I was not sure that I’d ever heard an adult attempt to support an argument by claiming unfairness. But if I challenged Ms. Moray again, I could tell that this, whatever it was, would become solid and tangible; it would be a situation, something people would talk about after class was over.
I looked down at my essay, which I’d typed the night before on Martha’s computer. “Reflecting on one’s life is an important part of reaching decisions and understanding one’s ethics and values,” I began, and I could tell that my voice was barely audible. “Many people, like Henry David Thoreau, have a special place they go where it is quiet and peaceful. For me, this place is at my father’s-” Here I trailed off completely. Abruptly, I understood why I had felt so hesitant before. “I can’t read this.”
“You were doing fine,” Ms. Moray said.
I did not look at her or my classmates, though I felt them watching me.
“You can start over again if you want,” Ms. Moray said, and her voice contained a kindness it hadn’t before.
“No,” I said.
“Lee, no one is judging you. You need to get comfortable reading your work aloud because you’ll be doing it a lot this year.”
I said nothing.
“Can you tell me why you don’t want to read?”
I could feel then not that I would cry but that I might; the possibility had sprung into existence. It would be best to speak as little as possible.
Ms. Moray sighed again, but it was a new sigh, not the impatient one from before. “You don’t have to go today,” she said. “But in the future, be prepared to read whatever you’ve written, and that goes for all of you. No exceptions. Norie, you’re up.”
At the end of class, Ms. Moray said, “Lee, talk to me before you leave.”
I finished putting away my books and then remained in my chair, my backpack zipped on the table before me. I held my essay on my lap, prepared to give it to her. After all, it didn’t matter that much what she thought-I believed that teachers were like doctors, detached in their judgments.
When the room had cleared out, Ms. Moray sat down across from me. She was wearing a lavender mock turtleneck and a black blazer-it had gotten cool already-and the book pin was affixed to the left collar of her blazer. Below her left breast was a short horizontal line, perhaps three inches long, of white chalk, which I was pretty sure she was unaware of; also, her skin was a little greasy, especially at the corners of her nose.
“I want you to read your piece aloud,” she said. “Now. To me. I understand being reluctant to speak in class, but it’s something you need to get over.”
I said nothing.
“I’ll read it anyway,” she said. “Unless you choose not to hand it in and take a zero on the assignment.” The way she said this, it was obvious she didn’t consider it remotely likely. But it wasn’t a bad idea. Generally, my fear relied on the hypothetical, and an actual specific consequence, any consequence at all, nearly always seemed less severe than whatever amorphous series of events I’d felt the need to guard against. A zero on an essay that probably counted for five percent of my total grade for the semester wasn’t a big deal at all.
“I could take a zero,” I said. It was definitely the best option-at this point, I’d drawn too much attention to the essay, and she might ask questions, she might not be detached. My essay could have seemed neutral, but I’d made a fuss.
She squinted at me. “But you did the assignment.”
“Yeah, but then I changed my mind.”
Ms. Moray opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it, then opened it again. “I want you to read your piece to me,” she said. “I’m not giving you another option.”
I never argued against absolutes. “Okay,” I said, and I saw that she was surprised. “I should just start right now?”
“Right now. Go for it.” Her voice thickened with enthusiasm. No, no, I thought. We’re still in the same moment we were in before.
I moved the paper from my lap to the table. “Reflecting on one’s life is an important part of reaching decisions and understanding one’s ethics and values. Many people, like Henry David Thoreau, have a special place they go where it is quiet and peaceful. For me, this place is at my father’s store. My father’s store is called Mattress Headquarters. It is located in South Bend, Indiana. When I used to live at home, I did not go to the store on weekdays because I had school. Instead, I went on the weekends. In the back of the store, there is an office and behind the office, there is a storage room with many mattresses. This is the room where I reflect because it is quiet and comfortable, and I could lie on all the mattresses, which some of the piles reached almost to the ceiling. The best part of this room is that I can hear other people talking, especially my father because he has a loud voice. I can listen to my father and other people such as customers and sales staff and know I am not alone, yet I do not have to join in the conversation. In this place, I think about many issues, such as what profession I would like to go into, college, and politics. I believe that reflecting is very important in developing as a person and realizing one’s priorities.”
I looked up. “That’s it.”
“I have to say, I have no idea what you were so bashful about. That’s exactly what I’m looking for. And reading to me wasn’t that bad, was it?”
I shrugged.
“I especially liked the part about being able to hear your father’s voice.”
The fact that Ms. Moray was being so nice-pityingly nice-indicated that, despite her earlier misimpression, she had figured out what kind of person I was: not a smart-ass, not at all.
“I just don’t understand why you didn’t want to read it before,” she said.
That, actually, had been my main concern-that she’d know immediately. That she didn’t know both relieved me and made me think less of her.
“You might feel like you’ve gotten off to a bumpy start in this class,” she said. “But I want you to know I’m totally open-minded. Anyone in my classroom who shows a willingness to work will do just fine. Besides,” she added, and, to my horror, she actually winked. We were the only ones in the room! What was I supposed to do back? Didn’t she realize that this wasn’t a movie about boarding school, where the student and the teacher could have a little burst of chumminess and then it would cut to another scene, like the student at soccer practice or the teacher riding her bike back to her cottage on the edge of campus? No, we were still in the same room, both of us having to breathe and speak in the aftermath of her wink. “I’ll admit to a soft spot for a fellow Midwesterner,” she continued. “It seems like there aren’t a whole lot of us at Ault.”
I tried to smile.
“You did say you’re from Indiana, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” I said. “From South Bend.”
“You know, I dated a guy who grew up there,” she said. “Evan Anderson. You don’t know him, do you?” She gave a self-deprecating laugh, as if to show that she knew how unlikely this was.
“I don’t think so.” I pushed my essay across the table, stood, and picked up my backpack.
As I was leaving, she said, “Hey, Lee?”
From the doorway, I turned around.
She was standing, too, and she pulled her shoulders back, bent both arms, balled her hands into fists, and thrust her fists forward. “Confidence!” she said.
Again, when I tried to smile, I couldn’t tell how convincing it was. Walking through the empty schoolhouse and back to my dorm, I thought how exhausting Ault was, all the chatter and the expressions you had to make: Attentive! Inquisitive! I let my face sag, but then I saw someone ten yards in front of me, emerging from the courtyard. It was Charlie Soco, a senior, another person I’d never spoken to. I glanced at his eyes and saw that he wasn’t looking at me, and then I looked down and then as we came closer to each other, I slid my backpack off one shoulder so it was in front of me and unzipped one of the outer pockets and pretended to rummage in it. In this way, when Charlie and I passed, I avoided saying hello.
Quite a few people made comments to me about Tullis’s haircut, and at lunch one day, Aspeth and Dede were discussing it when I sat down. I waited for them to acknowledge my role in it, but neither of them did.