by Kira Berger
Taking a deep breath to calm my nerves, I command myself not to look into the rearview mirror. But it’s like my eyes have a will of their own. They move seemingly of their own volition; I see him still standing there, watching me leave with his arms crossed over his chest and a fierce expression on his face.
Shit.
I desperately want to believe what he said, but I’m too damaged by my past to trust it. My mind is swirling with doubt and questions. So many questions keep assaulting my mind, stripping me bare, and leaving me with nothing but the despair of my past.
I can’t deal with the heartache that is sure to come with someone as gorgeous as Duncan. And I can’t take any more. My heart has been shattered beyond repair, and besides, it’s unfair to bring someone into my mess. I’m not destined to find love, but maybe one day I’ll be content. But more likely, I’ll be living with the guilt and devastation my actions caused for the rest of my days. However long that may be.
Chapter Six
“But, Miss Weber, poetry is boring! I never understand what they mean because they can’t just speak plain, old English, but some weird gibberish. Why do we need to know this anyway? Not like I’m gonna recite poetry later in life, ever,” Caleb says with a pout, and I have to laugh. No wonder the girls in this class fawn all over this boy. Dimples sure seem to be the magic ingredient for women all over the world.
It’s Friday, and I’m teaching first period to my senior year English lit class. It’s been three days. Three days since I last saw Duncan, and I can’t believe I’m bothered by the fact that he lets me avoid him. Or maybe he’s avoiding me, too? This is good, I should be happy he was talking bullshit Tuesday. I should have known better than to think he actually meant it. That someone thought me worthy enough to fight for. Someone who’s good, honest, courageous.
I’ve kept myself busy the last few days, working on my lesson plans, making sure I get to know my students better, remembering their names being on the top of my list, and making my new place a home.
Curiously, my landlord still hasn’t stopped by like he promised. Figures. He did text me though saying he is caught up with work and will come to introduce himself as soon as he can. I’m curious about Brendan, but also cautious as people who put off delivering on promises always makes me suspicious. Guess I’ll have to wait and see.
I shake off these thoughts and pull my mind back into the here and now. Doing what I love—teaching.
“Not many romantics in here, I see?” I smirk. “You’re probably right though. Most of you will never recite poetry—or write it. And yes, sometimes Brontë or Keats can be hard to understand. But the beauty of poetry, art in any form really, is that it’s always open to individual interpretation. No two of you will get the exact same thing out of a piece of art.”
I move in front of my desk to lean against it, making myself more comfortable and less formal.
“Look, I know reading poetry by the likes of Poe, Plath, or Dickinson might not be your thing. Examining lines and stanzas, counting them, figuring out the meaning behind the imagery. But, nowadays, that’s not all poetry is—even though I have to teach it to you. Poetry is so much more than lines rhyming like I’m sure many of you believe.” I smile at my students then, knowing I’m right, and earn a few chuckles and nods.
“Let me ask you this. Who of you has heard of Tupac? Listened to his music?” Pretty much every hand in the class rises at this.
“Great. He was very talented for sure. Now, did you know he was a poet as well?” I nod at their surprised faces. “And I don’t mean with just his lyrics; he wrote actual poetry. Here, let me read one of my favorites to you.”
I turn to shuffle the papers on my desk—I really need to keep this more organized—looking for the piece of paper I need. I can hear snickering behind me.
“I’m really hoping you’re always this disorganized, Miss Weber. Might come in handy should I need you to lose one of my exams. I hear I’ll get an A if that happens,” Caleb boasts, causing more people to snicker.
I snort at this. “You wish, Caleb.”
Turning around, I wave a piece of paper at them. “Ha, found it. As I said, this one is one of my favorites.” I start reciting Tupac Shakur’s “The Rose That Grew From Concrete.”
Once I’m done, I ask the class, “So, who can tell me what it means? Not what you think Tupac meant, but what does it mean to you?”
