Chapter 23: Tęte-ŕ-tęte
by Emmet
ES Home
Backstory 22b 23b
She walked toward me, glancing at the open doorway. “I was hoping we could talk about my story,” she said. “Because, see, now I can’t figure out how to end it.”
Her damn story. Flash of the evening before, discussion of that ending that tied things together a little too well as I stood a little too close to her and she made an offer I had to refuse. I thought, her stories got me to this point in the first place, led me to push her as a writer, to want to know her, to class discussions to those lunchtime meetings, to conversations beyond the classroom. And the last thing I felt like doing at that moment was discuss her writing. “Not. Right. Now. Grace,” I said woodenly, looking at her. She really had no idea. It was just a game to her, show interest in a teacher, cool, he likes her too. No sense of the bigger picture. I wished she would leave, this reminder of my failing. I wished she would stay and take my hand.
I looked away from her, looked at my desk, at the disarray left behind by Barbara Temura. Unable to concentrate, I began putting papers in my valise at random. It didn’t really matter, did it? I wasn’t going to be correcting student papers tonight. What was the point? I could feel her eyes on me as she said, hesitantly, “Oh. Okay.” She didn’t leave. Instead, she continued, perhaps an awareness dawning on her. “So, why weren’t you... I mean, we had that sub... but then I saw you in the hall.”
An image of Grace as I had seen her earlier, but now I saw her with a clarity of hindsight, a 17-year-old high-school junior, holding schoolbooks, nearly a quarter century my junior, not my girlfriend, my student, a student. Concentrating on keeping my voice steady, but with anger seeping in, I said, “Yeah, I was unable to attend class today due to being interrogated by Mr. Brooker.” I looked up at her, met her eyes. She appeared shaken. Reality rears its ugly head.
“You’re kidding,” she said.
Yeah, I’m kidding. Ha, ha. Funny. I added, “Oh, and Mrs. Conway, head of the school board.” I looked at her challengingly.
I didn’t need to elaborate. She now understood. Ramifications. Consequences. Penalties. “We didn’t do anything!” she protested.
I opened my mouth to speak, but then didn’t. Her reaction of protest was evidence she understood. I had stated no reason for the interrogation – why the defensiveness? We didn’t do anything? She offered herself to me in the privacy of my home. We saw a movie together. We held hands. We had a date. We discussed circumstances.
The same circle of thoughts must have gone through her head, because she immediately backed down and voiced sincere concern. “So... are you really in trouble?”
I let out a bitter bark of a laugh. Trouble. I got sent to the principal’s office. The principal is your pal. Your principles are your ples. My ples were compromised. I’d have to stay after school. Trouble. Grace’s naiveté was an annoyance to me now, it angered me, and I said, enunciating each word, “I could lose my job. And my license, and possibly never get hired to teach anywhere ever again.” I could hear the underlying tone of accusation as I spoke, but made no effort to control it. Grace absorbed this, with a look of shock. Finally. I continued, softer, “Look, I think it’s probably best for both of us if we just... just don’t talk to each other outside of class anymore.”
It certainly was better for Grace not to be with me. My attraction to her – had I taken advantage of her vulnerability? Encouraging her as I had – how good could that be for a girl who already felt so different, separate from her classmates, her family? A passage from her journal came to me.
Sometimes I feel so intensely distant from everyone around me, probably because I am, objectively speaking. I know I am smarter, usually, but they have a knowledge, an ease, an ability to pass back and forth through doors, doors for which I need a key and can’t even find the lock let alone the key.
But I couldn’t be that key, shouldn’t want to be, and for the second time that day, I turned my back on her, a gesture of defiance that was accompanied by a profound sense of loss.
Behind me, she protested, “No! I just – ”
I stopped and faced her and said, coldly, “Hey. I’m sorry.” And then I left my classroom, left Grace standing behind me, alone.
Outside, the midday sun beamed on my bike, warming the seat, much too beautiful a day, incongruous with how I felt inside. It should have been hailing, snowing, thunderstorm, tornado. Raging nonsensical chaos of weather. Not golden May sunshine and clean fresh air, soft, caressing breezes. So why did my eyes sting as I pedaled home, why were my cheeks wet when I turned into my driveway?
***
Trust Grace not to listen to me. And maybe I was hoping she wouldn’t.
Virginia had left a message on my machine. A meeting the next day, with Grace and her parents. Four o’clock. I thought with a sinking feeling of the Chekhov I had given Grace, of that incriminating inscription. For all I knew, Grace had never read it, and had left the book lying around the house as I had encouraged her to leave her stories lying around, “Love August” there for all the world to see, to report.
And it hit me then. Regardless of the outcome of the meeting tomorrow, my time teaching at Sinclair was over. Perhaps it would appear as an admission of guilt, perhaps something else. But I had lost sight of myself. Of what was important. I told myself that my feelings for Grace weren’t real, that they had been a manifestation of restlessness I had been feeling, that she had been a convenient focal point for my desire for change. That I had let a relationship with a student get to this point was indicative to me that I should take time off from teaching.
I looked around my living room. I had lived here for nearly five years now, had settled in. I liked this house, so much more convenient to my job than the apartment I had shared with Chris downtown. But I couldn’t imagine staying on here and not teaching.
I looked through my albums, thinking of the comforting, sweet notes of Linda’s voice, of old Melanie. But somehow, silence seemed more appropriate for my mood now. I was tempted to open a new bottle of wine, but the day was young, still, and the image of drowning my sorrows in alcohol too pathetic. I considered grading the pop quizzes from the other day, but if I wasn’t going to be there to hand them back, I wouldn’t hand them back.