“Any person worth a damn has read Howard’s End. Fact, Luke.”
I glanced around quickly to make sure no one was around to hear the “damn”. Thankfully, no one was on our end of the hallway.
“Less casual swearing in the hallway, ma’am. You don’t want to get fired before you even get hired.”
“Are you going to turn me in?” she asked, and I could have sworn she batted her eyes.
“No ma’am,” I said, knowing that even though I wasn’t a blusher, I was probably blushing now. She was sultry.
“There you go with that ‘ma’am’ shit again,” she said, putting very clear emphasis on the word “shit”. She wasn’t going to back down.
“Are you normally this defiant?” I asked, wanting to jump her right there in the hallway and claim her neck and every other part of her as mine.
She shook her head, slightly.
“I guess you just bring out the best of me,” she said.
With that, she turned, and walked into her classroom, giving me a splendid look at her ass.
When did I become an ass guy? Better yet, when did I become the kind of guy who had the hots for a married coworker?
Classes may have started but that didn’t keep us from communicating. I felt a little childish for basically texting her as soon as I sat down at my desk.
Wharton...
I figured I could judge by the amount of time it would take her to answer whether or not she was looking the author up. Even if she had read it, if she took a while I would just assume so and hold it against her.
Her response was immediate.
I thought we already discussed you asking me about Pulitzer winners? ;-) Dammit. Age of Innocence.
I needed someone who hadn’t received any significant awards. Time for a curveball.
Collins.
Who?” she asked. Then followed with, Jackie Collins? Do you take me for a reader of trashy novels?
No, not Jackie. Suzanne.
I’m not familiar with that name.
This time I was shocked.
If you tell the students that, they might lynch you.
Why? What did she write?
Oh, just this little series about games. And hunger.
Huh?
The Hunger Games!
Oh God. I think I knew that.
And you haven’t read the series??
No sir...you can’t judge me for not reading a book written for teenagers.
Sure I can, if you are working with teenagers. Which you are!
Well, that didn’t happen until just recently! Are you giving them your seal of approval?
How should I know? You think I’ve read them?? ;-) God, you’re such an ass. Stick with classics, Luke!
The bell chimed to let the students into the building.
I would have to look up some authors, books that I might have forgotten reading. Yeah, she was an English major also, but she hadn’t read every book ever written. I would find one.
And how was James Joyce the determining factor on whether or not I’m an imbecile??
H.G. Wells, I sent next, thinking perhaps science fiction wasn’t her forte.
A few of my first period students started making their way into the classroom.
“Hey, Mr. H!” a few of them simultaneously said.
One of my students, Warren Gold, stopped at the door, saw me, and shouted down the hallway, “Hey guys, Mr. Harper’s back!”
I wasn’t entirely sure if he was excited to see me, or warning everyone else that they needed to get to class on time and not expect a substitute again.
My phone vibrated.
Wells does not belong in the same category as the aforementioned names. But, I begrudgingly read War of the Worlds freshman year.
The bell to signify the start of class was about to ring, so I shot out one more name.
Maugham was my next attempt.
I had read Of Human Bondage in high school because I was bored and found it at the library. I was most definitely not a fan.
I HATE Maugham. Hate, hate, hate!
Wow...such strong feelings.
If you bring him up around me, I’ll spike you in the face with my heel.
Fair enough! Frequently bring up Maugham in your presence...
There will be serious consequences for breaking my rules, buddy!
Oh yeah? Like what?
You’ll see. Don’t underestimate me.
The morning flew by, thanks to movies and a texting partner that was as into the conversation as I was. My classes were all occupied watching videos, but I had no idea what she was doing over there that allowed her to be on her phone the whole time. I hoped she wasn’t interrupting class every two minutes to text me. I could just hear it now, kids wandering the hallways and lunchroom saying “Mrs. Batista and Mr. Harper texted alllll morning!” Then the glances would come from other teachers, then someone would inform the principal, and then pretty soon we would be called in for meetings and threatened with punishment if we continued this little texting game. I could try to convince them it was harmless. “It was an author game!”— I would say — but they would kick me out, fire me. I’d end up homeless, living out of my roller skate, begging Holly to take me in along with her delinquent alcoholic of a brother. She would say family comes first, and I’d be stuck in my car until Marco eventually found me and shot me in the head. Or had one of his Cuban cronies do it for him. At my funeral, they would all be muttering “Supposedly it was just an ‘author game’... if you can believe that!” I’d be dead, and it would all be James Joyce’s fault.
Yeah, so maybe my mind can turn everything into the worst-case scenario. My mother was a worrier.
But, these thoughts of being murdered in my house-car didn’t stop us from talking. We continued the game, back and forth with authors we had read: London, Hughes, Achebe, Stein, Chesterton, Dostoevsky, Browning, Longfellow. On and on we went, and she seemed to have a story behind every author she was familiar with, every story she had read. I hadn’t met anyone who shared my love of literature to quite the extent that she seemed to.
As the lunch bell chimed and my class dismissed, she was immediately at my door waiting for me.
“You are a persistent man,” she said, smiling. She was doing bad things to my mind. I was contemplating a throw down on the death couch with her, but if I was worried about texting getting me fired and killed, having sex with her in my classroom would probably achieve that end much more quickly.
“Can you blame me for trying?” I asked, getting up from my desk to meet her at the door.