Like everyone else in the world, I’m still not entirely sure Art Tuttle is innocent.
I know he’s good-hearted and not a dirty old man. But there’s something about the whole situation that just doesn’t sit right with me. After all, how could he be so stupid? How could he have that girl alone with him in his classroom every day after school and not realize how it would look?
“She seems nice,” I finally say. “Not one of the stronger students.”
Art’s bushy white eyebrows knit together. “No, she’s not.”
We stand there for a moment, him with his oranges and turtleneck and socks with sandals, and me with my shopping cart, which needs one or two decent avocados. We never had trouble talking to each other before, but the awkwardness is almost suffocating. I want to invite him and his wife to our house for dinner, but I can’t quite make myself extend the invitation.
In any case, I can understand why he felt that he had to resign.
“Anyway,” I say, “it was good seeing you, Art.”
“You too, Eve.” He nods at the avocados. “The trick is that when you push your finger into the skin, you get a little bit of give with gentle pressure but not too much.”
“Thanks.” Even now, he’s still trying to teach me. “And…good luck. With everything.”
I turn away, returning to the mountain of avocados. I pick one off the pile that is brown and feels like it has a slight give under my fingertips. Just as I’m about to test it, fingers close around my upper arm. It takes me a second to realize that Art is still behind me and has grabbed me. His chubby fingers bite into my bare skin, and all I can think is if we weren’t in the middle of a grocery store, I would scream.
“Eve, wait,” his voice hisses in my ear. “You need to listen to me. Right now.”
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Chapter Twelve
ADDIE
SEE ME AFTER CLASS.
Has anything good ever started with those four words? I’m going to say no. It has not.
Thankfully, this is the last period of the day and it’s almost over, so I only have to freak out for about ten minutes until the bell rings. Everybody else slips out of their chairs and filters out of the room, but I stay glued to my seat. And so does Mr. Bennett.
I hazard a quick look in his direction. Does he look disappointed in me? I can’t even tell. “See me after class” is really bad, but there are worse things. During that whole mess with Mr. Tuttle, they didn’t wait until after class. The principal pulled me right out of biology and asked me what was going on.
“Addie?”
I got so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t even realize that all the other students were gone, and now Mr. Bennett and I are the only ones left. He is looking at me with raised eyebrows, like maybe he thinks something is wrong with me. I manage to flash him a weak smile.
“Sorry. Just spaced out for a moment.” I rise unsteadily from my seat and approach the desk, clutching my poem. “So, um, what’s wrong?”
“Wrong?” he says. Now that I’m closer to Mr. Bennett, I can see tiny dark seeds of what would become a beard if he didn’t shave every day. “Nothing’s wrong. Just the opposite.”
I glance down at the writing in red on my poem. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he says, “your poem is amazing.”
Your poem is amazing. Those four words are so much better than “see me after class.” For the first time since this stupid school year began, I feel a little jolt of happiness. “Really?”
“Oh yes.” He tugs it out of my hand. “The imagery is incredible. ‘His fists a volcano, spouting lava from her lips with each blow.’ Addie, I was so moved. It’s a lyrical masterpiece.”
“Thank you.” I drop my eyes, trying not to think of my inspiration: all the nights when my dad stumbled home drunk and angry. “I appreciate that.”
“And I think you should publish it.”
I jerk my head up. “What?”
“I mean it.” A smile curls his lips. “This is really good, and you need to share it with the world. You know I’m the staff supervisor for the school’s poetry magazine, right?”
I know about the poetry magazine, Reflections. I always wanted to join, but I was scared they would think my poems were dumb. After all, what do I know about writing poetry? All I’ve ever done is scribble them in a marble notebook in my bedroom. But for the first time, somebody who actually knows what he’s talking about is telling me that I might have talent.