In high school, my English teacher favoured me. He wasn’t a particularly attractive man—his features were slightly too close together, his nose pointy, his mouth a small wet hole—but he possessed a certain charisma and eloquence. He called himself a writer, despite being unpublished, boasting he could have been as great as Hemingway, if only he’d had the time to write. Saintly sacrificing his own career for the children, he felt it was his duty to share his gift. A true martyr, really.
He was a friend of my father, and had been for as long as I could remember. A frequent dinner guest in our home, he and my father would drink bourbon from glistening tumblers and argue loudly about the nuances of Raymond Carver in the darkness of the kitchen.
I was on the cheerleading squad and my English teacher was the team supervisor, so he was usually at practice on the weekends. I always hoped he would show up, and took comfort in the fact that he was watching me. I saw him as a protective father figure and felt a sense of safety in the way he seemed to care about me.
I found myself seeking his approval in all that I did, and began asking him to read my poems after class. Unlike my father, he was encouraging of my pursuit to be a writer.
One day, I knocked on his open door.
“Come in, Miss Grace.” My English teacher glanced up from his papers, waving me in. All of the desks were empty, lined in straight rows and evenly spaced. The quiet classroom felt strange.
He was seated at a large wooden desk at the front, grading papers, his reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. “What can I do for you?”
“I wrote a new poem.” I crossed the empty room, my notebook extended, and pulled a chair alongside him. “I wanted you to read it.”
“I’d love to.” He eyed me and reached for the notebook, then placed it on his desk and scanned the page. His hands clutched the edges, crinkling the paper slightly.
The air smelled of chalk dust and coffee; a half-empty mug was balanced on a copy of To Kill A Mockingbird. I glimpsed around the room, reading a Jane Austen quote that was scrawled across the chalkboard: “Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised or a little mistaken.”
When my English teacher finished, he peeked at me over his glasses. “That’s lovely. Really good work.”
“Thank you.” I smiled, feeling victorious. “Is it long enough?”
“It could use some more visuals. Keep working on it, it’s almost there.” He pointed to the page, and I noticed a small paper cut on his finger. “You misspelled ‘language’ though.”
“Oh?” I leaned forward, reaching for my notebook, momentarily creating a crevice between my breasts and shirt. My English teacher glanced down into the space, quickly raising his eyes to meet mine as he became aware of where he was looking. “I want you to write ‘language’ ten times for me.”
I leaned back slightly. “Now?”
Flipping to a blank page, he slid it toward me. “Yes, now.”
I picked up a pencil. Pressing the tip onto the paper, I wrote in cursive:
Language
Language
Language
Language
Language
Language
Language
Language
Language
Language
“Good work,” he said, examining the words. “Now you’ll never misspell it again.”
I nodded.
“You know that you’re very talented, don’t you, Grace?”
“You think so?” I tugged at my blouse.
“I do.” Leaning forward, he placed his hand on my knee. “You’re going to be very successful.”
I shot up abruptly, my chair sliding backwards.
“Thank you.” I fumbled for my book. “I should go.”
My English teacher lowered his gaze, straightening a pen on his desk so it was perpendicular to the stack of paper. “Okay, keep up the great work. Will I see you at practice this weekend?”
“Of course.” I was halfway gone. “See you.”
My eyes burned as I exited the classroom, a sob welling like a wave retreating, preparing to crash forward. Hurrying down the empty corridor, I accidentally passed my locker; turning around, I fumbled with the lock before pulling out my bookbag. I tore through my notebook, locating the page lined with language—I ripped it from the coil and crumpled it before stuffing my notebook into my bag. I swung it onto my back, buttoned my shirt all the way up to my neck, and tossed the ball of paper into a trashcan.