me now
, he’d said.
Slowly, slowly, her arms crept around him and clung.
Seven
T AKE A CHANCE
, Matt had invited in his deep, husky voice.
Take a leap
.
And just for a moment, Allison’s heart had wanted to tumble right off a cliff. Except she no longer jumped from one thing, one man, one enthusiasm, to another.
She was an English teacher now. Literature was full of cautionary tales about women who took foolish chances and crashed. Look at sweet, suicidal Juliet. Or poor, crazy Miss Havisham. Or…
“Hester Prynne,” Allison said to her fourth period class, “is publicly shamed and socially ostracized because she sleeps with the wrong guy and gets pregnant. Could that happen in today’s society?”
She sat back, delighted, as her sixteen-year-olds waded in on both sides of the argument, jumbling together references to Puritan Massachusetts and
16 and Pregnant
. What was the difference, really, between a slut and a reality star? What were Dimmesdale’s responsibilities as a Baby Daddy?Did having children out of wedlock still pose a threat to the social order? Occasionally Allison interjected a question to encourage an insight or lead them back gently to the text. This was her favorite part of teaching, when the stories she loved and the students she cared about came alive.
Most of the students, anyway.
Her gaze flickered to the back of the classroom where Joshua Fletcher sprawled at his desk, arms across his chest, legs in the aisle. If he cared at all about the discussion crackling around the room, he certainly didn’t show it.
Allison suppressed a sigh. She had to remain impartial in the classroom. But she was disappointed by her failure to reach Josh. She would have been disappointed by her failure to reach any student.
The period bell shattered the discussion. Even a debate about sex couldn’t compete with lunch. The room erupted with scraping chairs and slamming books.
Allison raised her voice over the noise. “Don’t forget! Five hundred words on one character’s social and sexual identities. Due Monday,” she called to a chorus of groans.
“Bye, Miss Carter.”
“See ya, Miss Carter.”
“Have a nice weekend.”
“Miss Carter.” Thalia Hamilton stopped by her desk, eyes sharp behind her thick black frames. “Are you going to be in the computer lab after school? I want to show you the banner for the blog. I think I can finish the layout tonight.”
“Tonight? It’s Friday. I’m happy to look at it, Thalia, but it can wait until the next newspaper meeting.”
“It’s not like I have anything better to do,” Thalia said.
Allison smiled. “I guess there aren’t a lot of places to hang out on the island.” Not for Thalia’s age group. No mall, Allison thought. And only one movie screen.
“Not unless I want to hang out under the pier drinking Gatorade and Everclear,” Thalia said.
Allison winced slightly.
Joshua sauntered between the rows of desks, one arm around Lindsey Gordon, the other holding his binder on his hip.
“Joshua.” Allison was
not
singling him out for attention. She was offering a friendly reminder, that was all. “You still need to turn in your permission form.”
“Oh, yeah.” He shifted his grip, exposing the battered paperback wedged on top of the notebook.
The Scarlet Letter
.
Well.
A sliver of hope opened inside her. At least he’d brought the book to class.
He fished a wrinkled slip of paper from between the pages. “Here.”
She glanced at the signature—Matt Fletcher, large, upright, dark, the
T
a stab, the
R
a scrawl—as she smoothed the note. “Thank you.” Ripping a strip from the page, she handed it back to Josh.
“What’s that for?”
“To keep your place.”
He shook his head. “Naw, I’m good. Thanks.”
She wondered if he was actually doing the reading or if he’d stuck the form in the book at random. “Which character are you writing about this weekend?”
“I dunno.”
“Well, who do you like?”
He
, he’d said.
Slowly, slowly, her arms crept around him and clung.
Seven
T AKE A CHANCE
, Matt had invited in his deep, husky voice.
Take a leap
.
And just for a moment, Allison’s heart had wanted to tumble right off a cliff. Except she no longer jumped from one thing, one man, one enthusiasm, to another.
She was an English teacher now. Literature was full of cautionary tales about women who took foolish chances and crashed. Look at sweet, suicidal Juliet. Or poor, crazy Miss Havisham. Or…
“Hester Prynne,” Allison said to her fourth period class, “is publicly shamed and socially ostracized because she sleeps with the wrong guy and gets pregnant. Could that happen in today’s society?”
She sat back, delighted, as her sixteen-year-olds waded in on both sides of the argument, jumbling together references to Puritan Massachusetts and
16 and Pregnant
. What was the difference, really, between a slut and a reality star? What were Dimmesdale’s responsibilities as a Baby Daddy?Did having children out of wedlock still pose a threat to the social order? Occasionally Allison interjected a question to encourage an insight or lead them back gently to the text. This was her favorite part of teaching, when the stories she loved and the students she cared about came alive.
Most of the students, anyway.
Her gaze flickered to the back of the classroom where Joshua Fletcher sprawled at his desk, arms across his chest, legs in the aisle. If he cared at all about the discussion crackling around the room, he certainly didn’t show it.
Allison suppressed a sigh. She had to remain impartial in the classroom. But she was disappointed by her failure to reach Josh. She would have been disappointed by her failure to reach any student.
The period bell shattered the discussion. Even a debate about sex couldn’t compete with lunch. The room erupted with scraping chairs and slamming books.
Allison raised her voice over the noise. “Don’t forget! Five hundred words on one character’s social and sexual identities. Due Monday,” she called to a chorus of groans.
“Bye, Miss Carter.”
“See ya, Miss Carter.”
“Have a nice weekend.”
“Miss Carter.” Thalia Hamilton stopped by her desk, eyes sharp behind her thick black frames. “Are you going to be in the computer lab after school? I want to show you the banner for the blog. I think I can finish the layout tonight.”
“Tonight? It’s Friday. I’m happy to look at it, Thalia, but it can wait until the next newspaper meeting.”
“It’s not like I have anything better to do,” Thalia said.
Allison smiled. “I guess there aren’t a lot of places to hang out on the island.” Not for Thalia’s age group. No mall, Allison thought. And only one movie screen.
“Not unless I want to hang out under the pier drinking Gatorade and Everclear,” Thalia said.
Allison winced slightly.
Joshua sauntered between the rows of desks, one arm around Lindsey Gordon, the other holding his binder on his hip.
“Joshua.” Allison was
not
singling him out for attention. She was offering a friendly reminder, that was all. “You still need to turn in your permission form.”
“Oh, yeah.” He shifted his grip, exposing the battered paperback wedged on top of the notebook.
The Scarlet Letter
.
Well.
A sliver of hope opened inside her. At least he’d brought the book to class.
He fished a wrinkled slip of paper from between the pages. “Here.”
She glanced at the signature—Matt Fletcher, large, upright, dark, the
T
a stab, the
R
a scrawl—as she smoothed the note. “Thank you.” Ripping a strip from the page, she handed it back to Josh.
“What’s that for?”
“To keep your place.”
He shook his head. “Naw, I’m good. Thanks.”
She wondered if he was actually doing the reading or if he’d stuck the form in the book at random. “Which character are you writing about this weekend?”
“I dunno.”
“Well, who do you like?”
He
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