Текст книги "After Tonight "

Автор книги: Annie Kelly

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Without a word, Smith lowers himself next to me and begins grabbing all of the papers within reach. Neither of us speaks as the rest of the class starts chatting and giggling. Someone in the back coughs, “Teacher’s bitch,” and the rest of the students around him burst into raucous laughter. Smith ignores them. Instead, when our eyes meet, he gives me a wink, then gets up and saunters toward the back of the room, proceeding to sit at an empty desk next to J. D. It doesn’t slip my notice that every single girl in the room literally watches him as he goes. Once he’s seated, a few of them start whispering to one another, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, his eyes are trained on me.

I swallow hard, then clear my throat.

“Right. Where was I?” I glance up at the projector screen. “Oh—the Globe Theatre.”

And, with a confidence that I had no idea I was capable of, I begin my lecture, trying to forget everything that’s happened—the girls fighting, Mr. Weathersby’s obvious disappointment, and the fact that Smith Asher just walked through my door.

I just wish I could forget that he’s watching me now.

And I wish I could forget that I like it.

***

Through some act of divine Shakespearean intervention, I actually manage to get the class to read the first few scenes of act one today. No one seemed all that thrilled about taking parts, but when I offered extra credit, there weren’t nearly enough roles to go around. Now, though, it seems like some of the students actually enjoy reading aloud, even a few of the boys whom I was sure would give me a hard time about it.

“Great job!” I grin at Trevor West as he finishes up reading the last page of scene four. “Laertes has a ton of lines, but you rocked it.”

He shrugs, but I see a little smile buried in his seemingly indifferent expression. I suppose it isn’t cool to show that you like it when your teacher compliments you.

“So,” I say, walking back toward the projector, “Laertes is giving Ophelia a lot of warnings about Hamlet. Sure, she may be his little sister, but some of them seem a little overdone.”

I gesture to the book.

“Look at lines twenty-five to forty. Do you see any advice that might be crossing the line? Might be a little weird coming from an older brother?”

I suppose bringing up the sexual stuff in Hamlet might not be the most advisable thing, considering my current predicament, but it’s the stuff that grabs the audience. And considering my audience is a room full of teenagers, I think the more risqué stuff will pique their interest.

I just need to make sure not to look at Smith when I lecture about it.

“Anyone?”

I look around. A few students are squinting down at the text like they’re trying to figure it out, but most of them are either staring at the ceiling or closing their eyes. We’ve got a little less than ten minutes left in class, but they’re already mentally checking out on me.

“Come on, guys.” I look down at my open book, then read, “‘If with too credent ear you list his songs, or lose your heart, or your chaste treasure open to his unmastered importunity.’ Think about it—chaste treasure. It’s a euphemism. A reference. What’s it referring to?”

Gina Hardy raises a tentative hand.

“Her—uh—lady parts?”

There are about half a dozen snorts, and a few of the girls in the back start tittering and giggling. I smile at her, nodding. “Gina’s actually on the right track. Basically, Laertes is warning Ophelia to keep her virginity. Her virtue. Although he’s certainly not a saint himself.”

I smile warmly at Gina—a genuine, non-teacher smile—then turn the page back to the beginning of the scene.

“How about this—this is line thirteen to fifteen: ‘Perhaps he loves you now, and now no soil nor cautel doth besmirch the virtue of his will, but you must fear.’”

I look up again.

“What is Laertes saying here—specifically about Hamlet?”

This time, I’m met with blank stares, along with the bored ones. After ten seconds or so of silence, I realize that this is one of those dreaded awkward moments where I’m going to have to either tell them the answer or just sit here and wait it out.

I hate silence. It’s super uncomfortable. I’m super uncomfortable.

Finally, I break. It’s just too weird to sit there with twenty-five pairs of eyes staring at me.

