His hands were big, his fingers notched evenly at every joint, not thick or tapering but square at the tip. They looked capable of both strength and precision. The bones in the back of his hand showed through sometimes like the ribs of a piano. I stared at them during class, watching as he restlessly clicked a pen or tapped a finger against his thigh. His arms were contoured with muscle, but the soft undersides were as pale as the white of an eye. Blue veins traced a meandering path down his forearms like rivers in a topographical map. When he squeezed his fists, the veins would bulge slightly, and when we cracked him up, the one that crossed his forehead popped out like an extra laugh line.
His chest was solid but not particularly muscular. When he wore button-down shirts, he’d leave them open so that small tufts of his chest hair were visible, not dark and masculine but blond and sparse. He had a tag of skin on his throat, like a leftover bit of paper from a hole punch, that I was forever tempted to pull off.
His ass was round, curved both in profile and straight on, and where it met his thighs they were almost chubby, swollen with slightly too much flesh. They were powerful legs, thick as tree trunks. I tried not to stare at his groin, out of fear he’d catch me doing it more than anything, but every once in a while I couldn’t help looking at the bulge where sometimes the seam of his jeans would push against his balls, and I’d think about what he’d look like with an erection. I’d never seen one in real life, clothed or otherwise, but I liked thinking of him being startled by it, embarrassed and apologetic but unable to stop it. The daydream usually involved us being pressed together and me feeling it on my hip, at which point I was often interrupted by Asha coughing or the scratch of pens on paper as everyone finished their quizzes, or even his rapping the table in front of me with his knuckles. I’d look up at him and blink, my vision briefly doubling as I tried to reconcile the fantasy image with the one of him looking stern as he patrolled us, his groin decidedly flaccid.
He never wore shorts, but sometimes I’d catch him idly scratching his leg, his pant leg rucked up and a crumpled sock exposed. His calf was milky white, knitted with dark hair, and it startled me how much I recoiled when I saw it. I think it was the sock, dark against his pale skin. It made him look ordinary, vulnerable, the way it sagged, the way it made his calf look like any man’s calf, like a sixty-year-old’s, like my father’s. I thought of him in sandals with socks and winced.
He wasn’t handsome, not unless you squinted. He had thick, dark brown hair, but cowlicks always threatened at the back, and it looked like the most thorough combing he gave it was when he dragged his hand through it in class. His mouth was too wide; his lips were too thin; his chin lacked a confident jut. His nose was straight but his profile made him look too young, like a college kid playing at being a teacher. He usually had traces of stubble sweeping his jaw like pencil shavings, but there were always angry red dots along his throat where he’d shaved too quickly.
But I loved his eyes. They were a striking shade of blue—the kind that made you look at them twice to ensure you’d gotten the color right—and they were big and warm and always ready to laugh. They caught mine every day in class, whether I was whispering to Lila or laughing at something he’d said or listening to someone ramble and grinning at him when he shook his head at me.
His crow’s-feet fanned out into sunbursts when he laughed, and the crisp lines that bracketed his mouth pooled into fat dimples. I often imagined tracing those lines with my fingers, mapping his face until I could draw it from memory. His voice was soft in conversation but deeper in class, especially when he was joking with us, as if our whole course were an elaborate parody of teaching. I liked his laugh best when it was low and guttural, but I also loved it when we made him crack up; he’d bury his face in his arms as if he was ashamed to be so defenseless in front of us.
Even the books we read were different to me now, and took on his cast: every one felt like something our class shared, some secret we had together. We joked about them like they were a language only we understood. He made us feel like we had conquered them, understood them, unlocked them in a way other people hadn’t, or couldn’t, or would never be able to. Once I’d read a book for his class, it felt like it was mine, like it said something about me, and we were the only ones who would ever know what it was.