Jason, one of the quieter kids in class, speaks up for the first time. “Well, just like the rose, we can defy our shitty circumstances and become a better person, or successful, or whatever. We can defy the law of nature, of our environment, of the rules and stipulations society and institutions have put upon us, if we just dream. Keep dreaming and working hard toward those dreams, and they will come true; we’ll have ‘learned to breathe fresh air’ as well.”
Once he’s done speaking, he shrugs as if embarrassed. I shoot him a beaming smile I know shows how proud I am to have him speak up for the first time. The other teachers have told me he doesn’t have it easy at home—whatever this means—and isn’t big on participation even though he’s smart as a whip.
“Exactly! It’s about defying all the expectations put upon you. I’m sure you know what I mean. It’s about chasing your dreams no matter the adversity and succeeding through hard work and tenacity.
“Now, this was one example of unconventional poetry, I guess. But before this class is over, I want you to experience my favorite type of poetry—slam poetry. Makes me wish I were as talented as some of these poets myself. Alas, I am far from it.” I grin at this.
I pivot and turn my laptop around on my desk. I’ve hooked it up to this complicated system the school provides for us to show them movies, videos, and what not on a big screen that rolls down from the ceiling. It’s pretty fancy—more sophisticated than anything I ever used before.
“What do you mean by experience, Miss Weber? Aren’t you just going to read it to us?” Isabella, one of the outspoken cheerleaders pipes up. I’m happy to notice she actually seems curious, like many of her peers.
Chuckling, I tell her, “Ah no, this piece of poetry is something you need to hear and see, read to you by the brilliant writer herself.”
I hover over the button to start the short video when I stare them down. “Now, I don’t want to hear one word from any of you while we watch this. I don’t care what you hear, or if you think it’s funny—because it isn’t—I do not want you laughing. I want you to listen, really listen to what Olivia Gatwood has to say. And not just the words she uses—coarse or otherwise—but listen to what she is actually saying. Can you do that for me?”
When I receive nods, I hit play.
Listening to “Ode to My Bitch Face” always gets me straight in the heart. I love it, and I hate it. I know it’s probably a little too feminist for some of the teachers here, and probably some parents. And the fact that she uses “bitch” quite a bit doesn’t help. But, I cannot ignore the sexual assault theme this poem depicts. Not in today’s society. Someone has to try and teach them the difference between right and wrong. And if it takes me showing them an honest and raw image of it, then that’s what I’ll do. Not like they don’t use worse words on a daily basis anyway.
I’m surprised how quiet the class is, enraptured by the passion seen on the screen, hopefully also by the words spoken, by the message trying to be conveyed.
We’re coming up to my favorite part, the words that always destroy me and heal me at the same time. I listen to her recite, “You woke up like this and have been for years. How can you sleep pretty when there are four locks on your door and the fire escape feels like break-in bait?”
I turn away from the class at this and look toward the screen when my gaze gets stuck on a pair of blazing blue eyes. I startle and wonder how long he’s been standing in the open door. I must not have closed it tightly, allowing the draft to open it again.
Duncan is staring at me, his eyes ablaze with a fire I’ve never seen in anyone befo
re, not letting me escape his gaze. Seeing everything. Down to my very soul, all the pain, the devastation, the ugly scars left behind by my past. I don’t want him to see—to really see me for who I am. I’ve been doing a great job of hiding behind my walls. Why does he have to stand there watching my downfall? My fall through the darkness every time I listen to Olivia Gatwood.
I’m fighting the tears this poem always evokes in me. I wish I could turn away, avoid letting him see me like this—vulnerable, open, my walls all but decimated by the words echoing in the room.
“They will tell you home is safe zone. No, bitch face is safe zone, bitch face is home, bitch face is cutting off the ladder, willing to burn in the apartment if it means he can’t get in.”
I can’t prevent the sole tear that escapes my eye. He tracks it down my cheek, studying it intently. I can’t quite interpret his expression, though the knotted eyebrows make it seem like he’s mad for some reason.