“Alright, then,” I say, pushing off the desk and walking back toward the chalkboard “for homework this weekend, I want you to—”

“He’s saying Hamlet just wants to get laid.” I freeze, then pivot on one foot to look in the direction of the voice. Smith’s infuriating smile is impossible to ignore.

“Laertes is telling her that Hamlet just wants a piece of ass,” he continues. “That he wants to tap that.”

I blink at him. “Is there maybe a more appropriate way you can say that?” I ask, trying not to grit my teeth.

Smith shrugs. “That he wants an easy fuck?”

For a second, the room almost vibrates with shock—then the whoops and laughter bust through the silence.

“Yeah, man—that’s what I’m talking about,” J. D. guffaws, apparently waking up just in time to give Smith a congratulatory fist bump. “The easier the girl, the better the lay.”

“You know it,” someone else calls out from the back row.

I try holding up both hands for quiet. Like that has ever worked in high school before. Everyone is talking at once, and they’re so loud that they almost drown out the bell. When it rings, the majority of the class hop out of their seats and start heading for the door.

“Where do you all think you’re going? I haven’t dismissed you,” I yell out over the scraping of chairs and the rustling of bodies. A few of the students stop to look at me, but most of them ignore me and head for the door. Smith walks across the back of the room and I glare at him.

“Mr. Asher—could I speak to you for a minute?”

He takes his time walking up toward my desk. As he gets closer, I move around to my chair and put both hands on the back, effectively putting two pieces of furniture between us.

“Was that necessary?” I finally ask him once the room is empty.

“Was what necessary?”

I narrow my eyes.

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Smith shrugs, then buries both hands in his pockets. I realize then that he doesn’t have a notebook or even a pen.

“Look—no one was saying anything,” he says. “I was just being honest. That’s what Laertes was saying. I could have said he wanted to bust a nut, too. I figured you’d appreciate the participation.”

“Really?” I glare at him. “You thought I’d appreciate that?”

He doesn’t respond, just rocks back on his heels. I consider throwing my stapler at him, but manage to hold back.

“Look,” I say slowly. “If you don’t have something appropriate to say, in my classroom, then don’t say it.”

Almost immediately, his annoying grin is back. “Well, I suppose you won’t hear me talking all that often, then.”

“Well, somehow I think I’ll live with that.” I reach into my desk drawer and pull out a stack of detention slips. I scrawl Smith’s name at the top of one.

“You’ll serve detention with me for the rest of the week.”

When I look back up, though, Smith is still standing in front of me, arms crossed and head cocked to one side.

“Is that all?” he asks.

I narrow my eyes, then scribble down the dates below his name on the form.

“No—today and all of next week, too.”

He leans forward then, putting both hands on the desk and bringing his face closer to mine.

“If you think this is going to change anything, you’re wrong. Assigning me detention isn’t going to make anyone listen to you. Or respect you.”

“Please. I don’t need you telling me how to do my job.”

He shrugs. “Okay, I’m just saying—don’t think that this assertion of authority is going to solve any of your problems.”

Without another word, he turns and walks toward the door. Just as he opens it, I see J. D. Fenton standing on the other side. He grins at Smith, then grabs his arm and pulls him into a one-sided chest bump/hug hybrid.

“Yo, man—what is up? I thought you said you was transferrin’ !”

“Yeah, just got in.” Smith shoves his hands in his pockets. “Should be here for the rest of the year, assuming I don’t piss off the wrong person or set anything else on fire.”

J. D. guffaws at Smith’s joke. Is it a joke? God, I hope it’s a joke . . .

“Fuck, I can’t believe you’re actually here. We’re gonna tear this shit up.” J. D. leans into him. “Man, the pussy up in here is like, off the fucking—”

Yeah, that’s quite enough of that. Noisily, I slide my chair back and half stomp toward the door. I cock a brow at both guys before grabbing the doorknob.

“Speaking of pussy.”