Everyone was infatuated with him to some degree; he pulled us in like a magnet. It started that way for me too, but after a few months I was absolutely helpless in front of him. It was exhausting, feeling as much for him as I did; it was big and violent and felt like it would never end. Some days I felt like a branch trying to hold up under an enormous weight; the pressure got worse and worse until I was sure I would snap. I was so giddy sometimes that I felt manic. I knew it would be wrong for him to feel anything toward me—and in a way I wanted him to feel something but not to allow himself to act on it, to be tortured and desperate but too noble to hurt me—but there was something even more appealing about the thought of him giving in: he’d have to want me so much he’d break the rules to act on it.
I would have done anything he’d asked me, formed any opinion he’d told me to, laid myself bare in front of him and let him do anything he wanted. I often pretended he was on my bed with me, overlit by the afternoon sun, running his hand down my leg. Then I’d try to picture what he was actually doing at that moment—swimming at the community center, laughing with a group of friends, talking to his parents, having sex with a girlfriend—and I’d think about how small I must be in his life, while he was everything in mine.
I knew nothing would ever happen. He liked me, of course, and sometimes I let myself think I was his favorite. But I told myself I didn’t even cross his mind outside school. I was an ugly girl with a crush. I didn’t have to worry that it would be wrong of him to be interested in me; he wouldn’t ever be interested. I cringed to think of how he described me to his friends. I’d make myself imagine it: You wouldn’t believe how some of the girls throw themselves at me. Yes, really! And not even the good-looking ones. I get the ones the boys won’t touch. There’s this one…Jesus, it’s painful. I want to put her out of her misery and tell her, Listen, I wouldn’t be interested if you weren’t my student.
But there were other times I could have sworn I saw something else in his eyes, or we shared a grin as if it were a private joke, or he’d pass me kneeling at my locker and gently kick the soles of my shoes, and when I’d turn, he’d feign ignorance, whistling loudly and looking around for the perpetrator. Maybe it was just pity. I’d seen him do similar things with other kids in our class, and maybe it was the only way he knew how to relate to us. Why should I be any different?
When I went downstairs for breakfast on Christmas, my parents were kissing.
“Ahem,” I said. “Good morning.”
They pulled apart reluctantly. “Merry Christmas, kid,” my dad said.
“Merry Christmas,” I said. “I’ll thank you not to give me a Christmas kiss like that.”
“How about a Christmas noogie?” He squeezed my mother, and then he came over and ruffled my hair until I squealed and ducked away from him.
My mother watched us from the kitchen, smiling vaguely. “You in the mood for pancakes, Charlie?” she asked.
“When am I not in the mood for pancakes is a better question,” I said. “And the answer is never.”
“Well,” she said, “your dad’s making them, so he should probably get that griddle fired up.”
My dad raised his eyebrows at me and I raised mine back.
“Sounds like you’ve got your orders,” I said. “I take pure maple syrup. None of that Mrs. Butterworth’s shit.”
“I’ll allow you that profanity because it’s Christmas,” he said. “But don’t you dare insult Mrs. Butterworth like that again.”
My mother slapped him on the butt as he walked past her into the kitchen; then she grinned at me like she’d done something delightfully outrageous. I rolled my eyes, but I laughed.
“You know,�
�� she said, “agave’s good on pancakes. You can barely taste the difference.”
I squinted at her. “Just this once.”
—
We sat by the tree in our pajamas to open presents. My mother had put Christmas music on and my dad had made a fire, something he attempted only once a year. My favorite Christmas memories involved watching him swear at great length and with increasingly florid creativity as he tried to get the logs to stay lit for long, squatting minutes.
“Last presents,” my dad said. “Charlie, I believe yours is at the back there.”
I splayed out under the tree to grab it; it had slid down near the wall, amid a carpet of browning needles. It was a large, heavy package in silver paper and the contents shifted slightly when I shook it.
“It’s from your mom,” he said. She looked at him and smiled and then said to me, “It’s not something from your list. I just thought…well, you’ll see.”
