Ch. 10: After Hours (page 2)
by Emmet
I tried to speak, but was too shaken. Chris here, Grace here, a date coming, it didn’t have to be weird, it didn’t have to be awkward, it was me that was making it so. Grace under pressure, not my forte, apparently. Automatically, I shut the door as Grace continued, “I was just kind of… stuck in the neighborhood for a while” – I remembered her mentioning Jessie’s mother being in the hospital, not far from my house, the rides she had to give her there – “And there’s something I wanted to tell you.”
She had to stop talking. I knew whatever she was going to say, it was not going to be an urgent epiphany about Donne’s poetry, a pressing inspiration for the GSA dance. It was not something I wanted to hear at this moment, now, with Chris in the other room. I started saying, “And that’s fine, but you see the thing is --”
But she interrupted me. Again. “No, Please!” I opened my mouth to continue, but she held up her hands, taking a deep breath. “Please, just… See, in your car the other day I just felt like there was this…” I realized I’d been holding my glass of wine all this time, and I placed it on the counter, wanting to stop those words issuing from her mouth, unable to stop them, mesmerized like an animal on the road at night, staring into the headlights that would run him down. “… connection, that I couldn’t put into words, and then you put it into words. You did it for me.” I knew I should be stopping her now, stopping what was going to be the confession, the admission I knew deep down I wanted to hear, but the words that shouldn’t be said, not here, not now. But I remained silent still, and Grace continued, “Look, I did something which I obviously shouldn’t have done, okay, but I’m glad I did it, because now I know… that I’m not alone.” Her eyes shone as she spoke, and her voice broke slightly on the last word. She moved around the counter, toward me, and I remained frozen, unable to speak still, able only to watch her, terrified, as she stood less than two feet from me. “And that is such an amazing thing… to know. And—“
“August?” Chris’s voice moving from the living room to the kitchen as she appeared next to me, snapping me into reality. If this were a normal situation, I should have no nervousness, detachment should be easy. But I wasn’t detached, and I couldn’t act easy. Grace looked mortified, slapped, the words she had yet to say evaporated. My voice trembled as I laughed nervously and said, “Ah, Chris… Chris, you, you, this is Grace, one of my students. Grace, this is… my friend, Christine Kim.”
Grace attempted to smile, with her mouth, though her eyes remained shocked. I realized I should use that, use Chris to close the door I had opened for Grace, to stop any more feelings from growing. I put a hand on Chris’s shoulder and said to her, “Grace is one of my most enthusiastic students. She offered to, to chair the committee for the Gay/Straight Alliance dance.”
“Oh, right, you were telling me,” Chris said, looking at Grace, smiling.
“Yeah, yeah. Oh -- the, the presentation, it’s tomorrow, isn’t it?” Suddenly it came to me, I had something to justify her presence to Chris, who I knew would be questioning me later, and I didn’t want to discuss anything. Didn’t want to lie. “Did I ever give you that memo?” I asked Grace.
Grace looked at me blankly for a second before her eyes widened with recognition. “No,” she said, sounding relieved that I had given her an excuse to be here.
“Hold, hold on. I think it’s in my briefcase.” I left the kitchen, all I could do not to run from the room, panicking, not thinking I could hold up a front of normalcy another moment. I stood outside the door, catching my breath, hearing Chris’s good-natured attempt to make conversation with Grace.
This is what it would be like, I realized, if I were to let this continue, to develop a relationship with Grace beyond teacher-student. The fear of being caught, the professional and legal, not to mention personal, repercussions.
“Do you call him August or Mr. Dimitri?” I heard Chris say. I swallowed, there in the living room, as I heard Grace’s muffled response: “Mr. Dimitri.”
There are many teachers, Jerry included, who introduce themselves to students by their first name, rather than the titled surname that was the standard when I was in high school. But I’ve always looked younger than I am, so I found I was able to maintain a higher level of professionalism – both in my attitude toward students and theirs toward me, if I used my surname with Mr.
I didn’t want to overhear any more of the conversation, and I moved away from the doorway, found the memo in my briefcase. Turning, I passed the shelf where Grace had seen my book. But it wasn’t there. Of course – it seemed obvious now. The looks, the excitement, “this other person” whose poems meant so much to Grace. Me. Doesn’t even mean they were any good, but they spoke to her because I spoke to her. Fifteen years after I wrote them.
Why didn’t I just loan it to her when she asked? Her excitement at knowing I was a published author made me reticent. I was afraid for her to know that part of me because I wanted her to know that part of me. It would be like she was knowing a younger me, it would be like I wasn’t 25 years older than she. Twenty-three-and-a-half, to be precise.
I had gained no clarity, and no calm, by leaving the kitchen. I had to go back in, give Grace the memo, go through teacherly motions. But inside I was still reeling from her uninvited visit, from her declaration, and even, to be honest, from her reaction to my poems, the reaction every poet hopes for, secretly if not openly. The glow in the eyes of a fan, an admirer who I admired. If Chris hadn’t been here? But Chris was here. Fortunately, I told myself.
I took a deep breath, went back to the kitchen. “Found it!” I said, too loudly. Grace was already by the door. I handed her the memo, which she took without comment. Still too loud, for Chris’s benefit? For mine, say it and make it so? I added, “Hey, try to remember these things during school hours next time, okay?” She looked at me, and the hurt, the sense of betrayal in her eyes was palpable. But it was for her good, as well as mine. Taking things further would not do her good, my selfishness, I told myself. In a softer voice, I added, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Without saying anything, she turned and left, and I heard Chris call behind me, “Nice meeting you, Grace,” but Grace was gone.
I turned back to the kitchen, shut the door. Saw my wine glass over by the cheese and walked to it, sipped long. “Looks like you have an admirer,” Chris commented.
*****