Is he mad I let my students listen to a piece of art that curses? I’m aware some might frown on this more than what I am used to. But why would he be this mad about the word “bitch”?
When he looks back into my eyes, his expression clouds over with worry and compassion. I wonder what this is all about when I decide that nope, I don’t want to know. Or so I tell myself. I cannot deal with this right now, or ever.
I finally break free from his stare and try to ignore him while I surreptitiously wipe away the tear. I turn toward the class, which, surprisingly, is still quietly staring at the now black screen. Their faces ranging from quietly pensive, some openly moved, some I’m sad to see still confused.
Clearing my throat to gain their attention and get rid of the knot lodged in my throat, I ask them, “What do you think? Still boring, old poetry you don’t understand?”
Samantha, a shy girl I’ve noticed keeps to herself a lot and tries to fade into the background whenever she can, speaks up, “It was beautiful and heartbreaking. I—” her voice breaks, but she continues on— “I never thought about the resting bitch face like that. But it’s so true. If you don’t smile, don’t draw attention to yourself, they won’t notice you. They’ll leave you alone…” Her voice is quiet, sad, and her eyes are focused on the screen still. I wonder what she is remembering and hope it’s nothing she’s experienced herself.
“You’re right. It’s definitely beautifully heartbreaking. And each of you, myself included, will take away something different from this.” I check the clock on the wall. “Well, class is just about over for today. For Monday, I want you to write me one page about what you take away from this piece of poetry. What you think it means. I don’t want an analysis, but I want you to tell me what you think about when you listen to it. What does it make you feel, okay?”
I smile at them, expecting them to run out of class now that I clearly dismissed them. Duncan is still standing in the doorway; I can feel his stare, and I wish he’d just leave. Or the kids would leave, forcing him to retreat with them. I don’t want to deal with him right now. Unfortunately, today luck seems to not be on my side because Caleb speaks up in a tone I’ve never heard him use before—so serious.
“Miss Weber, what does this poem mean to you then?” I look at him, really look at him, and the rest of the class. They seem to be serious about this. No one is smiling or smirking in that sarcastic way teenagers have perfected.
Taking a deep breath, I lean against my desk again. Not sure if this is a good idea, but I really want them to understand.
“Well, this poem has many facets which speak to me. I’m a woman, so it’s easy for me to identify with what she is saying. Who hasn’t been called a bitch by someone in their life, be it man or woman, because she did something they didn’t like? Who hasn’t been asked what’s wrong just because they weren’t smiling? Who has been told to smile more, that maybe then you’ll find a boyfriend?” I have to chuckle at this, and I’m glad to see some lips twitch, breaking some of the tension. “No? Just me then.” I grin. I can’t help myself. I learned the hard way to joke when something is too emotional to handle.
“But all joking aside, this poem, to me, speaks about the fear we all have to live with. I hope none of you have experienced this, and never will. But chances are, you all will, at least you girls, not going to lie. It speaks to the aspect of myself, who, just because I’m a woman, cannot walk into a bar without being objectified, being hit on. And when I don’t respond, don’t feel flattered because some man thinks I should feel honored he is speaking to me, I’m called a bitch. Or worse.
“It speaks to me every time I walk home alone in the dark. Clutching my keys between my fingers like a weapon. Checking and double-checking my locks on the door, making sure they’re secure. Making sure, each and every window in my place is locked, hoping it stays that way overnight.
“It’s hating the sounds of the doors opening at night, or being slammed shut, knowing what might happen is more devastating than anything you can imagine…”
I take another breath, steadying my voice before I continue. “As you can see, it speaks to me on many different levels.” With this, I smile, clap my hands and release them for today without letting them ask me any more questions.
Looking toward the door, I’m relieved to see Duncan’s gone. Taking a couple deep breaths to steady myself, I go back to my desk to set up for my next class. Too bad I have a bad feeling this thing with Duncan isn’t over yet.