J. D. raises a challenging brow. I’m not going to bite. Instead, I narrow my eyes, first at J. D., then at Smith, then proceed to slam the door. Well, close it really loudly anyway. Class is in session around me. Slamming sure as shit would’ve been a lot more cathartic.

Once I’ve sat back at my desk, I exhale the breath I’d apparently been holding, then grab a stack of worksheets from one of the afternoon classes. I attempt to start grading, but the words don’t make sense.

All I can see is Smith’s face. His smile.

Dammit. I can’t let this man undo me like this. It’s like I’m giving him opportunities to mess with me.

Which is when I realize exactly what a week of detention means: me and Smith, alone in a room for thirty minutes at a time. For five days straight, not counting today.

I drop my head in my hands.

The hits just keep on coming and, apparently, I’m the one throwing some of the punches at myself. You’d think I’d learn to duck, at least.

Chapter Seven

Punishments

“So, what’s this total tragic emergency you’re complaining about?” Carson asks, flopping down on the couch next to me.

I sigh, tucking my legs up underneath me. The sweatpants and T-shirt I’m rocking aren’t doing my appearance any favors, but when I got home, I just had to change out of my school clothes. I felt like I needed to leave everything “teacher-related” in a pile on my closet floor.

“So, do you remember the guy I met at Cave?”

Carson raises an eyebrow. “Um, duh. Of course I remember him. I saw him carry your drunk ass through a club and out to my Jeep, then up three flights of stairs. Hell, the dude practically tucked you in and kissed you good night. It was pretty fucking hot, actually. You play a great ‘damsel in distress.’”

I snort. “Yeah, I’ll have to remember that for next time I make a total idiot of myself.”

She reaches for the bag of chips on the coffee table and digs inside. “So, what about him? Did you see him again or something?”

I close my eyes and let my head drop back against the couch.

“He’s in my class.”

Carson doesn’t say anything. When I open my eyes and look over at her, she’s playing with the remote.

“Did you hear what I said?” I ask impatiently.

She glances at me, then shrugs. “Huh? Oh, yeah—you’re taking the same class. Dude, so what? I mean, there are a lot of graduate students in Baltimore, Cyn. It’s a coincidence, but it’s not unheard of.”

“No.” I shake my head and take a deep, measured breath. “He’s in the class I’m teaching.”

I think it takes her a second to get it. When it hits, though, the horror on her face is unmistakable.

“Wait. The sexy guy from the bar is in high school? How the fuck is that even possible?”

“He’s only twenty. He never got his diploma and he’s finishing up his last few credits.”

“But—I mean, he’s at the Juvie Junkyard, Cyn . . .”

I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. “I know.”

Carson seems speechless, which is pretty amazing. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen that happen before.

“Well,” she finally says once she’s regained her ability to talk, “that . . . sort of sucks—but I don’t think it’s as bad as you think it is.”

I stare at her.

“How is it not as bad as I think it is? Oh, let me guess”—I snort—“it’s worse.”

She frowns. “No. I mean, look at the facts. He’s twenty, not seventeen. He’s in a class you’re teaching, but you’re still a student teacher. You aren’t employed by the school.”

“And your point is?”

She raises her eyebrows. “My point is that no one’s breaking any laws here. I know that’s what you’re thinking—the whole ‘teacher sleeping with her student’ scenario.”

“I didn’t sleep with him,” I mutter.

“So, it’s even less of an issue.” She stops and cocks an eyebrow. “Unless you’re telling me you want to sleep with him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Hyacinth.” Carson’s eyes are narrowed into her practically X-ray, “I can see right through your bullshit” vision. I palm the back of my neck, feeling uncomfortable.

“Okay, there’s an attraction,” I admit. “And that’s why this whole thing is a problem. I don’t want to leave my position—hell, Smith practically dared me to stay. But I don’t know how I’m supposed to go there five days a week and see him for an hour a day and not just . . .”

“Tear his clothes off?”

“Something like that.” I shake my head. “And not just act on . . . whatever this is.”

