Teach Me by Lola Darling Page A

of
all places, most of them majoring in bloody poetry, without being
able to formulate a simple sentence?
    It’s
not entirely their fault. The school system tries to trick them into
throwing in huge vocabulary words and long, rambling, purple prose,
because from primary school on, they’re
rewarded for every extraneous word with a gold star. It’s
like Pavlov’s dogs,
only it creates terrible writers instead of salivating canines.
    I
narrowed it down to twelve decent essays first. Good enough that I
would grant them all top marks on a normal grading scale. But one
writer among them stood out, I decided by Sunday morning. They made a
compelling argument as to Heaney’s
authorial intentions. They showed a keen understanding of his work,
the nuances and the straightforward statements alike.
    More
than that, they threw in some additional references, casually, not in
a bragging sort of way. Just enough to show that they had done their
homework, researched the hell out of Heaney above and beyond the
required reading.
    That’s
the sort of assistant I need. Someone who will go above and beyond
for Eliot, someone who won’t
stop digging until they uncover all the answers.
    Now,
I just have to pray that whoever the student is, they’re
as deeply interested in Eliot as they were in Heaney.
    That,
and of course, I have to pray that of all the gin joints in all the
towns, she won’t
step into mine. Or, to word it less stereotypically, I have to hope I
didn’t just choose,
out of almost fifty possible candidates, the one student I ethically
should not select.
    Except,
would it be ethical to not select her, just because I can’t
stop picturing her naked and spread-eagled in my bed?
    I
wanted to do that, honestly. Just write her off. I would have,
actually, if I hadn’t
run into her semi-drunk after the dinner with Kat and blatantly
started flirting all over again, then stormed home after abandoning
her on the steps of the Bodleian to send an email out to the whole
class, asking them all to submit their essays anonymously. At least
this way I couldn’t
be tempted to do exactly what I wanted to do.
    Push
this girl as far away from me as possible.
    It’s
fine, I tell myself.
There are forty-seven people here, none of whom look as terrified
about poetry as she did on day one (never mind that now, of course, I
realize exactly why she looked so terrified). It
won’t
be her.
    Still,
my stomach ties itself in knots as I watch the class file in. My eyes
keep flicking to the doors, waiting, watching, hoping. Maybe she
dropped the class after all. We can avoid disaster before it even
starts.
    No
such luck.
    Thirty
seconds before the bell, and a lot later than she showed up on her
first day, Harper shuffles into the back of the room. Her outfit
looks as torn as she does about being here. The tight jeans and
low-cut loose sweater reveal a lot more than her clothes at the
party, from what I remember. Not to mention, when paired with the
sleek bun she’s
pulled her auburn hair into, and the turquoise heels she’s
balancing on, sharp enough to pierce a heart, she’s
clearly dressed for the occasion.
    But
the moment our eyes lock, which happens the second she enters the
room because I’ve
been staring at the doors like an idiot, waiting for her, she flees
to the farthest corner, hiding behind a particularly bulky guy I
vaguely recall from Intro to Modern Poetry.
    Well,
at least if she keeps hiding for the rest of the semester, I won’t
have to face my mistakes quite so openly.
    Better
for both of us this way, I tell myself. The bell rings, and I wait
another moment for the stragglers to filter in before I clear my
throat.
    “You’re
probably wondering why I asked you to labor over a paper you didn’t
get to take credit for,”
I say, once we’re
all here. A few people laugh, one corner of girls in particular. I’m
used to inciting the occasional giggle from my female students—a
risk of the position—but
it frays my nerves today.