Chapter Seven
The rest of the day passes quickly. While I’m slowly finding my rhythm—getting to know my students, my colleagues, my new home—the look in Duncan’s eyes from this morning haunts me all day.
What did it mean? Why did he look angry?
Those questions have been swirling around my mind all day, keeping me occupied and distracted. While the poem always gets to me, I usually don’t have trouble putting it behind me once it’s over. But today has been different. I have a feeling Duncan has seen way too much on my face when I didn’t expect to have to guard my expression. For the life of me, I still can’t read the look on his face even though it’s burned on the back of my lids.
His behavior just keeps confusing me.
Over the last few days, I’ve barely seen him. I’m definitely honing my avoidance skills. Instead, Emma and I have spent quite a bit of time together. She’s fun, vivacious, optimistic. And I enjoy being around her light and bubbly personality; it balances out my rather dark and sarcastic disposition.
She came over on Tuesday with takeout and wine—two things, which granted her an automatic entrance into my place. Who wouldn’t take advantage of someone offering to bring wine and food? Definitely not me.
We spent the evening talking, getting to know each other, and forming a fast friendship over our love for Riesling, Chinese takeout, and anything Tom Hardy. By the time she left that night, I had a feeling of having found a friend in this town; someone who won’t judge me for the choices I’ve made in the past, maybe.
So, to celebrate my first week in a new city and a new job, I talked her into going out tonight. Nothing fancy, just to the local bar for some drinks and maybe dancing. We’ve had a busy week—the first week always is—and I figure we both could use something to unwind. What better way to do that than alcohol, dancing, and good music?
Whoever came up with the idea of having to try to teach kids poetry on a Friday afternoon obviously forgot what it’s like to learn about Poe. It’s like pulling teeth, the kids, for obvious reasons, are too distracted by the prospect of the weekend. Not that I was doing much better today, but instead of the weekend, my thoughts have been too occupied with a certain tall Viking.
Even though I have been avoiding him all week, I wasn’t always successful, and every time I saw him, my body reacted on a visceral level. I can feel my heartbeat accelerate with just one look at his muscular body—having him walk around in mostly track pants and tight workout shirts does not help.
And I’m not the only one who is affected if the whispers I he
ar from my female students is anything to go by. Apparently, he’s the resident student crush, not that I’m surprised. Hell, I can’t help myself, or this weird attraction between us.
Shaking off these wayward thoughts, I straighten my desk and pack up my things to leave for the day. It’s been a good week, and I’m hopeful I can make a life for myself in this place. I am making friends, spending time not holed up in my apartment, and slowly starting to enjoy myself again—doing the things I love like reading, running, dancing.
Once my room is ready for next week, I leave my classroom and walk down the hallway to the front entrance. Stepping outside, I’m assaulted by the heat. Ever since I arrived, we’ve had a heat wave; it’s been in the high eighties and extremely humid. It’s perfect weather to sit at a pool somewhere, but not so nice to work in since I can’t exactly go to work in shorts and a tank top.
I hear my phone ping with an incoming text, and I fish it out of my bag while walking toward my car. I’m so distracted by my task I completely miss Duncan standing at his car swearing until he steps back, and I run straight into him. His backward momentum combined with my forward movement causes me to fall flat on my ass.
Ugh, graceful.
“Shit! Are you okay?” I see a hand move into my line of vision while Duncan asks this. Grimacing, I grab his hand and let him pull me up to standing. Luckily, my bag containing my laptop still sits on my shoulder, and my phone is securely in my grasp.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say while I’m dusting off my backside.
I can’t help but stare at his face. Unfortunately, he hasn’t grown grotesque over the last few days. And the distance hasn’t helped to diminish the insane attraction I feel toward him. I can feel it, like a line of electricity pulling me toward him—the more I resist, the stronger it seems to grow.