“Chemistry.” Carson nods knowingly. “It’s hard when you’ve got it with someone you shouldn’t.”

I throw up my hands.

“So, what do I do? Do I tell my principal that I need him transferred out of my class? Because then I’ll have to explain why. Or do I attempt to suck it up for an entire semester and hope to God no one finds out about one random night at one random bar that just so happened to involve a not-so-random guy?”

Carson hops up from the couch and rummages through her purse, then comes back with a bag of Milano cookies.

“I was saving these for an emergency,” she says. “I think this qualifies.”

“See! It is an emergency.” I sigh. “I really don’t know what to do.”

She sits back down next to me and grabs my shoulders, turning my body toward her.

“Listen to me,” she says. “You are the strongest person I’ve ever met and you’ve been through more shit in the last few years than anyone I know. Your dad’s accident, Brent leaving you . . .”

“Those two things have nothing to do with each other,” I grumble, crossing my arms. Carson gives an exasperated sigh.

“Look, your dad is thriving. You know that. You’ve seen it—hell, I’ve seen it and I’ve only been to Holly Fields once. I know that it’s hard that he doesn’t need you, but you don’t always have to be needed.”

That gets my back up a little. “I don’t need to be needed,” I argue. “I just . . . like to be useful.”

Carson shakes her head. “Yeah, but not when it is at your own expense. Think about the way Brent treated you—you stayed in all the time, waiting for him to get home from class or the hospital. You looked at graduate schools near the medical schools he’d applied to. We all saw the bridal magazines, Cyn.”

I swallow, then look down at my hands. Those weren’t meant to be public knowledge, but Brent had found them one night when Carson and Rainey were over, and effectively humiliated me by making it abundantly clear that we weren’t getting married. Not just “now” or “anytime soon,” but at all. Apparently, he didn’t believe in marriage, which was news to me.

“Look, Brent was a dick. We all knew it and now you know it, too. But you managed to get through a breakup of epic proportions, move your dad into assisted living, and still keep a 3.8 GPA on top of all of it. You are the definition of a fighter. You can’t bail out now. If you don’t get another position, it could change your graduation date and your whole future. It’s not worth it to risk that, right?”

I consider her words, then shake my head. “No, you’re right. It’s not worth it.”

“Exactly.” She crosses her arms resolutely. “So, here’s what we’re going to do . . .”

Carson isn’t one for harebrained schemes—that’s more Rainey’s domain. But, since she’s gone home to Virginia for a few days, it’s just the two of us coming up with a way for me to keep my position and my sanity. All weekend, we map out my course of action, writing and rewriting different approaches for different situations involving me, Smith Asher, and my unfortunately illogical libido.

“He said he wasn’t going to tell anyone about the bar, right?” she asks as she scribbles some notes in a spiral.

I nod. “Right.” She bites her lip and jots down a few more lines. “So, in reality, this is something both of you are technically going to ignore.”

“Technically, yes.”

“That is what your mind wants to do. But, of course, your body seems to want something else—namely, his body on top of yours.”

“I never said that.”

Carson snorts. “Didn’t have to. I’ve never seen you this hot and bothered before. This guy’s got your number for sure.”

She glances down at her notebook, then back up at me.

“So, what I think you should do,” she continues, “is have a contingency plan. Something to throw him off if he hits on you or propositions you.”

I frown. “Couldn’t I just report him?”

She eyes me. “I mean—you could . . . but it’s sort of bullshit.”

“Why?” I frown. She cocks an eyebrow.

“Because he didn’t report you, Cyn.”

I sigh. “Yeah. I guess you’re right. Fine, what do you have in mind?” Carson shoves a hand back through her short hair, and it spikes up in all directions.

“Let’s role-play. You’re Smith and I’m you. Say something sexy to me.”

I blink at her. “Like what?”

“I don’t know—something that gets your panties wet.”

“Carson!”

