I Knew You'd Be Lovely by Alethea Black

He’d always encouraged his students to be candid and direct, and his expression implied he was pleased that someone had finally taken him up on it.
    â€œJust not for me, I suppose.”
    â€œI know what you mean,” Ginny said. “I feel that way about eggplant.”
    Mr. Hennessey clicked his tongue. “Now that’s a pity. That means you won’t be able to sample my beer-battered fried eggplant extraordinaire.”
    â€œI hope you’re kidding,” Ginny said. “Wow, you’reserious? How about just a beer, minus the eggplant extraordinaire.”
    Mr. Hennessey rose to his feet. “All right, Virginia,” he said. “But it’s your loss.”
    Two beers later, she was feeling much more relaxed. Mr. Hennessey had put on a Tom Waits CD, and Ginny thought he had the saddest yet most hopeful voice she’d ever heard.
    â€œMr. Hennessey, would you mind if I asked you a question?”
    â€œOn one condition: You have to stop calling me Mr. Hennessey. You make me feel as if it’s still 1987. We need to bring ourselves up to date.”
    Ginny offered her hand. “Deal,” she said. She took a breath. “Arthur, do you think the good things human beings have done outweigh the hideous things?”
    Mr. Hennessey nearly spilled his beer. “What the hell kind of question is that?”
    â€œThe kind my kids ask. That’s from Julia, who’s an ace, but so shy. She writes these ingenious paragraphs about the overlooked dross of the world, but never makes a peep in class. Then the other day she finally spoke up, and I let her down. I couldn’t help her,” Ginny said. “It was awful.”
    â€œI’ll tell you what I think: It only takes one moment of perfection to atone for a lifetime of waste.”
    Ginny sat up as if he’d slapped her. “Perfection? I beg your pardon? Aren’t you the man whose blackboardperennially read:
Strive for perfection, but learn to work with imperfection?
You taught us perfection was a chimera. I thought it was a fiction.”
    â€œSo did I,” he said. “But I was wrong. Perfection isn’t outside us. Perfection is a way of seeing.”
    Ginny fell silent.
You were less cryptic before you became enlightened
, she wanted to say, but the lines on his face appeared freshly earnest, as if each were the receipt for some suffering, and she changed her mind. Mr. Hennessey split the caps off two fresh bottles and handed her one. She thought about declining, not certain what it would mean in terms of her drive home, but she accepted, and clinked her bottle to his.
    â€œTo perfection,” she said.
    â€œTo 1987,” said Mr. Hennessey.
    While Mr. Hennessey was in the bathroom, Ginny realized she was drunk. It felt good; it felt as if she’d needed to get drunk for a long time.
    â€œPersonally, I think the whole endeavor is overrated,” she said as he reclaimed his place beside her.
    â€œWhich endeavor is that?”
    â€œLife. The pursuit of happiness. Love.”
    â€œIs that so.”
    â€œThat is definitely so. I swear by it. My kids, for example. My class. They’re so suspicious and disengaged. I think they sense something insincere in me, and they hate it. They hate my class.”
    â€œ
Is
there something insincere in you?”
    â€œNo. Well, yes. I mean, teaching. I’m not sure I want to be a teacher anymore.”
    The words hung in the air; Mr. Hennessey didn’t seem to have a response. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to burden you with all this stuff. I just thought you might have some advice.”
    He leaned back against the couch. “Tell me,” he said. “What do you think will become of Julia?” She didn’t blame him for changing the subject; she hadn’t meant to dump her life in his lap.
    â€œI don’t know. She’s so sensitive, I worry. I think either she’ll have to