like a tuning fork perpetually vibrating at his frequency. It happened suddenly: one day I barely noticed it and the next it felt like it had always been there and I would never be able to shake it.
Some mornings I’d see him in the hallway before class and quickly look away before it took hold; other days he’d notice me and smile and for the next hour I’d ache inside. After a few weeks I knew his schedule, and some days I would take detours just so I had the chance to glimpse the back of his head.
In class I was still mostly quiet, but Lila talked enough for both of us, and now and then I’d roll my eyes at him while she was rambling. Lila said smart things, which I hoped cast a reflected glow on me, but she also just
talked,
like ordinary people did, whereas I, in my silence, contained mysteries. He looked at me often, gauging my reactions to things—more often, I was sure, than he looked at the others. He teased me like he teased everyone, but now I looked forward to it; I could usually get a laugh from the class with a well-timed expression.
No one seemed to notice except Lila; my mother was happy that I was working on the newspaper, and my dad was happy that I was happy. I hadn’t been happy at school in a long time.
I made up excuses to talk to him or seek him out. It wasn’t hard; we had lunch after English, and
Truth Bomb
got quiet if I hung around long enough after school. He usually left as late as the last student did, and I had been working up the nerve to stay last. I still preferred to talk to him with Lila buffering our conversations, but I was getting braver.
—
“Mr. Drummond?” I’d thought of something to ask him after English. It felt odd using his title; no one ever called him that. It was usually “Drummond” or, more often, “dude.”
He looked amused. “Yes, Chuck?”
“Sorry to bug you if you’re busy—”
“I’m never that busy,” he said, shoving his papers aside with a flourish. “What’s up?”
I hovered by his desk. “I just wanted to ask about the paper…”
“Sit down,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable.”
“Oh, okay.” I pulled a chair over and sat on the edge of it. “I wanted to ask about the favorite books thing.”
“Sure.” He picked up a tennis ball on his desk and tossed it into the air. “What about it?”
I cleared my throat. “You remember how I read
The Brothers Karamazov.
”
“Oh yes,” he said. “I may even remember it better than you do.”
I looked at him and he grinned and said, “Sorry,” but he didn’t look sorry at all.
“Right,” I said. “The thing is, I loved it so much that reading it once really wasn’t enough.”
“You didn’t get enough of the parts in Russia, you mean.”
“Yeah, exactly.”
“
More Russia,
you said as you finished a nine-hundred-page novel about Russia.
There just wasn’t enough Russia in that for me.
”
“Uh-huh. So I wondered if you would make an exception and allow me to, uh, reread it for my paper.”
“Well, what aspect of it were you hoping to get more insight into? Besides Russia.”
“The, uh…” I felt myself cracking. “The acrobats.”
“The acrobats.”
“Yes. Their…plight.”
“So what you took away from reading
The Brothers Karamazov
was that it in some way involved a circus.”
“At the turn of the century. Is that wrong?”
“Oh no,” he said. “Just like
Madame Bovary
is about a cow who wants to be human.”
I laughed; I couldn’t help it. That made him laugh too.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was nervous. I didn’t mean to lie.”
“You know, I’d expect this behavior from Lila, but not from you.”
“Lila doesn’t have the class to pretend to have read
The Brothers Karamazov.
”
He laughed at that, a low chuckle that made a shiver of pleasure run down my arms. “Fine, ‘reread’ it if you want, you glutton for punishment.”
“Thanks?” I said; it came out like a question.
“You’re welcome? But I hope,
Some mornings I’d see him in the hallway before class and quickly look away before it took hold; other days he’d notice me and smile and for the next hour I’d ache inside. After a few weeks I knew his schedule, and some days I would take detours just so I had the chance to glimpse the back of his head.
In class I was still mostly quiet, but Lila talked enough for both of us, and now and then I’d roll my eyes at him while she was rambling. Lila said smart things, which I hoped cast a reflected glow on me, but she also just
talked,
like ordinary people did, whereas I, in my silence, contained mysteries. He looked at me often, gauging my reactions to things—more often, I was sure, than he looked at the others. He teased me like he teased everyone, but now I looked forward to it; I could usually get a laugh from the class with a well-timed expression.
No one seemed to notice except Lila; my mother was happy that I was working on the newspaper, and my dad was happy that I was happy. I hadn’t been happy at school in a long time.
I made up excuses to talk to him or seek him out. It wasn’t hard; we had lunch after English, and
Truth Bomb
got quiet if I hung around long enough after school. He usually left as late as the last student did, and I had been working up the nerve to stay last. I still preferred to talk to him with Lila buffering our conversations, but I was getting braver.
—
“Mr. Drummond?” I’d thought of something to ask him after English. It felt odd using his title; no one ever called him that. It was usually “Drummond” or, more often, “dude.”
He looked amused. “Yes, Chuck?”
“Sorry to bug you if you’re busy—”
“I’m never that busy,” he said, shoving his papers aside with a flourish. “What’s up?”
I hovered by his desk. “I just wanted to ask about the paper…”
“Sit down,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable.”
“Oh, okay.” I pulled a chair over and sat on the edge of it. “I wanted to ask about the favorite books thing.”
“Sure.” He picked up a tennis ball on his desk and tossed it into the air. “What about it?”
I cleared my throat. “You remember how I read
The Brothers Karamazov.
”
“Oh yes,” he said. “I may even remember it better than you do.”
I looked at him and he grinned and said, “Sorry,” but he didn’t look sorry at all.
“Right,” I said. “The thing is, I loved it so much that reading it once really wasn’t enough.”
“You didn’t get enough of the parts in Russia, you mean.”
“Yeah, exactly.”
“
More Russia,
you said as you finished a nine-hundred-page novel about Russia.
There just wasn’t enough Russia in that for me.
”
“Uh-huh. So I wondered if you would make an exception and allow me to, uh, reread it for my paper.”
“Well, what aspect of it were you hoping to get more insight into? Besides Russia.”
“The, uh…” I felt myself cracking. “The acrobats.”
“The acrobats.”
“Yes. Their…plight.”
“So what you took away from reading
The Brothers Karamazov
was that it in some way involved a circus.”
“At the turn of the century. Is that wrong?”
“Oh no,” he said. “Just like
Madame Bovary
is about a cow who wants to be human.”
I laughed; I couldn’t help it. That made him laugh too.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was nervous. I didn’t mean to lie.”
“You know, I’d expect this behavior from Lila, but not from you.”
“Lila doesn’t have the class to pretend to have read
The Brothers Karamazov.
”
He laughed at that, a low chuckle that made a shiver of pleasure run down my arms. “Fine, ‘reread’ it if you want, you glutton for punishment.”
“Thanks?” I said; it came out like a question.
“You’re welcome? But I hope,
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