I sat in English class one day in the middle of October, trying to concentrate on the lecture because Mr. Lund would call on anyone without warning, yet also daydreaming about last night’s chat with LitGeek. I’d cracked him up after he randomly mentioned Jane Eyre and I replied that it would have been a much better book if the wife had burned Mr. Rochester in his bed, pinned it on Jane, and then taken London by storm. He said that would blow the morality tale completely, then I pointed out the only one who wouldn’t get exactly what they deserved was Jane, and she should have caught on to the whole setup by then anyway. Stupidity probably sent a lot of people to the gallows. Why should Jane be an exception? That’s when he told me I would make a good dictator and we both laughed.
I startled out of my daydream though, when the stacks of our next book were passed around the class.
It was Jane Eyre.
“I know it’s not the most thrilling read for the guys, but trust me when I say any Bront? is better than Jane Austen.”
“Why can’t we read something from this century?” someone asked.
“This century’s only a few years old. It would be a lot slimmer pickings and all the books are still in first-run prints, so they’re pricier. The school district’s not going to pay for that, although you did not hear it from me.”
“Isn’t this the one where the wife’s bonkers and locked in the attic?” Jenny Adkins asked while reading the back cover. She was a total anglophile, watched any British movie ever made, and was completely in love with Hugh Grant. I tried to tell her once what a horrible actor he was, but she just sighed and said, “He’s not an actor. He’s a star.”
“No spoilers, Jenny. Come on.” The class laughed as Mr. Lund leaned on the edge of his desk the way he always did when he settled into a lecture. “Actually, someone just told me the other day that this book would be a lot better if the wife burned the hero in his bed, pinned it on the heroine, and then blew all his money in London.”
I barely heard the class’s laughter. Oh my God. OH MY GOD. His face blurred in and out of focus. His face, LitGeek’s face, the face I’d been dreaming about for weeks. The face I’d been dreading to see and dying to touch was right here in the same room with me. I froze, and my heart started pounding so loud I thought for sure Portia would hear it. Oh my God.
“Hattie?”
I jumped, snapping out of the shock. “What?”
“Welcome back.” He grinned, and I swallowed hard. “I said I assumed you’ve read this already.”
“Yes, I have.” It had become kind of a joke between teacher and teacher’s pet. I’d read everything in the syllabus except for some book about Vietnam that wasn’t assigned until Thanksgiving.
“Any thoughts to share with the class before we all dive in?”
I could do it right now. I could make some flip comment about the book being a morality tale, quoting him exactly from last night, and he would know. His eyes would widen, his skin would pale. I could see the scene play out, how the knowledge would flood him and make him weak and shocked and ashamed. He would break off all contact with me and I would never get to talk to him outside of English class.
And that’s why I didn’t.
“I liked how Jane took control of her life. She made her own fate.”
I stared out the window as I said it, unable to make eye contact with him. I was afraid he’d somehow see it in my eyes, that he’d guess the truth and our cyber affair would be over.
It was surprisingly easy to be in love with Peter—I thought of him as Peter in my head now even though I still called him LitGeek online and Mr. Lund in school. It felt like he was playing parts, just like me. I watched him at pep rallies and memorized his wardrobe and his class schedule. I even knew what car he drove—a beat-up blue Mitsubishi that some of the jocks made fun of because it was foreign and anyone who drove anything besides a GM or Ford around here was suspect. The only teacher I saw him talking to was Mr. Jacobs, who was totally lame. All he ever wanted to teach in his history classes were wars; he always went on about what country attacked who and drew endless diagrams of battlefields on the board. As far as friends went, pickings were pretty slim and it didn’t take long to realize Peter didn’t have anyone besides me.
But oh, how he had me.