She looked nervous. I readied my face so I could smile when I opened it, whatever it was. I ripped open the paper and saw the humped backs of a line of hardcover books. “Books!” I said in surprise.
“If you don’t like them, we can exchange them,” she said.
“Okay…,” I said. I ripped the paper off the rest of the way. It was a boxed set of all Jane Austen’s books. The box itself had embossed lettering and a leather cover that gave a little when you pressed it. I slid the books out; they seemed to sigh a little as I released them, like their seal had popped. They were heavy, their covers smooth, the pages stiff, the paper heavy and creamy and expensive-looking. I turned them around to see the flat lips of their covers; the pages sandwiched between them were ragged at the edges.
“Wow,” I said. “These are beautiful.”
“I thought, you know, since you were enjoying Pride and Prejudice,” she said. “And I know your teacher liked Jane Austen, right? Mr. Drummond?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I didn’t think you remembered.”
“I did,” she said. She allowed herself a small smile. “So you like them?”
“I do,” I said. I ran my hands down their spines. “Thank you.” I glanced up and smiled back. “These are really—thank you. They’re perfect.”
Her smile grew wider. She put her hand on my dad’s thigh, and he fastened his hand on hers. “So there’s something else that goes with them….It’s in the bottom there.”
I reached down into the slipcase and pulled out a thick white envelope. “What’s this?”
“It’s a—it’s a certificate for a salon I like. I want to treat you to a spa day. We can both get dolled up and have a girly day out.”
“Oh,” I said. “Is that…What does that have to do with the books?”
“You know,” she said, “like the way the girls do, getting ready for their suitors before a ball.”
“That’s not really the…the point of them.”
“I know that, Charlotte,” she said. “I just thought it might make you more enthusiastic.”
I pushed my tongue against my teeth and sucked in air. “And you…that’s why you gave me the books? They were a bribe?”
“No!” she said. “No. But I thought it couldn’t hurt. One present for you and one for me. Right?”
“Right,” I said.
“I know it’s not your favorite thing,” she said, “but I think it would be fun for both of us. Maybe you can see it as a gift to me?”
“Sure,” I said. “Okay. No, that’s great. Thank you, it’s really…really generous.” I glanced at my dad. I needed to exchange looks with him, to reassure myself that he still knew me, but he kept watching her. I should have known the books were just a stealth gift. She couldn’t let it go, even on Christmas. I suddenly felt like I was going to cry, and I swallowed hard and said, “So is that it? Anything else?”
“Yes, now that you mention it,” my dad said. “This last one is from Santa.” He slid an envelope from a pocket in his frayed robe and handed it to my mother.
“What’s this?” she said. She didn’t take the envelope from him, and it hung in the air between them, trembling slightly.
“It’s from Santa, like I said.” He wiggled it in front of her as if it were bait. “Come on, you’ll ruin his Christmas if you don’t open it.”
She raised her eyebrows at him and took it tentatively. She looked at me. “Were you in on this?” she asked.
I shook my head.
She slid her lacquered nail under the flap and gently freed it. She watched my dad the whole time. Then she pulled out what was inside—two neatly folded sheets of paper. She unfolded them and read, then looked up at my dad.
“Paul, you can’t afford this,” she said. She didn’t sound angry, just surprised.
“Santa paid for it,” he said.
Her eyebrows sloped together like poised knitting needles.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “My last commission went better than I’d hoped.”
“It didn’t go that well.”
“You haven’t had a vacation in years,” he said. “Don’t protest.”
“So, uh, what’s going on?” I asked.
My dad smiled at me, looking pleased with himself. “Your mom and I are flying to Hawaii the week after you go to Oberlin.”
“Oh,” I said.
He turned back to my mother. “I thought we could both use the break. And there’s no better occasion.”
“To celebrate getting rid of me?” I said.
“Charlie,” he said sharply.
“What?” I said. I felt stung; he never spoke to me harshly.
