Demon's Door by Graham Masterton Page B

enormous breasts and her protuberant stomach, and underneath she was wearing tight white leggings and yellow vinyl Crocs.
    Jim stood up and went across to Patsy-Jean’s desk. She was reading the Michael McClure text with intense concentration, moving her lips as she did so, and she didn’t realize for nearly half a minute that Jim was standing next to her.
    â€˜Patsy-Jean?’ said Jim, very gently.
    She looked up at him, and blinked, her mouth turned downward as if she had done something wrong without knowing what it was.
    â€˜I just read what you wanted for your last meal,’ he told her.
    She swallowed hard, and her double chins wobbled. ‘Did I spell it wrong?’ she asked him in a hoarse voice. ‘I can never spell it right.’
    â€˜Yes, you spelled it wrong,’ Jim told her, with a smile. ‘But don’t worry about it. By the time I’m through with you, you’ll be spelling “radicchio” with your eyes closed.’
    Patsy-Jean tried to smile, but it was obvious that she still felt anxious. Jim said, ‘It really wasn’t much of a meal, was it? Lettuce. Didn’t you even want some tomatoes with it? Maybe a couple of scallions, or half an egg?’
    Patsy-Jean’s cheeks flushed red. ‘I want God to know that I’d repented.’
    â€˜And lettuce ? That’s your penance?’
    She nodded. ‘I’ve been eating too much all of my life and it’s a sin. I didn’t put on the freshman fifteen when I started college. I put on about fifty.’
    â€˜What are you talking about? Eating too much isn’t a sin, it’s a disorder. At the very worst, it’s a lack of self-discipline. People do far worse things in this world than eat too many chocolate fudge sundaes. People kill people, and actually get medals for it.’
    Jim hunkered down beside her and said, ‘Listen, Patsy-Jean, one of the things I always do with Special Class Two is have each student stand up and explain what they want to change about themselves, and why. I’m not trying to play psychiatrist, or social worker. I’m trying to teach you how to express how you feel to other people. Once you’ve done that – once you can clearly describe to your classmates who you are and why you eat too much – I believe that you won’t be asking for lettuce for your last meal. Maybe a diet burger without the bun, and a jacket potato instead of fries, but that’s not too much of a penance, is it?’
    Patsy-Jean’s slitty little eyes suddenly filled up with tears. Jim took hold of her hand and squeezed it. ‘I’m on your side, Patsy-Jean. We’re all on your side. You wait. Tomorrow you’ll get roses, I promise you.’
    Halfway through the lesson, Maria put up her hand, and said, ‘Sir?’
    Jim looked up from the notes he was jotting about Judii Rogers’ Death Row supper (a KFC family bucket, all for herself, with family-size fries, but with Moët champagne instead of Coke, and an Oreo cookie ice-cream pie to finish). ‘Maria?’ he asked her.
    â€˜Can I leave the room, sir?’
    Jim frowned at her. All the color had drained out of her face, so that the two spots of rouge on her cheeks looked almost like clown make-up, and her eyes were glassy black.
    â€˜Are you OK there, Maria? You’re looking a little peaky , if you don’t mind me saying so.’
    â€˜I’m OK,’ she nodded. ‘I just need to leave the room, that’s all.’
    â€˜Sure you can. Do you want one of the other girls to go with you?’
    â€˜No, thank you, sir. I’ll be fine.’
    Maria stood up and tottered unsteadily out of the classroom, taking her gold vinyl bag with her. She had to pull at the door twice before she managed to close it. Jim checked his watch. Ten after three. He frequently had trouble with his students taking drugs – anything from their mothers’ tranquilizers