Page 27 of I Wish I Would've Chosen You

I’m tempted to raise my hand, but I don’t.

“Good,” he says, passing out copies. “This piece touches on his experiences at a boarding school. He frames them in a unique way that some of you may relate to.”

“He hated boarding school as much as I do…” I mutter.

“What was that, Miss Edwards?”

“Nothing.” I clear my throat. “I was saying that, uh, I think his piece is more about class and wealth than a boarding school experience. It’s also been debunked as exaggeration.”

“So, youhaveread it before?”

“She’s read everything before, Mr. Donovan.” Charlotte Peters says, sighing. “That’s why her only friends at this school are books and magazines. She doesn’t know how to talk about anything else.”

The other mentees laugh, and I lean back in my chair.

“Fair enough,” Mr. Donovan says, looking at me. “Well, there’s always something new to find in a book, no matter how many times you reread it. Just try to approach it with fresh eyes since it’s new for everyone else.”

“Okay.” I nod.

His lips curve into a smile, but he doesn’t let it stay. Instead, he moves on to the next topic.

To my surprise, the rest of the conversation unfolds over laughter, and by the time the session ends, I can’t say that I hate this new mentorship program.

I just hatehim.

“If anyone has issues that can’t be discussed via email, you can call me,” he says. “You’re free to go if you don’t have questions.”

Mandy Walsh and I stay behind.

While she peppers him with genuine questions regarding the blind spots of authors in the Victorian era, I pour myself a cup of English Breakfast tea.

When she leaves, I’m left alone with him.

“How may I help you, Miss Edwards?” he asks.

“You left a note on my last paper about being concerned with my progress in your class,” I say. “I just want to know if that’s a veiled threat about failing me.”

“It’s not a threat at all.”

“Is itpromise?”

“No.” He smiles, temporarily disarming me. Then he motions for me to follow him down the hall.

There are no family photographs hanging on his walls, only a few city images, framed degrees, and the word “Start Over” in cursive.

“I’ve finished reading all the work left over from Mr. Jenkins, and I realized you’re months ahead on assignments, so…” He pulls down a thick white and blue book, Phillip Lopate’sThe Art of the Personal Essay. “This will help you with the second semester’s coursework and help you frame your thesis.”

“Thank you.” I look at him. “If you’re finished reading, does that mean you’ve graded the work, too?”

“I have,” he says. “You have all A’s, with a few A-minuses.”

“In that case, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you,” I say.

“I’m listening.”

“I didn’t appreciate the way you talked down on me in class the other day.”

“What are you talking about?”

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