Given everything already going on with me, the last thing I want is to make an enemy out of Kenzie Montgomery. So I gather up my bag and trudge over to one of the remaining empty seats. It’s right in the front row, practically sitting in Mr. Bennett’s lap. Great.
Mr. Bennett is behind his desk, looking down at the roster. There’s a book on his desk, and I take a peek at the spine—it’s a book of poetry from Edgar Allan Poe, who is for sure my favorite poet in the whole world. It’s pretty much the only thing the entire day that has lifted my spirits.
After the bell rings for class to begin, Mr. Bennett lifts his eyes from the roster. His face crinkles in a smile, and as the corners of his lips turn up, I get a little jolt. I had seen Mr. Bennett a bunch of times before in the hallway, but until that second, watching him smile from about two feet away, I never realized how stupidly handsome he truly is. I can’t even say why exactly, but there’s something in the ruggedness of his features and the twinkle in his eye.
There are worse things than having to be up in the first row during English class.
Of course, he’s super old. He’s in his mid-or even late thirties. And married, of course, to a woman who gave us homework on the very first day of school. （So wrong…） But I can’t say he isn’t hot. This class is not going to be torture.
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.”