Page 92 of The Lineman

She cackled as I scrambled to clean up the mess, wheezing like she’d never been more entertained in her entire life.

I grabbed my jacket, practically running for the door.

“Goodnight, my dear!” she called after me. “Give that lineman a kiss for me! And take the bloody picture! Assholes work, too. I love a good pucker.”

I slammed the door behind me, my entire body burning with embarrassment.

And yet, somehow, I left her house feeling a little lighter.

Chapter twenty-seven

Mike

“Andthat,”Isaid,tapping a dog-eared paperback against my desk, “is why Victor Frankenstein isn’t the tragic hero you all keep telling me he is.”

The classroom groaned as a collective unit. A few students leaned back in their chairs, their faces painted with the unmistakable exhaustion of too many literary discussions in one semester.

“Come on, Mr. Albert,” Ryan groaned from the back row, his football jersey threatening to swallow him despite his broad shoulders. “You’re telling me I just wrote a whole essay about his tragic downfall for nothing?”

“Not for nothing,” I said. “For a grade. Which, I remind you, I still have to read, so let’s hope you made a compelling argument.”

A few students snickered.

From her seat in the front row, Jessica sighed dramatically, propping her chin in her hand as she gave me the look—the one she saved just for class discussions where she pretendedFrankensteinwas just so dreamy because I was the one explaining it.

“Honestly,” she mused, “I think this whole conversation is kind of romantic. The doomed scientist chasing after his creation, the desperate pursuit across the ice . . .” She let out a wistful sigh. “If only my love life had that kind of intensity. Mr. Albert, how could we work on that?”

The room erupted into laughter, and I resisted the urge to rub my temples.

“Well, Jessica,” I said, keeping my tone even, “I sincerely hope your future relationships are less full of death and revenge.”

Jessica sighed. “A girl can dream.”

“Okay, moving on,” I said. “Final test on Frankenstein is in two days. It’ll be mostly short answer and essay, so make sure you’re reviewing major themes. I’ll post some review questions online, but if you actually read the book”—I made pointed eye contact with the back row of athletes, who immediately avoided my gaze—“you should be fine.”

“Should be fine,” groaned Lucas, another football player. “That’s what you said last time, and I got a seventy-two.”

“That’s because you wrote your entire essay about themovieversion ofFrankenstein, Lucas.”

He frowned. “There’s a difference?”

The room exploded into laughter again.

I shook my head. “Study. Seriously. And no CliffsNotes. They won’t be good enough. We’ll go over sample questions tomorrow. And”—I raised a hand before anyone could groan—“if you really need help, come see me after class.”

The bell rang, and chairs scraped against the floor as students gathered their things. Some made a beeline for the door, while others shuffled more slowly, talking in groups.

Jamie lingered.

He packed his bag methodically, movements slow and deliberate, like he wasn’t in a hurry to leave.

Despite my stomach growling and mouth watering at the thought of the leftover Chinese I brought for lunch, I leaned against my desk and watched the last few students drift out.

“Jamie,” I said. “Something on your mind?”

He hesitated, then glanced toward the door, where a few kids were still milling around in the hallway.

“Can I—?” He shifted his weight. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

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