Page 13 of The Teacher
But apparently, I need to shave for Kenzie.
I try to ignore her as I stomp off in the direction of the showers. As usual, I barely even get wet before Ijump back out and wrap my towel back around my body and my hairy legs. The only thing keeping me going these days is my English class with Mr. Bennett. And the fact that it’s the last period of the day makes me look forward to it all the more.
I think Mr. Bennett likes me too. In trig class, Mrs. Bennett seems perpetually disappointed in me (which is fair enough since I don’t understand a lot of what’s going on in the class), but Mr. Bennett responds to all my answers with enthusiastic nods. Even Mr. Tuttle wasn’t as encouraging as he is.
And anyway, this is a completely different situation. I’m not going to think about Mr. Tuttle anymore.
When I get to English class, Mr. Bennett is sitting at his desk like he always is. He’s wearing a light blue shirt, paired with a darker blue tie. Not all my teachers wear ties, but I like it that Mr. Bennett wears one. It suits him. As the students start filtering into the room, he looks up and flashes a smile. He is the sort of teacher who genuinely enjoys what he does. Sometimes my teachers act like they wish they were anywhere but school.
Not that I can’t relate to that feeling. But somehow knowing that he wants to be here makesmewant to be here.
Once the students are seated, Mr. Bennett comes around the side of his desk and sits on it, like he always does. And he places his hands on his knees, like he always does. He has large knuckles. I’ve noticed that about him.
“I graded the poems you wrote,” he tells us. “I’ll return them after class, but I want to say, in general, it was a good effort. And I want to reiterate the fact that poems do not necessarily need to rhyme. But…” His eyes rest on Austin Vargas in the third row. “For the record, ‘barf’ does not rhyme with ‘fart,’ okay?”
There is a smattering of laughter. I’m not surprised that Austin would make a poem involving potty humor. Frankly, I would expect it from a lot of my classmates. It annoys me that there are people not taking this class seriously. I don’t intend to be one of them.
At the end of the lesson, Mr. Bennett walks down the aisles and hands out our poems with comments at the top. My stomach is filled with butterflies, waiting to see what he thought of what I wrote. It was a very personal poem, and I spent hours on it, even though it’s only a page long. I hope he can see how much effort I put into it.
Except when Mr. Bennett reaches my desk, he finds the paper on which I wrote my poem, places it in front of me face down, and taps his index finger against it.
I stare down at the page, confused. He’s been handing out all the poems face up, and mine alone was placed face down. Was that a mistake?
Slowly, I pick up the paper and turn it over. Right away, I recognize his handwriting at the top of the page in red ink.See me after class.
That’s not good.
Why does he want to see me after class? Does he think that Icopiedthe poem? I didn’t copy it. I would never. I extracted it from my verysoul.
But for whatever reason, he found my poem troubling. He wants to talk to me “after class.” And I’m not sure I want to hear what he has to say.
Chapter Eleven
EVE
I amat the grocery store after school, poking at avocados in the produce department, when I spot him.
Art Tuttle.
He’s wearing a turtleneck, which strikes me as oddly casual. Nate always wears a dress shirt and tie to school, and although Art wasn’t nearly as formal, he did always wear a nice shirt. The turtleneck seems out of place. Plus it’s a little too tight for his Santa Claus belly. And even stranger, he’s got on a pair of open-toed sandals, which he is of course wearing with a pair of white gym socks. He has a plastic bag filled with oranges gripped in his right hand, which also strikes me as odd because I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him eat an orange in all the time I’ve known him. And we have shared many, many lunches together and even a few dinners.
“Eve.” He manages a smile that doesn’t show his teeth, which is strange because Art used to have the toothiest smile I’d ever seen. “Hello. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine.” I smile, although it feels crooked on my face, like I’ve forgotten how to smile. “How areyoudoing, Art?”
I promised myself if I ran into Art, I wouldn’t say it that way. With a tilt of my head, like he’s somebody I’m visiting in a mental hospital. Like I feel sorry for him.
Except Idofeel sorry for him.
The whole mess started at the middle of the second semester of last year. It all started with thatgirl—Addie Severson. I don’t know the entire story, but all of a sudden, everyone was whispering that Art Tuttle was hooking up with one of the sophomores. The first time I heard that rumor, it was like being punched in the gut. Art was like a father figure to me, especially since my own father and I barely speak. I had heard stories of other teachers behaving inappropriately with other female students, but I didn’t expect it from Art. Never him.
But the evidence was pretty damn suspicious. Addie had been struggling in math class, which doesn’t surprise me based on what I’ve seen so far from her, and he spent several hours of his own free time tutoring her to help her with the material, free of charge. He invited the girl over to his house for dinner on more than one occasion. And he drove her home multiple times.
Add that to the fact that Addie was a troubled girl. The daughter of an abusive alcoholic who finally drank himself to death during the fall semester. Everyone felt that she was an obvious target for a predatory teacher.
And then…
Well, something else happened.
