I wasn‘t sure it was all about David. David was Mr. Anderson‘s TA, and so I couldn‘t help but see him every day. We said hello, and he tried talking me into being on the homecoming decorating committee so I could meet other people. I begged off with the excuse that I lived so far away, blah, blah, blah. Eventually, he stopped trying but was still friendly enough and that was fine.
Still, Danielle never wasted an opportunity to make some kind of snarky remark.
When Dewerman got it into his head that we would do this extra project all about creativity and suicide, that was, of course, all my fault. We were supposed to pick a name from a list of famous writers who‘d killed themselves and then figure out if there was something in what they‘d written that explained why suicide was an option for them. Thank God, Grandma wasn‘t on the list. Not even Dewerman was that clueless.
―Be creative, people,‖ Dewerman said. ―I want you to decide for yourselves whether what you‘re reading is great literature or simply called great because the author checked out. Examine the web of connections that make up a person‘s life and then follow the strands, see if they really are connected.‖
Confusion. One guy raised his hand. ―Uhm . . . but what‘s the assignment?‖
―Socrates said the unexamined life is not worth living. Is the only reason we read these books because a critic tells us to?‖
―No,‖ said some wit, ―because it‘s assigned.‖
Danielle, scowling at me but talking to Dewerman: ―So, I‘m confused. Does this mean you want us to write a paper or maybe a poem or something in that writer‘s style, or paint a picture or what?‖
―Yes,‖ said Dewerman, which set off another gust of laughter and only made Danielle shoot more death rays my way.
To date, I hadn‘t chosen anyone from Dewerman‘s dwindling list. I don‘t know what I was waiting for. Inspiration, maybe. Or maybe I figured my person would be the writer no one else wanted, which would be fine.
c
I know you‘ll find this hard to believe, Bob, but despite how nice he was, I avoided Mr. Anderson, too. Maybe my lizard brain— the part that tells you when to run and when to blend into the scenery—was sending up flares or something. Or I was keeping my head down, I don‘t know. I just wanted to get through the day with a minimum of drama.
But avoidance isn‘t the same as being oblivious. I wasn‘t. I . . . I watched him. From my spot behind glass in the library, mostly, or if the librarian wasn‘t there when I arrived in the morning, I waited outside, on the curb, out of sight. That way, I could watch as Mr.
Anderson came in from his morning run (Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays) or bike ride (Tuesdays and Thursdays). The woods were west of campus, so when Mr. Anderson burst from the woods, the rising sun caught and held and turned him golden, like a Roman god. I liked watching him move, the glide of his body parting the air, the cords of his muscles as they worked. You could see how strong he was. He might have suspected I was there, but he never let on and didn‘t look my way. When I walked to my locker every morning, there was always music swelling from his classroom—jazz, classical, opera, some oldies—and I could smell him, fresh from his shower: wet and dark green and mysterious as the woods.
Yet, in class, he treated me like everyone else, so much so that our very first hour together on that first day took on the quality of a story I‘d told myself. Not a lie, but not exactly real either.
I also wasn‘t the only one to notice him. One day when he announced that he‘d be looking for a new TA, a girl beside me muttered she‘d be happy to assist Mr. Anderson any way he wanted. Which made all the girls snicker, even Danielle. Not me, though.
I made it to lunch maybe twice a week, whenever I could screw up the courage to wolf down a sandwich at a corner table where no one else sat. David threw the occasional meaningful look, usually when Danielle was busy gabbing with one of her minions, but my gaze always skipped away. Mr. Anderson would glance my way, maybe nod or smile but never approached in front of the other kids. I like to think he was sensitive enough to know how that would make me look more pathetic than I already felt. Since he had cafeteria duty three times a week, he knew I skipped lunch more times than not. Considering I had gym the period before, my go-to excuse—showering, changing back into school clothes—was legit. For the rest of the lunch period, I also got to know the graffiti in just about every stall in every bathroom.
Maybe two weeks after school started, though, I had a close call. The first bell had already rung, and I was stepping out of the bathroom, figuring to scoot to the library for study hall, when I looked up and saw Ms. Sherman standing there, her arms folded over her chest. She aimed a forefinger. ―You were supposed to stop by my office last week. We had an appointment right after lunch, if you remember. I know you got the slip. Why have you been avoiding me, Jenna?‖
―Uh . . .‖ Had I gotten a slip? I couldn‘t remember. ―I‘m . . .‖
―Ms. Lord?‖ Both Ms. Sherman and I turned as Mr. Anderson came up. ―Ms. Lord, what are you doing? We need to get started. . . . Oh, hey, Rosalie. I‘m sorry, did you need Ms. Lord? Can it wait?‖
―Well.‖ Ms. Sherman looked as surprised as I felt. ―I was just checking in. She missed an appointment.‖ To me: ―So you‘ve been helping Mr. Anderson during your study halls?‖
―Uh,‖ I said. ―Some?‖ Had I made that sound like a question?
―She‘s been great,‖ Mr. Anderson said. ―I keep asking her to be my TA, but she‘s playing hard-to-get.‖ He lifted his eyebrows as he looked at me. ―So? Today?‖
―Oh.‖ I tried again. ―Sure.‖
―Well then, I won‘t keep you, Jenna,‖ said Ms. Sherman. ―It sounds like you‘re adjusting and things are going fine.‖
―Yeah,‖ I said, finally. I know: very articulate. ―Things are great.‖
―Excellent. Don‘t look back,‖ Mr. Anderson said as we took the stairs. The tardy bell rang and the halls emptied except for one or two stragglers. When we got to his room, he said, ―Well, here‘s where I get off. You‘re welcome to work here during your study hall, you know that. Or—‖ His lips twitched into a grin. ―Eat the sandwich you haven‘t gotten out of your locker yet.‖
I didn‘t know if I should thank him. ―Why did you do that?‖
He shrugged. ―You looked like you could use the rescue. She was hassling you.
People like The Tank make me tired. She means well, but I can‘t think of anything worse than being constantly reminded of things you‘d rather forget. What exactly does she think you‘re going to say, anyway?‖