If Mr. Bennett and I were having dinner together, we would have a lot to talk about. I would bring a book of poetry—maybe Poe—and I would just love to hear his thoughts on each of them. Even though that’s what we do in class every day, I would never get sick of it. Not in a million billion years.
Doesn’t Mrs. Bennett realize how incredible her husband is? When all my clothes got soaked today and she made me sit through her lesson and even repeat my homework, it was like she didn’t care. Or worse, she thought I deserved to suffer. He was the only one who noticed how uncomfortable I was and sent me home. She doesn’t appreciate being married to someone who is so kind and considerate, because she’s the opposite.
“Well, if that’s all you’re going to eat,” Mom says, “I may as well get the check.”
I don’t want to leave the restaurant. While I’m sitting here, it’s almost like I’m having dinner with Mr. Bennett, even though that’s kind of dumb because he is across the entire dining room and he doesn’t even know that I’m here. We are about as far from having dinner together as possible, yet I still don’t want to leave.
“Wait,” I say, “let me go to the bathroom first, then I’ll eat some more.”
My mother looks skeptical, but what is she supposed to say—I can’t use the bathroom? So I follow the signs to the hidden hallway that contains the bathroom. Naturally, there’s a line for the single women’s bathroom, but that’s fine because it will just make it take longer. Especially since I don’t actually need to go at all.
“Addie?” a familiar voice startles me while I’m scrolling on my phone.
I’m totally surprised to see Mr. Bennett standing behind me. I guess he needed the bathroom too. I knew we were on the same wavelength.
“Hey,” I say awkwardly. Since our last encounter, I have showered and am wearing a clean pair of blue jeans. I even put on a nice pink dress shirt that my mom says complements my skin tone, although I am skeptical.
“I saw you in the restaurant,” he says. “That’s your mother, right?”
A little thrill goes through me at the idea that Mr. Bennett noticed me, even in the crowded dining room. “Uh-huh.”
I wonder if it’s okay to be talking to him in this isolated area. If someone saw us here together, they might get the wrong idea. The last thing I want would be for Mr. Bennett to end up like Mr. Tuttle.
He cocks his head to the side. “Are you okay? You looked like you were having a pretty bad day earlier.”
That is a massive understatement, but honestly, I don’t want to complain about Kenzie and her friends right now. I don’t want him to think of me as some loser who is getting bullied by the popular kids. “Sort of.”
“What happened?”
“It wasn’t a big deal.” I try to laugh, to show how not upset I am about what happened, even though it’s phony. “Some kids in gym threw my clothes in the shower, so everything got soaked.”
Mr. Bennett winces. “Jesus, that’s awful. Who did that to you?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“You can tell me.” When I don’t say anything, he raises his eyebrow. “I can keep it between us.”
I really can’t tell him, even though I like the idea of me and Mr. Bennett sharing a secret. No matter what he says, he’s still a teacher, and he might talk to Kenzie if I tell him about it. And if I rat her out, she’s going to be worse. The last thing I want is for Kenzie to hate me more. I’m better off taking her abuse.
“I don’t know,” I repeat.
His brown eyes hold mine for a moment, and a little thrill goes through me. I’m not sure why though. Maybe it just feels nice to have a teacher on my side again. Or anyone on my side again. After the whole thing with Mr. Tuttle, it feels like everyone hates me.
“I’ll tell you what,” he says. “The rest of the class has another homework assignment today, analyzing a poem we talked about in class. But I have special homework that I want you to do tonight.”
If Mrs. Bennett—or really any other teacher—said that to me, I would have been horrified. But right now, I’m intrigued. “Okay…”
“I want you to write an angry letter to the person who took your clothes,” he says. I start to protest, but then he adds, “Not a poem, but a letter. You don’t have to use their name, but I want you to get out that anger. Let your anger out on the page for me. Tell me what you want to do to this person.”