See Me After Class

by Quinn, Meghan

  “But . . . we’ve clashed over teaching styles from the very beginning.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You still hurt her.”

  “I know.” Aggravated, I drag my hands over my face. “What the fuck do I do?”

  “Well, sitting around doing nothing is not the way to win her heart back.”

  “Trying to talk to her isn’t working either.”

  “Ugh, you’re so dumb.” She rolls her eyes. “For the level of education you have on your résumé, you’d swear there would be more than a half-brain in your head.” Looking me in the eyes, in all seriousness, she says, “You read those Scottish books, right?”

  “What do they have to do with this?”

  “It’s called a grand gesture, Arlo. You can’t win a girl’s heart without a grand gesture. And if any moment calls for one, this is it.”

  “So you think I should ride into school on a white steed and proclaim my undying love?” I roll my eyes.

  “With that kind of crappy attitude, you’re never going to get her back.”

  “What happened to just talking? Talking it out? Having a simple conversation?”

  Coraline’s lips flatten as she stares at me. Nostrils flaring. Why do I feel like she’s about to explode?

  “Arlo, do you remember that conversation I had with you a while back? Out on the lounger.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember how we spoke about intimacy? And it being harder for us?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Intimacy isn’t just holding someone’s hand and kissing them in public. Intimacy is opening your heart to the one you love—opening it up—and exposing it to get beaten, battered, and then loved all over again. You need to open your mind to understand how Greer is feeling. Talking to her isn’t going to work. Reason and logic won’t work in this moment when her heart is broken. This requires an intimate act, an act of courage on your end. You need to show her not only do you love her, but you honor her teaching as well.”

  “I do. I’ve seen her work. I’ve heard the way the students talk about her. And I said that, but she focuses on the negative.”

  “Because the negative almost made her lose everything. And the negative—well, it made you lose the most important person in your life.” She pats my leg. “So, my suggestion to you is figure out a way you can make it up to her. Show her you value her as a colleague and the love of your life.”

  “How do you suppose—” I pause, a lightbulb turning on in my head. I sit up on the couch and say, “Oh shit, I think I have an idea.”

  “Boop,” Coraline says, pressing her finger to my thigh. “You’re welcome. I’ll take another sparkly thing as payment.”

  “If this works, I’ll give you anything you want.”

  “I hope you realize you just made quite the promise.”

  * * *

  “Thank you for making some time for me,” I say to Nyema.

  “No need to thank me. I’ve been wanting to speak with you.”

  I shift in my chair, trying to get comfortable. “Let me guess, you want to talk to me about Miss Gibson?”

  “Yes.” She folds her hands in front of her. “I heard you two have had a falling out.”

  “I wasn’t aware you knew we were together in the first place.”

  “There’s very little I don’t know about in my school, including faulty air conditioners.” She lifts her brow, and—Jesus Christ, she knows about that? Does she know who the underwear actually belongs to? Things I’ll never tell Greer . . . that’s if she ever decides to talk to me again.

  Clearing my throat, I look away and say, “Uh, yeah . . . um . . .” Jesus.

  “Now, about Miss Gibson,” Nyema says, thankfully helping me out.

  “Yes, sorry.” I clear my throat one more time. “I was hoping I could chat with you about her evaluation. I know that’s confidential, but could I at least be reminded of what I said in her evaluation? I think it’d be helpful in understanding her feelings.”

  “Are you planning to win her heart back?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s been over a week.”

  “My sister made me quite aware of that the other day.”

  “It’s going to be more difficult since you’ve waited so long.” She folds her arms over her chest.

  “Trust me, I’ve been trying but realized I’m going to have to make a grand gesture to gather her attention.”

  “Yes, I believe you are.” Nyema smirks and then she studies me. “You know, Arlo, I’ve known you for a few years now and, I’ll admit, I never thought you had room in your heart for more than literature and the love for teaching. But then Greer came along and I saw the way she challenged you, the way you look at her, study her. She fascinated you. So, when you turned in your evaluation, I took it with a grain of salt. I read between the lines. She scares you.”

