We Run the Tides(43)

“Yes, you mentioned that,” he says.

I know I haven’t mentioned this to him, because I haven’t mentioned this to anyone, not even my parents. But now is not the time to correct him.

“Well, these boarding schools require a recommendation from my English teacher, and I was wondering . . .” I pause, hoping he won’t make me finish my sentence, but he doesn’t say anything, so I’m forced to complete it. “I was wondering if you would please do me the honor of writing a recommendation. I respect your time and know it’s a favor, but I would be very grateful.”

He stands and looks out the window, with his hands behind his back. This is the pose actors assume in movies when playing a president making an important decision about the future of their country. It is not an appropriate posture to take on when deliberating about whether to write a teacher rec for an unhappy student.

Finally, he turns back around. “I can do that for you, Eulabee. I can do that, but it will be a challenge for me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say.

“It will be a challenge because I don’t feel that you and I have respect for the same books. We have different taste in literature.”

“Isn’t that allowed?” I ask.

“Not in my class,” he says.

Now it’s my turn to take a deep breath. I think of Thatcher, a boarding school I’m applying to that gives each student their own horse. Do it for the horse, I tell myself.

“I’m sure we can agree on certain books,” I say.

“Like which ones?”

“You haven’t read the Milan Kundera book yet, have you?”

“No,” he says. “A student has borrowed my copy so I haven’t had a chance to.”

“I’ll bring it back,” I say.

My eyes scan his bookshelf, searching for a book he and I can discuss. I know better than to pick one by Jack London.

There it is, back on the shelf. Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson. “How about Kidnapped?” I say.

“A student just borrowed that without checking with me first,” he says. “It was missing and then returned.”

“It was kidnapped,” I say, hoping he might smile.

He doesn’t smile. “No, it was missing.”

I shrug in a way I hope is endearing.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have an . . . unusual sense of humor?” he asks.

“No,” I lie. “You’re the first.”

“Did you take the book?” Mr. London asks.

“No, I already read it a few months ago.”

“What did you think about it?”

“I think it’s very . . .” I stall, figuring out how to best finish my sentence. “I think it’s very pertinent to today.”

“How so?” Mr. London asks.

“Well, you were at the party Friday night.” I look away. I hope he didn’t see me at the end of the evening.

“Yes,” he says. “So?”

“Nothing,” I say. I am careening toward self-sabotage and can’t stop myself. He looks at me and I go over the waterfall. “Don’t you think that what Maria Fabiola said she experienced had strong echoes of the Stevenson book?”

“Let me think about that,” Mr. London says. And then he puts on his thinking face—his eyes go up toward the beige ceiling and he scratches his jaw.

Finally his eyes descend. He’s done thinking. “I’m not so sure I see the parallels,” he says.

“You don’t see the parallels?” Already I’m sure he will not write my recommendation.

“Well, she was kidnapped, but it wasn’t in the Scottish Highlands,” he says. “And the Robert Louis Stevenson book was published a hundred years ago.”

How this man is teaching literature is a miracle, a debacle.

“But the whole bit about the boat and almost dying and the island and escaping from the island?” I say. “And the kidnapper who convinced the others to be nicer to her?”

“Sometimes writers get at very deep, underlying currents that make them timely for generations,” he says. “I’m glad you’re seeing some of the more superficial themes.”

“Can I take a break for a second?” I ask. “Get some fresh air?”

“Sure,” Mr. London says.

I stand and walk outside his office. My forehead is sweating, my earlobes are hot. How is it that Mr. London can’t see that Maria Fabiola stole her story from Robert Louis Stevenson? Mr. London gave us a lecture about plagiarism a month ago. It was surprisingly cogent for him.

I find myself pacing outside the office, counting to 120. The fluttering of gossip is louder now—I hear it coming from down the hallway. Blood. Slut. Booze. Stupid hat.

I reenter Mr. London’s office. I remove the teacher reference forms from my backpack and go to place them in his in-box, to the right of his desk. What the hell, I think. On top of the in-box I see a familiar red envelope waiting to be opened. I didn’t think Julia was going to follow through on delivering the valentines. I want to snatch the red envelope but Mr. London is watching me.

“I know we don’t see eye to eye on everything,” I say. “But I am poor and have only my dreams. Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams.”