I swallow hard, then clear my throat.
“Right. Where was I?” I glance up at the projector screen. “Oh—the Globe Theatre.”
And, with a confidence that I had no idea I was capable of, I begin my lecture, trying to forget everything that’s happened—the girls fighting, Mr. Weathersby’s obvious disappointment, and the fact that Smith Asher just walked through my door.
I just wish I could forget that he’s watching me now.
And I wish I could forget that I like it.
***
Through some act of divine Shakespearean intervention, I actually manage to get the class to read the first few scenes of act one today. No one seemed all that thrilled about taking parts, but when I offered extra credit, there weren’t nearly enough roles to go around. Now, though, it seems like some of the students actually enjoy reading aloud, even a few of the boys whom I was sure would give me a hard time about it.
“Great job!” I grin at Trevor West as he finishes up reading the last page of scene four. “Laertes has a ton of lines, but you rocked it.”
He shrugs, but I see a little smile buried in his seemingly indifferent expression. I suppose it isn’t cool to show that you like it when your teacher compliments you.
“So,” I say, walking back toward the projector, “Laertes is giving Ophelia a lot of warnings about Hamlet. Sure, she may be his little sister, but some of them seem a little overdone.”
I gesture to the book.
“Look at lines twenty-five to forty. Do you see any advice that might be crossing the line? Might be a little weird coming from an older brother?”
I suppose bringing up the sexual stuff in Hamlet might not be the most advisable thing, considering my current predicament, but it’s the stuff that grabs the audience. And considering my audience is a room full of teenagers, I think the more risqué stuff will pique their interest.
I just need to make sure not to look at Smith when I lecture about it.
“Anyone?”
I look around. A few students are squinting down at the text like they’re trying to figure it out, but most of them are either staring at the ceiling or closing their eyes. We’ve got a little less than ten minutes left in class, but they’re already mentally checking out on me.
“Come on, guys.” I look down at my open book, then read, “‘If with too credent ear you list his songs, or lose your heart, or your chaste treasure open to his unmastered importunity.’ Think about it—chaste treasure. It’s a euphemism. A reference. What’s it referring to?”
Gina Hardy raises a tentative hand.
“Her—uh—lady parts?”
There are about half a dozen snorts, and a few of the girls in the back start tittering and giggling. I smile at her, nodding. “Gina’s actually on the right track. Basically, Laertes is warning Ophelia to keep her virginity. Her virtue. Although he’s certainly not a saint himself.”
I smile warmly at Gina—a genuine, non-teacher smile—then turn the page back to the beginning of the scene.
“How about this—this is line thirteen to fifteen: ‘Perhaps he loves you now, and now no soil nor cautel doth besmirch the virtue of his will, but you must fear.’”
I look up again.
“What is Laertes saying here—specifically about Hamlet?”
This time, I’m met with blank stares, along with the bored ones. After ten seconds or so of silence, I realize that this is one of those dreaded awkward moments where I’m going to have to either tell them the answer or just sit here and wait it out.
I hate silence. It’s super uncomfortable. I’m super uncomfortable.
Finally, I break. It’s just too weird to sit there with twenty-five pairs of eyes staring at me.
“Alright, then,” I say, pushing off the desk and walking back toward the chalkboard “for homework this weekend, I want you to—”
“He’s saying Hamlet just wants to get laid.” I freeze, then pivot on one foot to look in the direction of the voice. Smith’s infuriating smile is impossible to ignore.
“Laertes is telling her that Hamlet just wants a piece of ass,” he continues. “That he wants to tap that.”
I blink at him. “Is there maybe a more appropriate way you can say that?” I ask, trying not to grit my teeth.
Smith shrugs. “That he wants an easy fuck?”
For a second, the room almost vibrates with shock—then the whoops and laughter bust through the silence.
“Yeah, man—that’s what I’m talking about,” J. D. guffaws, apparently waking up just in time to give Smith a congratulatory fist bump. “The easier the girl, the better the lay.”
“You know it,” someone else calls out from the back row.
I try holding up both hands for quiet. Like that has ever worked in high school before. Everyone is talking at once, and they’re so loud that they almost drown out the bell. When it rings, the majority of the class hop out of their seats and start heading for the door.
“Where do you all think you’re going? I haven’t dismissed you,” I yell out over the scraping of chairs and the rustling of bodies. A few of the students stop to look at me, but most of them ignore me and head for the door. Smith walks across the back of the room and I glare at him.
“Mr. Asher—could I speak to you for a minute?”
He takes his time walking up toward my desk. As he gets closer, I move around to my chair and put both hands on the back, effectively putting two pieces of furniture between us.
“Was that necessary?” I finally ask him once the room is empty.
“Was what necessary?”
I narrow my eyes.
“Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
Smith shrugs, then buries both hands in his pockets. I realize then that he doesn’t have a notebook or even a pen.
“Look—no one was saying anything,” he says. “I was just being honest. That’s what Laertes was saying. I could have said he wanted to bust a nut, too. I figured you’d appreciate the participation.”
“Really?” I glare at him. “You thought I’d appreciate that?”
He doesn’t respond, just rocks back on his heels. I consider throwing my stapler at him, but manage to hold back.
“Look,” I say slowly. “If you don’t have something appropriate to say, in my classroom, then don’t say it.”
Almost immediately, his annoying grin is back. “Well, I suppose you won’t hear me talking all that often, then.”
“Well, somehow I think I’ll live with that.” I reach into my desk drawer and pull out a stack of detention slips. I scrawl Smith’s name at the top of one.
“You’ll serve detention with me for the rest of the week.”
When I look back up, though, Smith is still standing in front of me, arms crossed and head cocked to one side.
“Is that all?” he asks.
I narrow my eyes, then scribble down the dates below his name on the form.
“No—today and all of next week, too.”
He leans forward then, putting both hands on the desk and bringing his face closer to mine.
“If you think this is going to change anything, you’re wrong. Assigning me detention isn’t going to make anyone listen to you. Or respect you.”
“Please. I don’t need you telling me how to do my job.”
He shrugs. “Okay, I’m just saying—don’t think that this assertion of authority is going to solve any of your problems.”
Without another word, he turns and walks toward the door. Just as he opens it, I see J. D. Fenton standing on the other side. He grins at Smith, then grabs his arm and pulls him into a one-sided chest bump/hug hybrid.