The Teacher(9)

Mr. Tuttle wasn’t handsome. Nobody ever would have called him hot. He was even older than Mr. Bennett, and he had a big belly that hung over his belt. But it was never about that with him.

“Hello there.” Mr. Bennett rises from his seat and walks around to the front of his desk, where he takes a seat perched on top. “Welcome to eleventh grade English. If you are not supposed to be in eleventh grade English, then I would suggest you make a quick exit before anyone notices.”

Nobody leaves. I have a feeling even if a student found themselves in the wrong place, they might stick around.

“Excellent.” He drums his fingertips on his right thigh. “Let’s get down to business then. This year, we are going to have an emphasis on poetry. You’re going to read so many poems this year, you’re going to be rhyming in your sleep.”

Mr. Bennett rubs a hand over his right knee, and I can’t help but notice that the fabric of his pants is slightly worn over his kneecap. I wonder how much money he makes as a teacher. None of his clothes are new or expensive.

Then again, Mrs. Bennett was wearing a pair of shoes that look like they cost a fortune. Not that I know much about shoes, but my mom has a pair like that, and she won’t let me wear them because she says they’re too expensive and I’ll ruin them. She’s probably right.

“Now,” he says, “I want to go around the room, and you tell me your favorite poem. And only tell me your favorite poem if you actually have one. I don’t want you to make one up just to impress me because I will know.”

A few hands shoot up, because honestly, it’s clear everybody is eager to impress Mr. Bennett. Especially the girls in the class. And when he smiles at them, they each giggle in turn.

After about a dozen students in the class name their favorite poems, dropping big names like Angelou or Dickinson or Silverstein, Mr. Bennett turns his attention to me, even though I didn’t raise my hand. I haven’t raised my hand once today—this year, I’m working on being invisible. “Adeline?” he says.

I hate it when people call me by my full name in general, because it reminds me of being in trouble. “Addie,” I correct him.

“Addie.” He nods. “How about you? What’s your favorite poem?”

“‘Annabel Lee,’” I say without hesitation. I know it’s contained in the book of poems on his desk, but that’s not why I said it. I have always loved that poem. It’s beautiful, haunting, and romantic all at once. I can recite every word of it from memory.

“Ah, another lover of the great Poe!” He looks genuinely pleased. “My personal favorite is ‘The Raven,’ but ‘Annabel Lee’ contains some of his most haunting verses.” He grins at me, and the fine lines around his eyes crinkle. “‘And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, in her sepulchre there by the sea, in her tomb by the sounding sea.’”

A chill goes through me, just like in the poem.

He rests his brown eyes squarely on my face, like I am the only person in the room. “Do you know what it’s about, Addie?”

“It’s about a girl he loved when he was young,” I say. “A childhood sweetheart who died. I read that nobody knows exactly who inspired him to write the poem.”

“We’ll discuss this poem in greater detail this year,” he says. “As well as Poe’s love of the letter L. Annabel Lee. Lenore. Eulalie.” He winks at me. “Adeline.”

At this moment, I don’t care if everyone in the school hates me. I don’t care if nobody is willing to sit with me in the cafeteria. I don’t care that I have a stupid amount of math homework for the first day of class. Because my English teacher loves Poe as much as I do.

And he winked at me.



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Chapter Seven

EVE

AS ALWAYS, Nate stayed late at school today. He is one of the supervisors of the school newspaper, in addition to that poetry magazine they put out twice a year, so he’s always got something going on. I technically supervise the chess team, but I was informed that I am not required to stay for the meetings, so I generally don’t. The last thing I want to do when the school day is over and my head is throbbing is watch a bunch of teenagers push rooks and knights around a board.

Since we carpooled this morning, I ask Shelby to drive me home. When she drops me off at my front door, it’s only 3:30. Usually this would be the time when I would dig into a two-inch stack of homework papers, but since it’s the first day, I find myself at a loss for what to do. It’s too early in the day for my nightly overflowing glass of wine.

I climb into my Kia, not entirely sure where I’m going even as I am driving down Washington Street. Every town in Massachusetts has a Washington Street and a Liberty Street and often a Massachusetts Street. Whoever named the streets in the state was not very creative.

I keep driving until I reach the mall at the west border of Caseham, where the lot is overflowing with cars. There are a number of teenagers there, enjoying their last free afternoon before the piles of homework set in. Watching all the kids filtering in through the front doors gives me pause. Whenever I run into my students outside school, they seem absolutely mortified to see me. I should shrug it off, but something about their humiliation reflects back on me.