“I know how she is. She’s strict, isn’t she?”
I press my lips together, reluctant to say anything negative about his wife. But the truth is, while Mr. Bennett is one of the most popular teachers in the school, only the best math students are fans of Mrs. Bennett. She is really strict, and she doesn’t have much patience for kids who don’t get the material right away.
But the worst thing people say about her is they don’t get why Mr. Bennett married her. He’s the hottest and most beloved teacher in the school. Mrs. Bennett is pretty, I guess, although not on the same level as her husband. And she’s definitely not beloved. In fact, she’s actually kind of a…
Well, she’s a bitch. There, I said it.
“My wife is very concrete,” he says. “She’s only interested in logic and reasoning. She isn’t a dreamer, like we are. For her, words only serve a utilitarian purpose.”
“It’s fine,” I reassure him. “I just need to study.” And also pray for a miracle.
“If she’s ever too hard on you,” he says, “let me know. Seriously.”
I will seriously never let him know.
“I completely understand,” he adds. “I was also terrible in math when I was in high school. And biology.”
“Really?” He has zeroed in on my two least favorite subjects.
He grins at me and his eyes crinkle in that way I have come to love. “Oh yes. I refused to dissect a frog because I thought it was wrong. The teacher was going to fail me, so I had to do an extra credit project just to scrape by!”
I didn’t think it was possible to like Mr. Bennett any more than I already do, but there it is.
“Anyway…” He looks down at his watch and seems surprised by the time. “I apologize—I didn’t realize it was so late. Sorry to keep you. Do you need a ride home?”
I’m so shocked by his offer, I almost drop my backpack. Is he for real offering me a ride home? Doesn’t he know what happened to Mr. Tuttle? There is no way I’m taking a ride from another teacher who actually makes an effort to care about me. I’m not letting anything like that ever happen again.
“That’s okay,” I say quickly. “I have my bike.”
“Are you sure? It’s no trouble.”
“Positive.”
He shrugs. “Okay. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
He seems so unconcerned, it almost makes me wonder if I overreacted somehow. After all, a ride is just a ride. Other kids do occasionally get rides from teachers, and the teachers don’t end up fired and disgraced. Maybe I made too much of the whole thing.
It seems too late to change my mind though, so I grab my backpack and head out of the room—and almost run smack into Lotus. She’s leaning against the wall, her bag propped up against her Doc Martens, a slightly manic expression on her face.
“Hey,” I say. “I told you not to wait for me.”
She rubs her nose with the back of her hand. “Bro, what was that about?”
“Oh.” I have to suppress a smile. “There’s some statewide contest he wants to enter one of my poems into. So, you know.”
“Wait.” She sucks in a breath. “The Massachusetts Poetry Contest?”
“Maybe?”
Lotus swears under her breath. “That’s bullshit, you know?”
I don’t know. “What do you mean?”
“I mean…” She grits her teeth. Lotus has a lot of small, sharp-looking teeth. “That poetry contest is a big deal, and he only gets to submit one poem from the whole school.”
“Yes…”
“And, like, you’re just a beginner.” Her heavily mascaraed eyelashes flutter. “I mean, you’re good for a beginner, but there are at least three other kids at the magazine who are better than you. And I am a senior, and he has never picked one of my poems.”
I don’t know what to say. “It wasn’t like it was my decision.”
“Yes, but it was a bad decision.” Her eyes narrow at me. “You should tell him it’s a bad decision. He shouldn’t pick you just because you’re the teacher’s pet.”
I already suggested to Mr. Bennett that there might be better poems out there but he insisted. “What do you want me to do, Lotus?”
“I want you to go back in that room and tell him that he should pick somebody else’s poem to submit.”
I don’t know what is more shocking: the fact that Mr. Bennett told me he was choosing my poem in the first place or what Lotus has just asked me to do.
“I’m not doing that,” I say.
She folds her arms across her flat chest. “So you want our school to lose?”
“I don’t want us to lose, but Mr. Bennett picked my poem for a reason. He must think it’s capable of winning.”
She sneers at me. “Oh, you really think that’s why he picked your poem?”
My mouth falls open. “Yes…”
“I mean, it’s not enough you got Mr. Tuttle fired, now you have to go after Mr. Bennett?”
My face burns. I had thought maybe Lotus and I were friends, but I was sorely mistaken. “I have to go home,” I mumble. “I’ll see you next week. Mary.”
As I walk away from Lotus, clutching the straps of my backpack, my thoughts won’t stop racing. I hate that she called me out on all my darkest fears. Mr. Bennett had a lot of poems to choose from. Why did he choose mine? Objectively, I don’t think my poem was the best one. There were so many other amazing choices—including the ones Lotus wrote.
So why me?
Is it possible she could be right? Is it possible that Mr. Bennett had some sort of ulterior motive in picking an inferior poem to enter in the contest? Was this nothing more than favoritism on his part? Or something even more than favoritism?
The worst part of all though is the shiver of excitement that goes through me at the possibility that Lotus could be right.
OceanofPDF.com
Chapter Nineteen
EVE
TODAY IS MY BIRTHDAY.
I’m turning thirty, which feels like a milestone of sorts, although my life hasn’t changed much in the last eight years or so, since I started teaching at Caseham High. It feels like time has moved so quickly. In the blink of an eye, it was my first day as a teacher, and now I’m coming up on nearly a decade.
My twenties are over. In another blink of an eye, I’ll be forty and my thirties will be gone too. Then one day, I’ll be lying on this bed, ninety years old, and wondering where my whole life went.
I stare into the closet, trying to decide what footwear I want to wear for my birthday. I’ll be working, so I can’t wear sandals—not that I would in the middle of October. I scan the rows of shoes that line the bottom of the closet, then I hesitate. Nate is still in the bathroom, shaving—he’ll be there for at least a few more minutes.
I take the opportunity to reach for the large suitcase stuffed into the side of the closet. I heave it out, and with one more quick glance at the bathroom door, I undo the zipper. I let out a sigh when I look down at the contents.
There are dozens of shoes in that luggage.
Nate doesn’t know about this particular stash. He thinks the number of shoes I have at the bottom of the closet is bad enough. He’s already monitoring the credit card bill for shoe purchases and has hinted that he thinks I have a problem. If he knew about this luggage, he might have me committed.
Which means I don’t have much time.
I get out my favorite pair of Louis Vuitton pumps. Well, I only have one pair of Louis Vuittons, because they cost a small fortune. They’re made from black patent calf leather with sleek lines and a stiletto heel. Nate never would have approved of me buying them, so I saved up the cash until I had enough. I keep them hidden away and only wear them on special occasions.
I quickly slide the pumps onto my feet, then I stuff the luggage back into the closet just as Nate emerges from the bathroom with his face clean-shaven. He’s got a white towel cinched around his waist, and even though he is not quite as muscular as Jay, he is incredibly handsome. Despite everything, I am still intensely attracted to my husband.