open
my eyes. A scream died in my throat. The paper flew out of my hand. I watched
it flutter to the floor.
Someone knocked.
I froze.
The knock came
again, harder. Georgie? Or a student? I checked my watch. Not even a whole
minute had passed.
I opened my
compact and fixed my make-up, wiping away the smudges under my eyes. After
putting on fresh lipstick, a strange calm came over me. When I opened the door,
I found three of my students waiting outside.
I looked up and
down the hall and didn’t see Georgie.
I waited by the
door, as students straggled in. There were five so far. “Sit at a desk that has
a book on it,” I told them.
When I got to
seven students and still no Georgie, my pulse soared. Just two more students to
go. But I rarely had perfect attendance. If they weren’t all safely accounted
for inside, I couldn’t lock the door, in case someone came late.
I checked my
watch. One and half minutes past the hour.
I knew I was
asking for trouble but I closed my eyes and gave a silent prayer. Please
God, let me give my last class in peace. Without Georgie. I hate her. No,
scratch that. Sorry, I don’t hate anyone. A lump formed in my throat. I
heard Dr. Ess in my head, “You are not a victim.”
I took a deep
breath and opened the door wider.
“I was hoping to
see everyone tonight,” I said, glancing at the two empty desks. Looking for
Alaska , by John Green and Stephen King’s Joyland hadn’t been taken.
I cleared my throat. There was a sound behind me. I turned to see the last two
students coming through the door.
There is a
God .
I ushered them
inside, as if into a bomb shelter with the sky already exploding. I turned the
lock, feeling guilty. But not guilty enough.
“Does everyone
like their books?” I said. “Each of you has a copy of one of my favorite books.
Which brings me to tonight’s topic.” I went to my valise and took out my
battered copy of Wuthering Heights . I showed it to them. I asked a woman
in front to read the title.
She started to
sound it out. Recognition lit her face.
“You’re familiar
with the story?” I said.
She nodded.
When I asked who
else had heard of Wuthering Heights , only one other woman raised her
hand. “I saw it on TV,” she said.
I set the book
on my desk. “Everyone argues over what the story is really about,” I said,
standing in front of them. “The thing to remember is…it’s about whatever you think it’s about.”
They laughed.
“I want to tell
you what happened to me when I was twelve, which is the first time I read Wuthering
Heights . My mother was taken away. I lived for the day I would see her
again. But she got sick. No one told me. And then she died. I didn’t get to say
good-bye.”
I saw empathy in
their upturned faces.
“I know it
sounds unreal,” I said. “But it gets worse. I got sick too and I had to be in
the hospital for a long time. The story of Catherine and Heathcliff and their
star-crossed love saved me. I got transported to their world, away from the
misery of my own. And the characters in the book felt what I felt. It didn’t
matter that they lived over a hundred years ago, in northern England, or that
they loved with passion while I had never even been kissed. Their pain was so
raw and—”
There was a loud
knock on the door.
“Do you have to
get that?” one of my students said.
“We want to hear
the rest of your story,” another said.
“Maybe they’ll
go away,” the biker with a braided beard said.
But I heard the
sound of a key being inserted into the lock. “I just wanted you to know,” I
said, in a rush. “Books can save your life .”
The door burst
open and Georgie was there, standing in the doorway with one of the janitors. “Everything
okay in here?” he scanned the room suspiciously.
I feigned
surprise. “Did the door get stuck again?”
Georgie glared.
Her perfect hair was slightly mussed. Her lipstick had worn off. I imagined her
traipsing up and down the halls. I smiled
my eyes. A scream died in my throat. The paper flew out of my hand. I watched
it flutter to the floor.
Someone knocked.
I froze.
The knock came
again, harder. Georgie? Or a student? I checked my watch. Not even a whole
minute had passed.
I opened my
compact and fixed my make-up, wiping away the smudges under my eyes. After
putting on fresh lipstick, a strange calm came over me. When I opened the door,
I found three of my students waiting outside.
I looked up and
down the hall and didn’t see Georgie.
I waited by the
door, as students straggled in. There were five so far. “Sit at a desk that has
a book on it,” I told them.
When I got to
seven students and still no Georgie, my pulse soared. Just two more students to
go. But I rarely had perfect attendance. If they weren’t all safely accounted
for inside, I couldn’t lock the door, in case someone came late.
I checked my
watch. One and half minutes past the hour.
I knew I was
asking for trouble but I closed my eyes and gave a silent prayer. Please
God, let me give my last class in peace. Without Georgie. I hate her. No,
scratch that. Sorry, I don’t hate anyone. A lump formed in my throat. I
heard Dr. Ess in my head, “You are not a victim.”
I took a deep
breath and opened the door wider.
“I was hoping to
see everyone tonight,” I said, glancing at the two empty desks. Looking for
Alaska , by John Green and Stephen King’s Joyland hadn’t been taken.
I cleared my throat. There was a sound behind me. I turned to see the last two
students coming through the door.
There is a
God .
I ushered them
inside, as if into a bomb shelter with the sky already exploding. I turned the
lock, feeling guilty. But not guilty enough.
“Does everyone
like their books?” I said. “Each of you has a copy of one of my favorite books.
Which brings me to tonight’s topic.” I went to my valise and took out my
battered copy of Wuthering Heights . I showed it to them. I asked a woman
in front to read the title.
She started to
sound it out. Recognition lit her face.
“You’re familiar
with the story?” I said.
She nodded.
When I asked who
else had heard of Wuthering Heights , only one other woman raised her
hand. “I saw it on TV,” she said.
I set the book
on my desk. “Everyone argues over what the story is really about,” I said,
standing in front of them. “The thing to remember is…it’s about whatever you think it’s about.”
They laughed.
“I want to tell
you what happened to me when I was twelve, which is the first time I read Wuthering
Heights . My mother was taken away. I lived for the day I would see her
again. But she got sick. No one told me. And then she died. I didn’t get to say
good-bye.”
I saw empathy in
their upturned faces.
“I know it
sounds unreal,” I said. “But it gets worse. I got sick too and I had to be in
the hospital for a long time. The story of Catherine and Heathcliff and their
star-crossed love saved me. I got transported to their world, away from the
misery of my own. And the characters in the book felt what I felt. It didn’t
matter that they lived over a hundred years ago, in northern England, or that
they loved with passion while I had never even been kissed. Their pain was so
raw and—”
There was a loud
knock on the door.
“Do you have to
get that?” one of my students said.
“We want to hear
the rest of your story,” another said.
“Maybe they’ll
go away,” the biker with a braided beard said.
But I heard the
sound of a key being inserted into the lock. “I just wanted you to know,” I
said, in a rush. “Books can save your life .”
The door burst
open and Georgie was there, standing in the doorway with one of the janitors. “Everything
okay in here?” he scanned the room suspiciously.
I feigned
surprise. “Did the door get stuck again?”
Georgie glared.
Her perfect hair was slightly mussed. Her lipstick had worn off. I imagined her
traipsing up and down the halls. I smiled
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