers lingered on street corners in baggy jeans, bandanas on their heads.
    "It's that one," said Eric.
    I let him out. I went home.

    The next day after school I was surprised to see Eric's father waiting outside my classroom.
    "Mrs. Marz? May I call you Helen?"
    "I think you'd better call me Mrs. Marz."
    "Well, then I'm gonna ask you not to give my boy rides home. I think it crosses a line I don't want you crossing."
    I was going to give a snotty retort but remembered that he had every right to ask me what he did, and that I was technically crossing a line. He was the one who managed that line.
    "Of course. I'm sorry. I meant no harm. Was there anything else you wished to discuss?"
    "That's all."
    "Good day."
    "Well, there is one other thing."
    "What?"
    "Would you mind discussing some things with me about my boy over coffee?"
    "Okay, sure. I care about my students."
    We went to a local hole.
    "I actually don't want to discuss Eric," he said. "He talks about you enough as it is."
    "Then why are we here?"
    "I just wanted to talk to you. You're very pretty."
    I got up to leave.
    "Wait," he said.
    "What?"
    "I'm sorry."
    "Goodbye," I said.
    He remained sitting and I left. I didn't tell my husband about it. I didn't tell anyone.
    The next day in class Eric was gone. I marked him absent, and at lunch I checked with attendance and they said they hadn't received a phone call. I called Eric's house and his father's work. There was no answer at his home, and at work they said he had failed to come in today.
    I never saw Eric or his father again.

BELIEVERS

    Uncle Freddie
    I can't believe I was afraid of sex with animals. Most animals are so small anyway, and since their "voices" don't sound anything like words, you can appropriate the noises into any kind of meaning you desire. That clucking of the rooster could be moans of joy. That squealing pig could be delight that he is alive and not sizzling in some farmer's wife's frying pan, but instead experiencing tantric bliss with your proboscis stuffed inside him. And most animals aren't so tough. They like