“Ferris Bueller’s Day Off,” someone yelled back. “We’re bored, not uncultured.”
The class broke out into laughter. Mr. Kahn frowned, then went to his desk to collect a stack of papers. “All right, I guess lecturing is over. This is your homework. You can take the last ten minutes of class to get started.”
Chairs instantly pushed back, the volume of chattering rising like a spark set to fuel.
“Quietly please!” Mr. Kahn said, and the chattering diminished but was not snuffed out. Then he walked over with the stack of papers and handed it to Dave. “Would you mind passing these out?”
Dave’s heart sank. “Sure.” He stood up, trying to keep his eyes from flitting in Gretchen’s direction. Would he be able to see the heartbreak on her face? Would she be crying? Avoiding his gaze? Maybe there was an e-mail feature he didn’t know about that told people how many times you’d reread their e-mail. Maybe she’d be able to see it on his face, no technology required.
When he handed her the packet, he tried to fix his eyes on something innocuous, the wooden desk, or the wall, or the floor. But on her desk was her forearm with its film of fine golden hairs, and on the wall was the clock, and on the floor were her scuffed sneakers. So his eyes in the end landed on her. She was looking at the paper already, uncapping her pen, her shoulders hunched over the desk, blond waves falling onto the papers. In a surprisingly sweet voice, she said, “Thanks, Dave.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, the words out of his mouth before he was conscious they’d been bubbling up. Gretchen tapped her pen against her desk a few times, biting her bottom lip. He hadn’t apologized at all, he now realized. Even that morning when she’d seen him with Julia. He’d run after her, but he’d never said he was sorry. The shame caused him to look away, take in the sights of the classroom. There was a ballet of pens twirling around fingers, plenty of doodling going on, Jane Henley was eating an apple.
“Dude, the papers!” someone called out, and Dave handed the remaining stack to the girl sitting next to Gretchen. A second ago he couldn’t imagine facing her, and now he couldn’t step away. Julia would want him to apologize, right? He’d avoided bringing Gretchen up at all, and maybe that’d been what was off between them.
Gretchen finally looked up at Dave. She had bags under her eyes. Reaching back, she piled her hair together, sticking her pen through the bun to keep it in place. Then she leaned forward, putting her chin in her hand. “I was just saying thanks for the papers. You don’t have to apologize.”
“But I want to. I’m sorry.”
Gretchen looked around the room. He found himself wishing he knew her a little better, well enough to guess at what she was thinking. “That’s not enough,” Gretchen said after a moment. “To be sorry you hurt me is not enough for me to forgive you.”
Dave stuck his hands in his pockets, eyes on the ground. From years of watching Julia do it, he felt the impulse to kick his shoes off. He wondered in the silence that—regardless of the noise in the classroom—filled the space between him and Gretchen how Julia’s barefoot obsession had started. “I know. I think I should say it again anyway. I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, I hadn’t planned on that happening. I thought it was just a friendly road—”
“Dave, stop.” She shifted in her seat, pulling up one leg and tucking it beneath her. “Just ’cause there’s a part of me that sends emotional e-mails doesn’t mean I want the details.” She grabbed the pen out of the bun, causing her hair to spill down. Then she lowered her gaze back to the papers in front of her. “You made your choice.”