  “She doesn’t scare me.”

  “She does.” Nyema nods. “Because she makes you question yourself and the way you conduct your classroom.”

  I go to respond but then quickly realize . . . she’s right.

  “She’s made you uncomfortable, hasn’t she? It’s why you dressed up for the literary character day. And you liked it.”

  “It was a nice way to help students explore the deeper intricacies of literary characters.”

  Nyema chuckles. “You don’t have to be proper with me. I know you liked it, Arlo. I sat in the back of your class while you taught your lesson. You were engaged, excited. She brought a teaching angle out of you that you weren’t expecting, and that was scary.”

  I sigh heavily and look down at my hands. “Yeah, she did.”

  “And your evaluation, although critical, still praised her. It wasn’t hurtful, it was what I’d expect from a trusted colleague. The school board took it to heart, but I took it for what it was, an opportunity for her to grow. But she wasn’t expecting it, so it hurt her.”

  “Yeah, I’m aware.”

  “I’ll say this, though, there was nothing in there that wasn’t true. I’ve observed her myself. I allowed her to move forward with her teaching style, and it’s been great watching these students absorb the material, but I believe she can do it without the pomp and circumstance. I think as a new teacher, she’s relying on easy resources, when I know, deep down, if she finds the confidence, she can lose the resources and rely on her personality to get the material across.”

  “I agree. That’s what I was trying to convey.”

  “And you did. But you never conveyed it to her, did you?”

  “No, I have. I’ve said that many—”

  “In an angry tone? Or a teaching tone?”

  I wince.

  “I’ve seen you at each other’s throats, arguing.” Does she have cameras set up around the school that I don’t know about? “You and I both know it’s hard to absorb anything when you’re put on the defensive.”

  “And every time we’ve spoken about her teaching, she’s been on the defensive.”

  “Exactly.” She smiles brightly. “So, now you need to figure out how you can show her your appreciation without insulting her.”

  “I think I have a plan.”

  “It better be good.”

  “I believe it is.”

  * * *

  “Quiet,” I say to my fifth-period class.

  They quickly settle down, all eyes looking up at me.

  Taking a deep breath, I say, “I need your help.” They glance around at each other, confused. “You see, I’ve fallen in love.” A few girls make those annoying girl shrieks. “And like every other red-blooded male, I’ve blown it.”

  “We can’t all be perfect,” Chuckie says from the back.

  “That’s your warning,” I point at him.

  “Just trying to be supportive.” He holds his hands up. “I’m here for you, Mr. Turner.”

  Ignoring him, I say, “The object of my affection . . . Miss Gibson.” I wait as the entire class explodes with shrieks and clapping. Whe
n they’re settled, I continue, “And like I said, I blew it. Now, I’ve tried a simple method to communicate with her. But you see, when you mess up the way I did—something I won’t divulge to you, so don’t ask—a conversation isn’t going to do the trick.” I lift off my desk and go to the whiteboard, where I snap up the map that’s covering it and reveal two words.

  Mr. Darcy.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to go Mr. Darcy on her . . . and I need your help.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  GREER

  “Okay, everyone. Hand your papers to the front of the class, where—”

  Knock. Knock.

  The door to my classroom opens and in steps a student wearing a bonnet. The class erupts in laughter and I have to quiet them down before I can ask what the hell is going on.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Miss Gibson.” She curtseys. “Miss Turner and Mr. Turner are here to see you.”

  What the hell . . .

  Coraline files into the classroom wearing a top hat, while Arlo rounds the corner of the classroom door, shoulders stiff, hands at his side. A student with a phone, recording him, follows closely behind.

  Cora bends at the waist, bowing. “Miss Gibson, pleasure to see you. Are you faring well?”

  Uhhh . . .

  “Dare I say, you look handsome.”

