I pull out my own notebook—mostly empty except for the sketch I was drawing last night when I couldn’t sleep—and try not to stare.
I fail immediately.
Because now I’m noticing details. The way his forearms flex as he writes. The little furrow between his eyebrows when he concentrates. The fact that his whole desk is organized like a magazine spread—textbook aligned perfectly with the edge, pens arranged by color, water bottle exactly one inch from the corner.
Jesus Christ. He’s one ofthoseguys. The kind who probably alphabetizes his bookshelf and sets three alarms in the morning.
Fuck. Hot Boy Scout types are my kryptonite.
I bite my bottom lip. I’m the kinda girl who’s always been way more into Clark Kent than Superman.
McKenzie says something that makes her laugh—that trilling, artificial sound that sets my teeth on edge. She touches his arm. Lets her fingers linger.
He doesn’t react.
Interesting.
He’s not into her. Which means he’s either gay, ace, or he’s got taste.
Or maybe he’s just oblivious. Some guys are.
The bell rings, sharp and aggressive, making me jump. The kitten in my backpack shifts, and I freeze, but she settles back down without making a sound.
Good kitty.
Ms. Robertson—according to the nameplate onher desk—looks like one of those teachers who thinks she’s everyone’s cool aunt. Mid-forties, wearing a flowy scarf and too much turquoise jewelry. She perches on the edge of her desk like she’s about to deliver a TED talk instead of teaching high school English.
“Afternoon, everyone!” Her voice is aggressively cheerful. “I hope you all finished reading through chapter thirteen ofWuthering Heights. Today we’re discussing Heathcliff’s return, Catherine’s manipulation, and Isabella’s terrible, terrible choices.”
A few people laugh. I don’t.
I finishedWuthering Heightsa couple of years ago when I was bored out of my mind during one of Darlene’s week-long benders. Read the whole thing in one sitting, hunched in the bathroom because it’s the only room with a working lock.
Ms. Robertson scans the room with predatory enthusiasm. “Isabella’s attraction to Heathcliff is almost willfully blind. Do you see her as a victim, or is Brontë criticizing her choices?”
McKenzie’s hand shoots up before the question’s even finished.
“She’s an idiot,” McKenzie announces, dripping with the confidence of someone who’s never made a questionable life choice. “Everything had finally worked out for her. Why is she even bothering with Heathcliff? He’s obviously a jerk.”
“You would think that.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
Every head in the room swivels toward me.
McKenzie’s eyes narrow into slits. “What wouldyouknow about it? You probably haven’t even read the book.”
I lean back in my chair, arms crossed. I let my drawldrawljust enough to sound totally nonchalant. “Actually, I have read it. And Cathy’s just a victim of patriarchal expectations. Same as Heathcliff. They could’ve been happy if they hadn’t been caught in a suffocating system that cared so much about wealth, prestige, and producing a male heir to inherit the estate.”
Silence.
Then McKenzie scoffs like I just suggested the Earth is flat. “Uh,hello? They rescued Heathcliff as an orphan off thestreets. Should Catherine have given up everything she had so she could gostarvewith him?”
Oh, this bitch.
“Because it ends up so much better for her?” My voice is dry as Texas in August. “Spoiler alert: she dies anyway. But maybe you think it’s a happy ending because Heathcliff ends up with a big mansion?”
“We haven’t read that far!” McKenzie’s voice hits a pitch that could shatter glass.
I smile as sweetly as Helen’s snickerdoodles. “I was joking about the spoiler. It’s in the first chapter.”