“We’re going to be starting with our next literature unit today,” I begin, flipping on the projector and gesturing to the screen behind me. “Hamlet is one of the most well-known and loved Shakespeare plays, and you’ll be one of millions of students around the world who have studied it.”
“Man, seriously? Senior English is supposed to have less reading,” Tyson White complains. “What are we supposed to be getting out of all that Shakespearean shit.”
I narrow my eyes and he rolls his.
“I mean, stuff.”
“Thank you. And, well, it’s funny you should say that.” I lean back against my desk. “I was actually just thinking the other day about how Shakespeare’s poems and plays are still completely pertinent to today’s world. He uses universal themes, which is to say themes that lots and lots of people can relate to.” There’s a grumble of disbelief and I switch the projector to the next slide—a picture of the Globe Theatre.
“Let’s start with a little background.”
I’m glancing down at my notes when the door flies open, and my heart stutters before leaping into my throat. I immediately picture Smith’s face, and I grip the paper in my hand a little harder.
But it isn’t Smith.
It’s Caroline Jenks, my mentor at Franklin.
She raises both eyebrows to me, then jerks her head, motioning me to follow her to the front corner of the room.
“Uh—okay, everyone,” I say, letting my eyes travel over the classroom, “how about you guys get out something to write with so you can take some notes?”
There’s a collective groan as I follow Caroline away from the door and closer to the window. I feel my pulse speed up, and my anxiety, as always, settles right in my stomach where it’s most at home.
If she knows about Smith—if I’m getting cut from the program—wouldn’t they wait until the end of the day to tell me?
But Caroline is smiling.
“How’s everything going?” she asks quietly.
“Oh—um, it’s fine. You know, just starting on our Shakespeare unit.”
I play with my ID badge, hanging from my neck on a Franklin School lanyard. Caroline nods, her reddish brown curls bobbing with her head.
“Good, good. I just wanted to make sure you’ve turned in all of your required paperwork. You can’t technically instruct unassisted unless you’ve completed the requisite forms, and I forgot to ask you about it last week.”
The folder of documents I got at orientation had been overwhelming—I mean, it’s like you needed a security clearance to be a teacher or something. Of course, since there are teachers who try to seduce their students, I would imagine that probably isn’t the worst idea . . .
I open my mouth to respond just as there’s a strange sort of screech and a loud crash coming from behind me.
Shit.
I spin around and, in a split second, the entire class is now standing in a throng around two students who are clearly pummeling each other.
“Hey! Hey, get up this instant!” Caroline bellows from behind me, sort of elbowing her way through the crowd. I feel frozen, rooted to my spot and paralyzed at the idea of having to break up a fight.
“Call the main office, Hyacinth,” she yells back to me. She’s now standing above the two bodies, still rolling around on the floor. Desks are pushed from one side to the other with loud scrapes against the linoleum, and students on all sides are yelling at the girls.
Yep, there’s a girl-fight happening in my room.
I grab the classroom phone, then dial the extension for the main office.
“There’s a fight in room 201,” I half yell when the secretary answers. She doesn’t even respond. I just hear the phone disconnect and, in what has to be less than ten seconds, Principal Weathersby busts through the door.
At this point, the entire class has surrounded the two girls, and Caroline is attempting to get them apart by scolding them from five feet away. From the grip they seem to have on each other’s hair, I don’t think her methods are working.
“Miss Sampson! Miss Green!” Mr. Weathersby bellows. “Get off of each other immediately!”
Officer Rains comes through the door next, completely out of breath.
“Sorry, had to wait for another officer to take care of Peterson.”
He glares at the girls. Caroline is guiding one, Angela Green, toward the front of the room. Her hair is sticking up in a million directions and her nose is bleeding where her piercing has been pulled out.
“Mrs. Jenks,” the principal says, his voice stern, “please take Angela to my office. I’ll have Officer Rains take Priscilla to the conference room.”
She nods curtly, her eyes sliding over to me. She gives me a sympathetic smile and heads through the door with Angela. Officer Rains and Priscilla Sampson follow close behind.
Now, Mr. Weathersby has his arms crossed over his chest and he’s glaring around the classroom.
“How did this altercation begin?” he booms, letting his eyes move from student to student.
No one says a word. Several students—boys, mostly—are staring up at the principal in stony silence, a sort of “stop snitching” stance that I’ve seen them use before when someone is in trouble. The rest of the class is looking away—down at their desks or their hands or their laps. Or, more likely, at their phones in their laps. Except J. D. of course, who is somehow still asleep despite the commotion.
“Let me be clear,” Mr. Weathersby continues, “if you believe that kind of behavior is acceptable in this building, you are sorely mistaken.”
He turns to me and lowers his voice a bit.
“What happened right before the fight got physical? Did you hear them arguing about something in particular?”
“I—no—” I shake my head, regretfully. “They’ve always been friendly with each other, at least in here.”
“They didn’t say anything to each other before the altercation began?”
I hesitate. “Well, Mrs. Jenks came in and we were chatting . . .”
I trail off as I see Mr. Weathersby’s frown deepen.
“So, the students were unsupervised?”
“I mean, I was still in the classroom, I just had my backed turned—”
He holds up his hand to stop me.
“Miss Hendricks, please remember that all students are our responsibility at every moment they’re in our care. You should never leave them unattended under any circumstances. Ever.”
“Of course, sir.” I force myself to meet his gaze. I will the tears forming in my eyes not to fall. Mr. Weathersby turns to face the class.
“If anyone remembers any other details of what just occurred, I expect you to come see me in my office.”
He leaves the room, but doesn’t shut the door behind him. I glance out at the class, now silent, then over at the door. Then, I do a double take.
Of course he’s here now. Why wouldn’t he be?
Smith has his back against the cinder-block wall, arms crossed over his chest and legs casually crossed at the ankles. When our eyes meet, he pushes off of the wall and walks toward me. As he gets closer, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded yellow paper.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, handing me the paper. “I was with Weathersby.”
Right. He was meeting with the principal before class. I was there when they made that plan, wasn’t I? “Um, of course—I, uh, have the attendance somewhere around here . . .”
I sift through a stack of papers on my podium, praying that my face isn’t as red as it feels. When I reach for the clipboard on my desk, I knock over an entire stack of papers, which falls to the floor like the worst kind of avalanche—the kind where you drop your tray in the cafeteria in front of everyone. The only difference? Well, the judgmental eyes are still there, but I’m not a student anymore. I can hear half the class snickering, and I drop to my knees to start cleaning up the worksheets.
Without a word, Smith lowers himself next to me and begins grabbing all of the papers within reach. Neither of us speaks as the rest of the class starts chatting and giggling. Someone in the back coughs, “Teacher’s bitch,” and the rest of the students around him burst into raucous laughter. Smith ignores them. Instead, when our eyes meet, he gives me a wink, then gets up and saunters toward the back of the room, proceeding to sit at an empty desk next to J. D. It doesn’t slip my notice that every single girl in the room literally watches him as he goes. Once he’s seated, a few of them start whispering to one another, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, his eyes are trained on me.