He frowned at me. “It’s quite the opposite,” he said.
“This is wonderful,” my mother said. “Thank you, honey.”
“It sounds great,” I said. “I wish I could be there but I’m just so busy.”
“Jesus, Charlie,” my dad said. “Could you not make this about you for once?”
I stared at him, too shocked to say anything. Then I picked up the books and stomped upstairs.
—
That night I stood outside in the snow and called Lila.
“How was it?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. My eyes started to burn with tears.
“My day was fantastic,” she said. “My dad got me sweatpants with ‘Juicy’ written across the butt for Hanukkah. For Hanukkah, Charlie.”
I laughed and swiped at my eyes. “I didn’t even know they still made those.”
“I know, right?” she said. “He couldn’t find some Ed Hardy or something? So was it bad?”
I kicked at a snowbank. “It was just…She tried, I guess. I know I was a brat about it. She just thinks I’m…” My throat felt thick and I tried to clear it. I couldn’t say it, even to Lila. “I had to leave. It’s freezing outside, by the way.”
“I ask this without judgment: are you in your pajamas?”
“I have a coat on too.” I sighed. “I miss school.”
“I’m not even going to tell you how weird that is.”
“Thank you,” I said, “for not saying that.”
“You miss Drummond.”
“Not just that.”
“No, it’s that.”
I shrugged farther into my coat. “What do you think he’s doing?”
“Like right now? Sitting in front of a fire with a pipe, rereading one of your essays and shaking his head in wonder at your brilliance.”
I laughed. “I bet he’s trying to get a call through to the New Yorker about it.”
“Definitely,” she said. “ ‘Publish this young woman’s essay about how The Cat in the Hat is a metaphor for communism or risk complete cultural irrelevance.’ ”
“He probably has a lot of sway with them,” I said.
“Well, he does teach advanced placement classes, so…”
I looked at the sky. “What do you really think he’s doing?”
“Dunno,” she said. “Wanking?”
“Good night,” I said.
“Love you,” she said.
By the time I hung up, it had started to snow again. The chill had gone out of the air and everything was silent. It was the kind of silence that made it seem like the snow had stuffed itself into every crevice and gap, buried the landscape under layers of padding, and now there was just this neighborhood, just this street, just me, and no matter how far I tried to run, nothing would ever look different.
Talking about it with Lila had made it worse. The loneliness felt like an infection I couldn’t shake, something hollowing me out from the inside. It wasn’t the longing for him that hurt the most; it was the gnawing feeling that no one wanted me and I had no idea when, or if, that would ever change. I stood and watched the snowflakes come down, more and more of them, until the plows cut swaths through the streets, peeling the snow back like a rind, and I had to go back inside.
In the disappointed sigh of a week between Christmas and New Year’s, Asha came over to watch movies. I’d been worried that she wouldn’t accept after our aborted stakeout, but she said Dev had been busy golfing with their dad and she’d had enough of the rest of her family by the time I texted. Meanwhile, I had finished all my library books and was staring warily at the Austen boxed set.
“This is Frida,” I said as she stepped through the door one dark afternoon, brushing snow from her shoulders. Frida sat down and wagged her tail hopefully.
“She’s gorgeous!” Asha said. “A malamute?” She leaned down to pet her, and Frida stood up and pressed herself in an arc against Asha’s knees.
“She likes you,” I said. “I trust anyone Frida likes.”
Asha looked up at me, her dark hair falling into her eyes. Frida’s tail kept time like a metronome. “Has she ever disliked someone?”
“Not yet.” I moved toward the stairs. “My room’s up this way. We can bring her with us.”
When we got to my room, I said, “So did you bring anything to watch, or—”
“I’ve been there!” Asha interrupted. She was pointing at a poster I had up on my wall—a photograph of a German castle on a cliff, surrounded by a forest, that I’d found back in middle school. I’d hung it up because it was the farthest place I could imagine from where I was then.
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