Page 37 of The Teacher
Nathaniel and Adeline. We sound like a couple from hundreds of years ago.
I’ve heard other teachers refer to him as Nate. If we were friends, that’s probably what I would call him. But since we’re not actually friends, I will still be calling him Mr. Bennett.
“Thank you again,” I tell him as he starts the engine.
“No problem.” He pulls out of his parking spot, the wiper blades furiously swishing back and forth. “Couldn’t let you walk home in this mess. And I’m not in any rush. Eve is going out with a friend tonight.”
I sit beside him as he navigates onto the road. I told him my address, and he seems to know how to get there without his GPS. So I sit there, playing with a loose thread on the seam of my jeans. I’m trying to think of something to say conversation wise, but everything in my head just seems so completely lame. I mean, I’m sixteen years old. I don’t think there’s anything interesting I can say to him. Usually, when we talk, it’s about poetry, but that conversation seems out of place here.
“So,” he finally says, “is the person who put shaving cream in your locker the same one who ruined your clothes?”
I hesitate for a moment before nodding. I submitted my letter to Kenzie in lieu of an assignment, although to be honest, some of the angry thoughts were aimed at Mrs. Bennett as well. Mr. Bennett never graded it or returned it to me, but when I handed it in, he said to me,I bet it felt good to write that.
It really did.
But not as good as it would feel todoall those things.
“I’m sorry that’s been happening to you,” he says. “You don’t deserve to be treated that way. Nobody does. And you should know, there’s nothing wrong with standing up for yourself.”
“It’s kind of hard to stand up for myself when the other person has their own posse.”
I brace myself, waiting for some sort of motivational lecture like I get from every adult, but instead Mr. Bennett just nods. “I’m not gonna lie. Sometimes high school sucks.”
“I’m sure it didn’t suck for you.”
“Hmm. I don’t think you realize what it was like to be a sixteen-year-old boy who enjoyed writing poetry.”
Despite everything, I have to laugh. It’s hard to imagine Mr. Bennett being sixteen years old like me. But there are times he seems very young. I can almost imagine him being a teenager, sitting under that tree outside the school, writing poems.
“What was the first poem you ever wrote?” I ask him.
My face burns slightly, wondering if I asked him a stupid question, but he doesn’t act like he thinks it’s stupid. He purses his lips like he’s thinking about the answer. I give myself permission to look at him, and I notice a little healing cut on his chin from when he must’ve been shaving this morning. A lot of the boys in my class don’t shave yet, and they just have scattered strands of this gross scraggly hair on their chins.
“I wrote a poem when I was six,” he says. “For my mom, for Mother’s Day. She hung it up on the refrigerator, and it was there for years, so I still remember it. Let me think.I love my mom, and I know why. She makes me food so I don’t die.”
“That’s, like, the cutest thing ever,” I squeal.
“I know. I was adorable.” He grins at me. “How about you?”
“I don’t think I wrote anything quite that cute. Anyway, I didn’t become a serious poet until I was in high school.” Now my face feels like it’s on fire. “I didn’t mean to say I’m a poet or anything. I’m not. I just mean that I didn’t start writing poetry seriously until then. Sort of serious.”
“You are a poet though.” The smile drops off hisface. “Don’t say you’re not because you absolutely are. More than a lot of adults who claim to be.”
I squeeze my hands between my knees. Sometimes adults say things that are patronizing, but this doesn’t sound like that. He sounds like he truly means it.
I almost feel sad when my house comes into view. I feel like I could talk to Mr. Bennett in the car for the next hour or two. Usually when I’m in the car with my mom, I turn on the radio because talking can get awkward, but I didn’t feel the urge to do that at all with Mr. Bennett.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say as he pulls up to my curb.
“It was my pleasure.”
He throws the car into park, and for a split second, it almost feels like the two of us are on a date and he’s dropping me off at home at the end of the evening. It’s so preposterous, but at the same time, it feels that way. And for a moment, I almost feel like I’m supposed to lean in for a good-night kiss.
But that would be ridiculous.
“Thank you again.” I grab my bag off the floor and open the door to the car. “Really.”
“Any time, Addie.”