She groans. “Come on—you know what I mean. Something that is clearly an attempt to catch your interest. Sexually speaking.”

I took a deep breath then closed my eyes.

“Um . . . how about, ‘Damn, you look hot today.’”

“Seriously?”

My eyes fly open and Carson is shaking her head again. “What!?”

“You can do better than that.”

I cross my arms. “Fine—what about, ‘Hey, sexy—let’s go take a ride in my truck and I’ll give you a night you’ll never forget.’”

Carson’s eyes widen, then she collapses into giggles. I can feel my face reddening as I jump to my feet.

“Forget it, I’ll figure this out on my own.”

“No—no.” She grabs the hem of my shirt. “No, I’m sorry. It just sounded funny when you said it. Say it again.”

“Absolutely not.”

“No, come on, Cyn. I’m sorry. I’m an ass—say it again. I promise I won’t laugh.”

I glance at the clock, then back at Carson. Then I sigh.

“Hey, sexy,” I sort of grumble. “Let’s go take a ride in my truck and I’ll give you a night you’ll never forget.”

Carson stands up and gets right up in my face. She pokes a finger into my shoulder, hard.

“Ow!”

“Listen to me, Smith Asher,” she says, her eyes narrowed into slits, “you and I had nothing but one night that’s ancient history. Forget it ever happened and, if you can’t do that, transfer to another class.”

I step back, blinking. “That’s pretty good.”

Except that night wasn’t ancient history.

I keep reliving it in my memory.

I mean, it wasn’t just the physical attraction, which was clearly potent—it was also the little moments where he was . . . well, sweet. Where we joked and laughed. There were times I could imagine enjoying his company in a million places other than in bed. And I can’t help but think about that. Again and again and again.

“I wonder if I can talk to him about transferring classes anyway,” I muse. I hadn’t considered that before.

“You could do that.” Carson nods. “Is there a class for him to switch to?”

I shrug. “There are a few morning sections of senior English besides mine. I don’t think it would be too big of a deal.”

“Well, then do that first,” she says, closing her spiral. “And if that doesn’t work, take the high road. Act like he doesn’t affect you at all. And, for God’s sake, don’t be alone with him.”

“Right.”

Don’t be alone with him.

Except tomorrow, and every day next week, for detention.

***

In the end, I decide to have Smith come after school as scheduled. Once he’s there, I’ll ask him to switch classes—and then I’ll go on with my position and he’ll get his diploma and everything will be perfect.

Case closed.

But, all the confidence I’d mustered, the bravado I’d felt coursing through me, disappears when Smith walks through my door after school for detention. He’s changed his clothes since this morning—now, he’s wearing a Wizards jersey over a white T-shirt and mesh shorts, and he looks freshly showered. He also looks absolutely scrumptious.

Dammit.

“Miss Hendricks,” he drawls, his gaze locking on mine. “I’m here for detention.”

I give him a sharp nod, then motion to a desk at the back of the room.

“You can sit there and work on whatever you have with you.”

He sort of smirks. “I don’t have anything with me.”

“Grab a book, then.” I gesture to a shelf with a few dozen copies of Hamlet and a handful of other books.

“Not much of a punishment,” he quips, but he heads to the back of the room and grabs a copy of The Catcher in the Rye. Once he’s seated, I force myself to look down at my desk at the writing diagnostics I’m reading.

I just need to make it a half hour. Thirty minutes without talking.

I only make it two.

“I think you should transfer classes,” I blurt out.

I can’t look at him as I say it, but, once it’s out there, I steel myself and glance up. He’s leaning forward now, both elbows on his desk and the book open between them. My gaze locks in on his arms, and I want to close my eyes and savor the memory of how they felt wrapped around me. But, unlike the night we met, his shoulders are tense and I watch his throat working as he swallows. Slowly, he closes the book in front of him and stands.

