Page 6 of Solo

“How about you try that one more time?”

I can feel the resentment coming off her as she gets to her feet, her eyes never leaving mine. It’s a dance we’ve done before.

“I’m sorry to have disrupted the class,” she says to no one in particular.

“Fine. You may sit down,” I say as I turn back to the board, confident my point has been made.

“Are you sure there isn’t anyone else you’d like me to prostrate myself before?” she says just loud enough for me to hear. There is a collective gasp across the classroom.

With a sigh, I come around to the front of my desk and lean up against it, arms folded, head tilted. Her classmates fidget around us, torn between leaning closer to get a good look, and pulling back to avoid the impending explosion.

“No, Miss Brenner,” I reply at last. “I can’t think of anyone right now, but I’m sure I will. I’ll get back to you when I do. In the meantime, why don’t you bring your things and have a seat right up here by me?” I nudge an empty desk in the first row with my foot.

Someone snickers and a few others join in hesitantly, testing the waters to see if I’ll call them on it. I don’t. Without further comment, she picks up her backpack and wiggles her way through the rows of desks to take the seat that I have indicated. Once she’s seated and I have a good look at her, I notice immediately that she appears disheveled, as if she’s been in a tussle. And pale. Is that blood on her temple? Christ. I’m tempted to ask her what the hell she’s gone and done now, but I ignore the impulse, instead reaching for the box of tissues sitting behind me on my desk. I pull out a wad and hand them to her, leaning closer so no one will overhear us.

“You have something on your forehead,” I murmur.

“Oh. Thank you,” she says in barely a whisper, her cheeks coloring. I watch while she dabs at the cut. After a few seconds, she looks up again and I continue, just as softly.

“I’d like to speak to you when class is over.”

She gives me the slightest nod of her head.

I’m not supposed to hate students. Or like them, for that matter. I’m just supposed to teach them to the best of my ability. Yeah. Right. Easier said than done.

Temporarily satisfied, I stand up straight again and clap my hands together. “All right, please pass your homework forward to my desk and let’s talk about the midterm projects, shall we?” I brighten up and walk back around to the board on the far wall behind my desk. I write a date at the top in red then underline it for emphasis.

“As you all know, they’re due at the end of the week. And I’ve decided to cancel class on Friday so you can take the time for any last-minute preparations.”

A soft murmur of excitement ripples across the classroom.

“You can have up until Friday to get your paper in. But,” I say with emphasis, “I think you all know by now that I leave early on Friday afternoons. So, if you plan to take advantage of that extension and turn it in on Friday, you must deliver it to my home by five p.m. There is a cylinder attached to the bottom of my mailbox, where the newspaper goes. You can leave them there. Please do not put them inside my mailbox, that’s against the law and I’d hate to have to sick the Postal Inspector on you.”

A soft chuckle from around the room.

“Please don’t ring my doorbell,” I continue. “Please don’t slide it under the door, or give it to my neighbor or tie it to a brick and throw it through the window.”

Some snickering and a couple of amused faces. Yeah, I know at least one or two of them who’d happily deliver their papers that way.

“I’m serious,” I warn, scanning the room and making eye contact with as many of them as possible. “I’m going to walk out of my house on Friday at 5:01 p.m. and if your project isn’t where it’s supposed to be, then too bad for you. In fact, I strongly encourage you to get it in before Friday so you don’t have to worry about that.”

We spend the next half hour going over the details of the assignment until the clock strikes eight forty-five. I send them on their way. All, that is, except for Katherine Brenner. She’s sitting silently, staring down at her hands and waiting for me to finish making notes at my desk. Her hair hangs down on either side of her head like a dark-brown veil. Finally, I take my glasses off, rub the bridge of my nose, and sigh.

“Miss Brenner,” I begin wearily, “you and I have a long history. And not a very good one. You don’t have much time left before you graduate. That is, assuming you do graduate.”

She sits up straight, eyes widening. When I slip my glasses back on, I notice the nasty-looking gash on her forehead is bleeding again, a thin trail of sticky crimson wending its way from her hairline to down behind her ear. I hand her more tissues and she gets the idea.

“Ugh,” she grunts in frustration.

“You might need a few stitches,” I point out.

“Yeah, I know,” she mutters in response.

“I want you to be crystal clear on this point,” I say, poking the ink blotter on my desk with my index finger for effect. “I expect you to be on time every day between now and the end of the semester. No sneaking in after class has started. In fact, I want you in that seat for every class. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Dr. Markham, I understand,” she says, keeping her voice soft and even.

I shuffle through the stack of papers on my desk—the assignment that they just turned in. When I come across the one with her name on it, I hand it to her. She looks perplexed.