After Tonight Page 7

  Eight o’clock.

  The school day has started.

  And Smith Asher hasn’t shown.

  I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Okay, I do know. I should be relieved. But, dammit, I am sort of disappointed. I exhale hard, then shut the door behind me with a resounding thud.

  “Good morning, everyone,” I say, flashing my teacher smile as I head toward the front of the room. There are two students with earbuds still in, and I signal for them to take them out. Neither of them are happy about it—one of them mutters something his under his breath that I’m pretty sure ends with the word bitch. I pretend not to hear it.

  “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 ther
e 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.

  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 f
ront 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.

  “Yo, man—what is up? I thought you said you was transferrin’ !”

  “Yeah, just got in.” Smith shoves his hands in his pockets. “Should be here for the rest of the year, assuming I don’t piss off the wrong person or set anything else on fire.”

  J. D. guffaws at Smith’s joke. Is it a joke? God, I hope it’s a joke . . .

  “Fuck, I can’t believe you’re actually here. We’re gonna tear this shit up.” J. D. leans into him. “Man, the pussy up in here is like, off the fucking—”

  Yeah, that’s quite enough of that. Noisily, I slide my chair back and half stomp toward the door. I cock a brow at both guys before grabbing the doorknob.

  “Speaking of pussy.”

  J. D. raises a challenging brow. I’m not going to bite. Instead, I narrow my eyes, first at J. D., then at Smith, then proceed to slam the door. Well, close it really loudly anyway. Class is in session around me. Slamming sure as shit would’ve been a lot more cathartic.

  Once I’ve sat back at my desk, I exhale the breath I’d apparently been holding, then grab a stack of worksheets from one of the afternoon classes. I attempt to start grading, but the words don’t make sense.

  All I can see is Smith’s face. His smile.

  Dammit. I can’t let this man undo me like this. It’s like I’m giving him opportunities to mess with me.