The others don’t hear the insult, but I do. He’s talking abouthumans.
“Have you finished the book, dear?”
William says, “Yes.”
“Then let us hear from other people, as we do not want to spoil anyone’s reading experience.”
“But that’s because he’s a product of his environment and trapped by societal norms and expectations,” I say suddenly.
I think I hear Salma gasp. I’m not big on speaking in class—likeever.
“Tell us more about that,” says Minaro.
“I’m not defending his behavior,” I qualify, “and he obviously has more power and agency than Jane. But take his situation with Bertha—”
“Thank you!” says our teacher, cutting me off. “Sounds like you have also read farther than the class, so maybe let us hear from someone else—”
“As I said, he does what he must to survive,” says William, who’s turned halfway around in his chair to stare at me. “Like all men, he thinks of himself first and foremost—”
“But he doesn’t representallmen—”
And hearing how I sound, I amend, “I mean, allpeople!”
“Yes, I realize he is a fictional character,” says William, and even the director smirks. “Do you?”
Once we’re back in our room, Salma asks, “What was that about in class?”
I shrug, still feeling sheepish for losing control like that. “Guess I’m passionate about Charlotte Brontë.”
“You’re passionate aboutsomething,” says Tiffany, and she and Salma trade knowing looks.
“William and I are just friends.”
“Then why do you sound so disappointed?” asks Salma.
“Are you scared of Mommy finding out you have a boyfriend?”
“Cut that shit out,” Salma snaps at Tiffany, then she winces like the act of saying that physically strained her.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I have a headache.” Salma sits down at her desk, digging out her notebook from her book bag like she’s done talking.
“Just answer one question,” says Tiffany, who doesn’t seem to be finished with me yet. “Are you really this naive and oblivious that you have no idea what’s going on with you and William, or do you just not want to talk about it?”
Salma looks up like she wants to know the answer, too.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say in a low voice.
“Glad we cleared that up.” A cheerier Tiffany sits down at her desk and opens up her notebook to start working.
Salma drops her gaze from mine, and I can tell she’s hurt. I grab my pen and sit down next to her, at my desk. Then I snag her notebook.
“Give it back,” she says as I flip it over and turn it upside down. Opening to the last page, I write:
I’m sorry. It’s not you, it’s HER. This is all new to me, and she isn’t exactly Sensitive Barbie.
I slide the notebook back to Salma. She reads it and the lines of her face soften only slightly. Then she grabs her pen and writes back.
