“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.
I sit for a moment in the car, my hands gripping the steering wheel. I wonder what Nate is doing right now—he wouldn’t be stressed by the idea of running into his students at the mall. He’s probably talking to the new editor in chief of the school newspaper, a bright young boy named Bryce Evans. I had Bryce in my class last year, and he was another A-plus student. Never missed a homework assignment. That kid has Ivy League written all over him.
I count to ten, then I count from ten backward. After I do this three times, my shoulders relax.
I climb out of my car, clutching my light blue purse, which is so large that Nate always teases me that it will make my spine crooked. However, my purse is mostly empty today, so I suppose my spine is safe.
As soon as I walk through the sliding doors for the entrance, the smell of cinnamon sugar from the pretzel stand smacks me in the face. I’d love to get a big cup of pretzel bites, and if I were a high school student, I would do just that. But my metabolism isn’t what it used to be, so I hold my breath as I walk by the pretzel stand and also by the Godiva chocolates. Yes, I’d love a chocolate-covered strawberry, but it isn’t in the stars for today.
I keep walking until I reach a store called Footsies.
For a moment, I simply linger outside. The store has a display of Christian Louboutin pumps and boots gracing the window, including a pair of black patent leather heels, although the heel itself is gold. I look down at my Jimmy Choos, which I purchased new two weeks ago despite what I told Nate. He’ll find out when he sees the credit card bill.
I love high heels. I’ve always been a bit on the short side at five two, and I hate being shorter than my students. A pair of three-inch heels gives me a boost that improves my confidence. I prefer when I don’t have to tilt my head quite so much to look up at my husband, who is five ten.
And for the most part, aside from these shoes, I’ve been well behaved. I’ve got shoes in shopping carts on practically every online site, but the point is I haven’t purchased any of those items. I put the shoes in the shopping cart, and I never check out. So why shouldn’t I treat myself every once in a while?
Footsies is an upscale store but relatively large, and there’s only one girl manning the shop, sitting at a counter in the back by the cash register, scrolling through her phone. Despite how many teenagers are crowding the mall, there are only a handful of customers here. This store doesn’t sell Doc Martens or sneakers most teenagers would buy. These are shoes for “old people,” like me.