I feel my heart begin to pound and I want to smack myself. Why did I have to say something now? I should have waited until we were on our way out or something—then I wouldn’t be stuck in this room with him, alone, making excuses for myself.

“Why do you think I should transfer classes?” he finally asks as he gets closer.

His voice is deep and low, and I just stare at him as he grabs a chair and drags it up in front of me. He flips it around backward, straddles it, and sits down. Now, our eyes are at the same level, and a half smile tugs at the left side of his mouth.

“Because,” I say, frustrated. “I just feel like it would be better if you weren’t in this class.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean ‘why’?” I practically growl.

“Why does it matter if I’m in your class or not?”

I clench my jaw and take a long, slow breath. When I let it out, I splay my hands wide on the table, palms up. Maybe appealing to his sense of morality might work.

“I just don’t think it’s right that I be responsible for your record here. I don’t want to give you any special treatment or anything. It wouldn’t be fair.”

Smith’s smile kicks up into a wide grin.

“Are you saying you want to give me special treatment?”

I groan, shaking my head. “Listen, I’m just trying to make this easier for both of us.”

He crosses his arms and leans back in his chair.

“Wow,” he says, shaking his head.

“Wow what?”

“I just didn’t expect you’d be a quitter.”

I blink at him.

“I’m not a quitter. In fact, I’m the opposite—I’m saying you should switch out of the class and move to one where you’re . . .” I trail off, faltering. Smith’s got both brows raised high on his forehead now.

“Better suited,” I finish lamely.

He gives an incredulous snort. “That’s a cop-out.”

“It is nothing of the kind,” I sniff. “I’m attempting to accommodate us both in the best possible way.”

Smith leans toward me again and I meet his gaze with an annoyed glare.

“No, you’re not. You’re trying to escape.”

I scoff at him. “I’m not trying to escape anything.”

“Bullshit.”

I narrow my eyes.

“You. Can’t. Cuss. At. A. Teacher,” I say in evenly measured tones.

His gaze flashes with something like irritation. “Do you think you’re going to like all of your students all the time? Sometimes you’ll have to teach someone who you can’t stand. Other times you’ll have the kind of students that every teacher dreams of. You can’t discriminate.”

“Please.” I cross my arms, too. “I don’t need a lecture from you.”

“Maybe not—but you’re getting one. You think I’ve liked all my teachers? You think students want to deal with the same shit over and over again from the same middle-class, college-educated, out-of-touch women—because, let’s face it, it’s mostly women in your shoes.”

I swallow hard, clenching my fists over and over again. I try to calm my expression and I’m 99.9 percent sure I’m utterly failing at that task.

“Look,” Smith says, “I’m not transferring. I like your class. I like you. If I have to sit through an English class, I want it to be yours.”

His voice is low. More like the voice I heard in my ear at Cave when he was removing my shirt and getting his hands all over my body. Before I can stop him, he reaches out and tilts my face up. I meet his deep blue gaze, which now is filled with concern. It takes me a second too long to push his hand away.

“Don’t do that,” I mumble, grabbing a stack of papers and pointlessly shuffling them. “Just go. Consider your detention served.”

He doesn’t move. Instead, he sits there, stock-still, watching me.

“Just go,” I repeat quietly.

I turn away from him and face the computer. After a minute of my pretending to ignore him, Smith finally stands up. I feel a simultaneous jolt of relief and disappointment. It’s like everything inside of me is in a constant state of disagreement lately.

Slowly, he comes around the side of my desk and squats, forcing me to look at him

“Believe it or not, I’m not trying to make your life hard,” he says, his tone measured. ”But making me disappear from your class isn’t going to solve all your problems. You need to face them instead.”

He’s annoyed, but so am I, and the tension between us feels like it could snap at any second. I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything—instead, I wait for him to stand up and walk away. When the door clicks shut, the first of my tears manages to escape, making a run for it down my cheek and landing on the keyboard below.

***

I take a few minutes to pull myself together.