  Arlo stays silent next to her.

  “You must have heard, I’m here in town, staying with my dear brother for a few days.”

  Okay . . . what the hell is going on?

  “I don’t know what this is, but you’re disturbing my class.”

  Cora laughs. “Yes, the weather has treated us well.”

  Arlo stares at me awkwardly, still silent, until finally he asks, “You’re well, Miss Gibson?”

  The tone of this voice, the short clip of his words, the desperation in his eyes.

  The bonnet.

  The top hat.

  Oh . . . my . . . God . . .

  No way.

  There is no way this is happening, that he’s taking a note from my lesson plans.

  He’s—oh my God—he’s acting out a scene from Pride and Prejudice.

  Tears start to well in my eyes as I slowly nod.

  My pulse skyrockets as I can feel the beat of my heart climb up my throat. The classroom stays silent, all eyes on me.

  Slowly, I lower my eyes and answer, “Quite well.”

  “I hope the weather stays fine for you,” he says.

  I nod.

  Cora looks between us and says, “Well, we must be going.”

  “So soon?” I whisper.

  The girl in the bonnet says, “Miss Gibson looks well, doesn’t she?”

  Arlo’s face stays stoic, eyes downcast, as he says, “She does. Quite well.”

  Sucking in a sharp breath, Cora says, “Well, we really should be going.”

  Arlo dips his head and then turns out of the door, Cora following close behind. The girl in the bonnet shuts the door, and after a few seconds, from the other side of the wall, I hear Arlo’s class cheer.

  And for the first time in two weeks . . . I smile.

  * * *

  “And why would he do that?” I ask as one student raises their hand.

  Knock. Knock.

  The door opens, and the student in the bonnet appears, holding the door open. Filtering in behind is Cora in a top hat and Chuckie . . . in a dress.

  The class erupts and Chuckie quickly goes to my desk, where he takes a seat.

  “Miss Turner to see Mr. Chuckie. Or . . . uh . . . Mr. Bingley to see Miss Bennet?”

  The class chuckles, and Cora starts pacing the room.

  Chuckie stands, adjusts the ribbon at his waist, and then folds his hands in front of him. Cora whips around and says, “Miss Chuckie, I’ve been an ass.”

  Oh, dear God.

  I place my hand over my mouth to keep from giggling. From the corner of my eyes, I catch Arlo, standing near the doorframe, looking in, watching. His stare intense, his meaning clear.

  Bending on one knee, Cora says, “Will you do me the honor of being my wife?”

  Dramatically, Chuckie clutches his hands and pretends to cry as he says, “Yes . . . a thousand times, yes,” just like Jane Bingley.

  Cora stands and, when I think they might hug, they both hold out their hands and give each other a fist bump, only to run out of the classroom together.

  Darcy . . . I mean Arlo, exchanges one more look with me and then the door is shut behind him.

  Be still my heart.

  * * *

  “I know what’s next, and I’m terrified,” I say, taking a bite of the pizza Stella brought over.

  Stella wipes her mouth with a napkin and whispers, “Okay, you know I haven’t been a fan of the man because of what he did, but . . . this is freaking romantic.”

  Glancing at the bathroom where Keiko is, I say, “I know. I keep thinking about what Keeks said the day we unpacked my apartment. About growth and how he was trying to help, not hurt. Do you think there was some validity to what she said?”

  Leaning in, Stella says, “Despite wanting to throw her theory into the wastelands, I’ve known Keiko for a bit, and if there’s one thing I know, she doesn’t say anything unless there’s validity behind it. Her statements have meaning, and even though I don’t want to believe it, she was . . . right.”

  I groan. “Damn it, Stella.”

  The bathroom door opens and Keiko joins us. “It’s surprising that I’m surrounded by two intellectual minds, but your ability to calculate the thickness of the walls and soundproofing in a small studio apartment is incomprehensible.”

  “Did you hear us?”

