Everything You Want Me to Be(37)

“This was my first production.” If she could tell how uncomfortable I was, she didn’t show it. If anything, her smile only grew wider.

“You’re a natural. It’s like you’ve been acting your whole life.”

She laughed at that and was twirled away by another student before she could torment me further.

Before I deleted my account at Pulse that night, I reread every message we’d sent each other. I’d saved them all and it was mortifying to realize what should have been obvious from the beginning. She was leaving for New York in less than a year. Of course, because she had to graduate high school first. I’d been so impressed about the books she’d read, but that was because I was assigning them to her. It would have been funny if it weren’t happening to me. After debating half the night over it, I decided to send her one last message. It was better to be absolutely clear about what had to happen. I agonized over the diction, wanting to tell her how much she’d meant to me, but I knew I couldn’t give her a single encouraging word.

Over the next week I could tell Hattie was trying to find a way to talk to me and I did everything possible to prevent it. As soon as the bell rang to dismiss Advanced English, I would shoot out the door and play hall monitor or find a reason to run to the main office. I became paranoid about being alone in the school and invented excuses to see Carl during my off-periods. I asked Mary out for a proper date that Friday, but the cardiologist had confirmed Elsa’s heart only had a year left at best and Mary was too depressed to want to do anything. When I asked her if she wanted to talk about it, she just shrugged and turned away.

A week later, Hattie cornered me in the middle of class. I had the students working in pairs and she left her partner talking in mid-sentence, strolled casually up to the front of the room, and leaned against the stack of essays I’d just collected.

“Do you want something, Hattie?” I didn’t look up from my computer, but somehow I could still sense the curve of her hip and the tilt of her head. I knew she was wearing the wide-necked blue top that was too loose and sometimes fell off her shoulder. Her fingers tapped a beat into the desk; she always had nervous fingers. She didn’t say anything for a minute and I felt her gaze, waiting for me to look at her. I refused.

“I had some questions about the essay.”

“Yes?” I kept typing.

“I wasn’t quite sure how you wanted it structured.”

She was lying and not even bothering to lie well. The essay was a simple comparison paper between the Jane Eyre book and the play. Hattie never had a question about homework and the tone of her voice was all wrong. It was too quiet, subdued. Finally I looked at her and tried to keep my face and voice impassive. She was close enough to smell, her eyes wide and serious. Her fingers fell still as our eyes met.

“I’m sure your essay’s fine.” The words were hard to get out.

“I was worried about the third paragraph in particular. I hope you’ll think it’s okay.”

God, why was she so young? Why was she my student? Why was I still compelled by this attraction when any worthwhile human being would have stopped thinking about her as anything but a felony?

“I’ll look at it. Go finish up with your partner.” I glanced at the clock, then turned back to the computer. “There’s only a few minutes left.”

That night after dinner I put the stack of essays in the middle of the kitchen table and dug in with a red pen. I muttered comments to myself about some of them and wrote with loud, scratchy handwriting, making sure Elsa and Mary could hear me, not that either of them cared. Since the cardiologist’s diagnosis, Mary had spent every possible minute with her mother and it seemed pointless to bring up the idea of going on a date again. It felt like I was the one fading out of this house.

When I got to Hattie’s paper I was tempted to stuff it in the bottom of the pile or, better yet, just mark it with an A and move on to the next, but the perverse Humbert Humbert in me couldn’t resist reading. It was a fairly standard analysis, nothing too in-depth. She thought the book did better with character backgrounds, although the play gave them living, breathing vitality. Her words, not mine. I flipped the first page over and skimmed ahead to the third paragraph.

. . . in the case of Mr. Rochester’s wife. Due to time constraints, the play couldn’t address her moral ambiguity or even her history. Peter, if you’re reading this, meet me at the old Erickson barn on the lake at 8:30. I have to talk to you. However, the play allows Mrs. Rochester to be a three-dimensional character . . .

I did a double take, read it twice more to be sure, and then looked at the clock. 8:39 p.m. My heart began pounding. I glanced through the door to the living room where Elsa and Mary were watching American Idol from their matching rockers, cheerfully critiquing the contestants like every other Thursday night. The paper suddenly felt like a billboard in my hand, even though neither of them even glanced in my direction. I folded it twice over and stared at the white square. Perspiration broke out on my armpits and back.

I didn’t think. I walked upstairs and changed into sweats, then came back down and pulled on my running shoes, all with that white square of paper burning through my palm.

“Where are you going?” Mary asked.

“I’ve got some heartburn from dinner. Going to try and jog it out.”

“This late? It’s already dark.”