All day, I barely register my teachers’ names or the topics they introduce. I can’t stop feeling the ghost of those fangs on my neck. I feel caught between the current of the present and the pull of the past.
In PE, I’m last to finish the mile run because it keeps triggering memories of escaping the demon last night. In precalculus, the teacher asks us to go around and say our names and share an interesting fact about ourselves, and when it’s my turn, I say, “Pass.” In American history, I am so sure the monster is spying on me through the window in the door that I suffer a minor panic attack and have to squeeze Salma’s hand until it goes away.
Last period turns out to be the only one all five of us share. Just like every classroom I’ve seen so far, there are two long tables with five chairs each across from a teacher’s desk. Yet unlike the other rooms, this one is outward facing, and the back wall bears twin arching windows that let in a flood of sunlight, overlooking a garden with stone benches and sculptures.
Only one person is already seated, and she’s in the front row. Salma leads us to the back table, where we take up all five seats. Our teacher isn’t here yet.
A couple of guys trickle in, and they check out Salma and Tiffany before taking their seats. I’m on Salma’s left, by the aisle, and Tiffany is at the center of our row. I watch her mouthing to Salma:Double date.
I shift in my chair to gaze out at the view. The garden looks like a maze of foliage and flowers, enclosed by plants tall enough to be reedy trees. I wonder if I’ll ever manage to summon enough mental peace to park myself on one of those benches and read a book.
“Welcome to English class.”
I straighten at the sound of that deep voice. Director Minaro stands behind the desk, surveying us.
“I am your teacher, but you will continue to refer to me as Director Minaro. I thought that considering the setting we find ourselves in, it would be fitting to commence our studies with books from the 1800s.” She collects a stack of papers from her desk and hands two copies to everyone in the front row, and they hand the second sheets back to us.
There are a dozen books listed, three per quarter. I skim the first set of books on her syllabus:
Jane Eyre
Pride and Prejudice
Dracula
The last title sets my hair on end, but Salma looks at me and says, “Yes!Both our favorite books are here.”
Minaro opens a box on her desk and starts handing out paperback copies ofJane Eyrethe same way she distributed the syllabi. This is the only one of the three that Salma and I haven’t read yet.
“Jane Eyreis a Gothic novel as much as it is a feminist social critique of its time,” says our teacher, her gaze slowly scanning us. “It is also one of the earliest successful examples of the intimacy produced by a first-person narrative. I want you to begin reading now, and tomorrow we will discuss the opening chapters. There will be no need for speaking.”
Salma and I trade stares. We’ve never had a teacher assign us a whole class period to read a book. Especially not on the first day.
Still, I’m not complaining. I open the text and settle into the story from the very first line:There was no possibility of taking a walk that day…
I barely notice the bell when it rings, and Salma has to wrench the book from my hands. “We’re free!” she says, and when I look up, even Minaro has already left the classroom.
As we file out of the row, it seems I’m not the only one who got sucked in by the story. Trevor is also still seated, and I watch him put away the novel. His bag is already packed with other texts, and as he slides this one in, I spot a thinner book that looks familiar.
It’s the green book from the basement.
WHEN THEfive of us sit down to dinner, I can’t stop thinking of the book in Trevor’s bag. Something feels wrong about him taking it.
What if the monster from the coffin notices and wants it returned?
“We need to go back.”
Trevor’s words startle me from my thoughts. “Tonight,” he adds, and panic strangles my vocal cords.
“Why?” asks Tiffany, and I’m relieved to hear the apprehension in her voice.
“We need to find out what’s inside that coffin,” he says.
“I want to know why I can’t record in there,” adds Zach.
“And I want to try a séance,” says Salma.
“Itwouldmake for an interesting story,” muses Tiffany, like she’s warming to the plan.