  “Every word. And you’re correct, there is validity to everything I say.” She cuts her pizza with a fork and a knife.

  “He’s eating away at my resolve. He’s using my favorite book against me as a teaching moment for his students and a way to win back my heart.”

  “It’s possible to conclude that he’s using the very same teaching techniques he tried to quell from your practice, and instead, proving his theory wrong right in front of you. Quite a noble feat, to not only admit that he was wrong, but also show just how wrong he was.”

  “See?” Stella nods to Keiko. “Validity.”

  “So, what happens when it’s Mr. Darcy’s turn to make a move? What do I do?”

  “Depends,” Keeks says. “What do you want? If you conclude that life would not be the same without the romantic involvement you once obtained with Arlo, then, I say, play along. But if you believe your life is better, more suitable without him in it, deny his request for your hand.”

  “From the look in your eyes, I think you know the answer,” Stella says.

  “Yeah, I think I know it, too.”

  * * *

  Knock. Knock.

  The door opens and Chuckie once again comes into the room, this time wearing a nightgown. The girl in the bonnet comes up to me and holds open a robe. My class, used to this by now, all sit silently and wait.

  With a deep breath, I shrug the robe on and tie it at my waist.

  Chuckie lies across my desk and kicks his feet up in the air. “Oh, Miss Gibson,” he says, batting his eyelashes. “Can you possibly keel over from happiness?” He smiles and kicks his legs about. “He thought of me as indifferent, that I didn’t care for him. Can you believe such a notion?”

  Smiling, I shake my head. “Unfathomable.”

  He shakes his head and sits up. “Miss Gibson, I wish I could see you as happy one day. Happy like me.”

  “Maybe Mrs. Dewitt has a suitor for me.”

  The class chuckles as there’s another knock at the door.

  I turn around to find Romeo walking in, wearing a petticoat.

  Oh, dear Jesus.

  The class laughs hysterically, and he motions his hands to tamp down their laughter. Once settled, he adjusts his . . . breasts, and the girl in the bonnet says, “Mr. Romero to see you . . . uh . .
. Mr. Turner’s aunt, or something like that.”

  Romeo looks around, lifts his chin, and says, “You have a very small classroom, madam.”

  The girl in the bonnet says, “Can we offer you some tea, Mr. Romero?”

  In a haughty voice, he says, “Absolutely not. I want to speak to Miss Gibson. Alone.”

  Chuckie climbs off the desk and scurries out of the room.

  Once he’s gone, Romeo says, “Are you aware of why I make my presence?”

  Thinking back to the scene where Mr. Darcy’s aunt confronts Elizabeth, I say, “I can’t recall why I would have the honor.”

  “I’m not to be trifled with,” Romeo says, stomping his foot. The class chuckles. “You intend on being engaged with my nephew, Mr. Turner. This is impossible behavior, and I’ve come to let you know.”

  “If you perceive this as impossible, why are you here?”

  “Don’t fool with me, girl. Can you confirm you haven’t been spreading such rumors of a proposal?”

  “You marked such foolery as impossible. How could it be true?”

  “Do not toy with me. Mr. Turner is to be engaged to my . . . uh . . .”

  “Daughter,” I hear Arlo whisper from the door, and when I spot him, my heart leaps out of my chest, right toward him, begging him to take it.

  “Right, he’s engaged to my daughter.”

  “If that’s the case, he’d have no reason to make an offer to me,” I say.

  I can feel the energy in the room—all my students, eyes on us, immersed in the moment—and right then and there, I can feel what Nyema was talking about, what Arlo was trying to portray. This is how you make them see it. How you make them understand. This is how you make it come to life and leave an impact. Tears well in my eyes once again.

  This man, the one standing silently at the door . . . the proud man, the man full of prejudice—he’s opened my eyes in a way I never thought he would.

  “You selfish girl,” Romeo shouts, bringing me back to the scene. “Your inferior birth will not stand in the way of my daughter getting married. Now tell me, are you engaged to him?”