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26 JOANNA RUOCCO I dip the hem of my dress in the pitcher of milk. I clean the skin on my face. I pick between my teeth. I pick beneath my nails. I am pretty and clean. I squeeze gray milk from the hem of my dress. I straighten my dress. I am pretty and clean for the lesson. Spot notices that I am clean. He stands on his feet, his big feet. He totters. He walks toward me. He lifts his shirt. It hurts, says Spot. He puts my hand on the lump. He whimpers. He moves my hand back and forth on the lump. He comes closer. He is very tall, very thick and tall. On his feet, he looks grown. He bends his neck and rests his brow on the top of my head. He breathes on my face, my pretty, clean face. Spot is tall. He is grown, but I can tell that he is hardly a man. His breath is wet. His breath smells spoiled, sweet and spoiled. Around the hard lump, his belly is soft. The buttons on my dress sink into his belly. Black buttons disappear in his belly. Sometimes there are currants in cakes, black currants sunk in the cake. 12 27 ANOTHER GOVERNESS There is a lesson about black currant cake. Two girls ate a black currant cake. They spread cloth napkins on their dresses. They put their hats on the grasses. They lifted the wedges of cake with their hands. They were great big girls. They flattened the grasses. Their teeth turned black. They laughed. They picked each other’s teeth. They licked each other’s teeth so the teeth were white and clean. They spread cream on the cake. They put their blackened fingers in cream. There are lessons in the nursery. There is so much to learn. I work my fingers between Spot’s belly and the buttons. My fingers get wet. They slide on Spot’s skin. I bend my fingers so my nails dig in Spot’s skin. Spot does not act like a man. He whines. The fluid from his lips drops on my face. Go to your desk, I say. I poke with my fingers. I jerk with my head so Spot’s brow slips and his face comes down fast. He takes a big step so he does not fall. He lifts his head. His chin is wet and he does not shut his mouth. He does not smile. Go to your desk, I say. In the corner of the room, there are two desks. Each desk has its bottle of fluid. Each desk has its pile of books. I walk to the desks. Tamworth is crouching beneath a desk. She puts her hands on her knees and looks between her legs. She makes her mess beneath the desk. Her legs shake. She looks at me. ...

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