But he doesn’t seem to see me. Just like yesterday in Art, the guy simply sits there, staring ahead with a slight scowl on his face as if this is all such an inconvenience to him.
I take my seat, noticing his jeans and black T-shirt are actually clean today.
Mr. Foster fires up his projector, the screen of his laptop appearing on the big white board in front of the class, and he begins making the rounds, handing back our latest essays. The final bell rings, and the class lowers their voices, quietly chattering as the teacher walks up and down the aisles.
“So I’m going to go out on a limb,” Foster says, stopping at my desk and holding my paper as he peers down at me. “Did you actually read the book, or did you read reviews?”
I hear a snort behind me—from J.D., no doubt—and I smile.
“You asked for an analysis of the story, so I watched the movie,” I explain, plucking my Anna Karenina paper out of his hand. “Spoiler alert, there was a lot of sex in it.”
Laughter breaks out, and I feel a rush hit my veins, pumping me up after my minor humiliation yesterday.
Mr. Foster and I constantly go head to head, and while Art may be the class I enjoy the most, Foster is my favorite teacher. He encourages us to use our voice and is one of the only adults to talk to his students like adults.
“I asked for an analysis of the novel, Ryen.”
“And I tried” I tell him. “I honestly did. But it was depressing and in a pointless way. What was I supposed to learn? Women, don’t cheat on your husbands in nineteenth century Russia, or you’ll be cast out of society and forced to throw yourself in front of a train?” I sit up in my seat. “Got it. And the next time I’m in nineteenth century Russia, I’m going to remember it.”
I hear J.D. chuckle again behind me and more giggles break out in the room.
But Foster lowers his voice, looking me deep in the eyes. “You’re better than this,” he whispers.
I stare at him for a moment, seeing the plea in his eyes. Seeing how highly he thinks of my intellect and how angry he is that I don’t make better use out of it.
He backs away, moving onto the next student but still speaking to me. “Read Jane Eyre, and redo it,” he demands.
I should quietly accept my punishment and be grateful he’s giving me another chance instead of accepting the C that’s written on my Anna Karenina paper right now. But I can’t resist smarting off some more.
“Can I at least read something written in the past hundred years?” I ask. “Something where a middle-aged man isn’t conning an eighteen-year-old girl into committing bigamy?”
He turns his head, a stern expression on his face. “I think you’ve dominated the class’s attention long enough, Ms. Trevarrow.”
“In fact,” I go on. “I’m seeing a trend this semester. Anna Karenina, Lolita, Girl With a Pearl Earring, Jane Eyre…all stories featuring older men and younger women. Something you want to tell us, Mr. Foster?” I wink twice, teasing the older man.
The class’s laughter is louder this time, and I can see Foster’s chest rise with a huge, exasperated breath.
“I’d like the report tomorrow,” he says. “Do you understand?”
“Absolutely,” I answer and then drop my voice to a mumble. “There are tons of Jane Eyre movies.”
The students around me snicker under their breaths, because of course I can’t read a whole novel and write a report on it with cheer and swim tonight. I end my taunting, satisfied that I won that argument. In their eyes, anyway.
The air is cool and fresh as it fills my lungs.
“What about Twilight?” someone calls out.
I pause at the deep voice behind me. Mr. Foster stands in front of his desk and looks up, focusing over my head.
“Twilight?” he asks.
“Yeah, Rocks?” Masen prompts me. “Did you like Twilight?”
My heart starts beating harder. What is he doing?
But I turn my head to the side, fixing him with a bored expression. “Sure. When I was twelve. You?”
The corner of his mouth lifts, and I’m once again drawn to the piercing on his lip. “I’ll bet you loved it,” he says, the entire class listening. “I’ll bet it was what got you interested in reading. And I’ll even bet you were at the movies opening night. Did you have an Edward T-shirt, too?”
A few chuckles go off around me, and the little high I felt a moment ago is sucked away at the sight of his gloating eyes. How could he have known that?
I picked up a Twilight paperback when I was younger, because Robert Pattinson was on the cover, and hey, I was twelve, so…
But immediately after reading it, I asked my mom to go buy me all the books, and I spent the next two weeks reading them with every free moment I got.
I arch an eyebrow, looking at the teacher. “While it’s fascinating that it’s finally speaking and all, I’m, again, wondering what the point is.”
“The point is…” Masen answers, “wasn’t Edward like a hundred years older than Bella?”
Eighty-six.
“See,” he keeps going, “you’re judging stories about older men and younger women as some sick, superficial perversion on the males’ part, when actually it was quite common during those times for men to wait until they had finished their education and established a career before being ready to support a wife.”
He pauses and then continues. “A wife, which was almost always younger, because she needed to bear many children. As society dictated. And yet, your precious Edward Cullen was over a hundred years old, still in high school, living with his parents, and trying to get in the pants of a minor in the twenty-first century.”