Okay. I try to pull myself together. I use all the usual tricks. I inhale slowly through my nose. I exhale slowly out my mouth. I pace slowly around the room. Then I not so slowly walk straight to the main office.

All I know is this: I need to do something. My brain isn’t really clear, so I don’t know exactly what that something is. I decide to take a walk through the building. Maybe the chance to move around will let me think things through.

But once I’m wandering through the deserted hallways, I don’t feel any closer to a solution. A big part of me wants to book it straight to my principal and tell him the truth—tell him who Smith is in relation to me and that he needs to be transferred. But a bigger part of me is fighting that entire notion. I mean, sure—yes. We hooked up at a bar when I didn’t know he was a student. But why should that back me into this corner? Why should it make me feel so incredibly terrified and ready to run?

Not to mention the incident earlier this week when Mr. Weathersby basically reprimanded me in front of my entire class. Christ, the last thing I need to do is make myself look anything less than capable in front of my boss. I look down the hallway and see Caroline’s classroom door open and decide to pay her a visit. If nothing else, maybe I can glean some insight from an older, more experienced teacher who, I’m sure, has dealt with her share of fuckups.

Caroline is one of those career teachers who has sort of settled into the role with a comfort that’s enviable. Her classroom looks cozy and friendly. When I walk through the door, she has a handful of students sitting in the back of the room, working on yearbook layouts. I’d forgotten she’s the publications advisor, too.

“Hyacinth.” Her eyes crinkle with her smile and she stands up to greet me. “How is everything?”

“Good,” I say, nodding. When I get closer, she reaches out to squeeze my arm.

“I’ve been meaning to drop you an e-mail. That incident in your classroom the other day was unfortunate. I hope Mr. Weathersby wasn’t too hard on you.”

I shake my head.

“No, it’s fine—although, that’s actually part of the reason I’m here.”

“Oh, really?” She walks back around her desk and sits in a well-padded chair. “How can I help you?”

My eyes flick to the students in the back, then I step a little closer.

“I find my first-period class quite . . . challenging,” I say quietly. “I remember you saying you have planning at that time, and I was wondering if you could come observe the class for me. See if there’s anything I could do better. Or differently.”

“Of course. Which day where you thinking?”

I clear my throat, then clench my hands together in front of me.

“Um—every day, actually.”

Caroline leans back and her chair makes a loud squeak. Her smile is sort of placating and I feel a pit of dread in my stomach. I can see her no before she even says it.

“I think,” she begins, pushing her glasses back into her auburn curls, “that you need to let yourself feel confident in your abilities, Hyacinth. I was in your classroom that first two weeks, remember? And you did just fine.”

I swallow. “But, after Friday—”

She shakes her head. “Friday was unfortunate, but it isn’t typical—even here, where we have so many students in negative situations outside of the classroom.”

She stands then and motions for me to come closer.

“The kids back there,” she whispers, gesturing to the students in the back of her room, “they all have had challenges that you and I can’t possibly understand. At least half of them have a relative in jail. A third of them don’t know their fathers. One of them was picked up for solicitation last year.”

I feel a surge of nausea. “That’s terrible.”

She nods. “It is. So, when the students are hard on you—when they make you ‘pay your dues,’ so to speak, they’re really trying to avoid bonding with someone who will inevitably leave them. So many of them don’t know how to form healthy relationships.”

“I just—I just want to make sure I’m doing this right.”

Caroline smiles at me, then pats my shoulder. “Honey, teaching is always trial and error. Some lessons work, some completely bomb. Some classes are wonderfully behaved and some are duds. You just need to understand that you are the only constant in that classroom—maintain your authority, but show that you care.”

Easier said than done, I want to say. But I just nod.

“Right. Okay.”

“I’ll try to come by one day next week,” she says, “I have a handful of students doing SAT prep in my classroom three days a week, and I’m using a lot of my planning time to help pull the yearbook together, so it’ll be a little dicey.”