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I blink. “Anyone else?”
A brunette in the rear, Savannah Lyle, stands up.
“Go ahead, Miss Lyle.”
“I agree with Miss Howell.” She nods. “Love is definitely not a choice.”
Their parents pay sixty thousand dollars a year in tuition for this?
“On that note,” I say, “if no one has another point to make—”
“I disagree.” Genevieve suddenly raises her hand.
As much as I want to say, “Tough shit,” and move on with the lesson, I can’t.
“I see.” I cross my arms. “Care to elaborate?”
“Yes. I think any person can choose who they fall in love with, in a certain context anyway.”
Her classmates turn in her direction, looking as if they’ve finally woken up and are ready to tear her idea to shreds.
“You can’t choose who you fall for per se, but you can choose to stay, which is an act of love itself,” she says. “When people say, ‘I’m falling out of love,’ sometimes I think they’re taking the easy way out. Relationships change over time, and in the hard times, you have to choose to stay like you did in the good times.”
“What if there’s a betrayal, Miss Edwards?” I decide to crash her theory myself. “What if the other person cheats?”
“Well, obviously, in that case—”
“What if they become addicted to drugs and transform into a completely different person from who you first loved?”
“You’re taking my words too literally.”
“Better yet, what if theylieabout who they really are, and you find out that your relationship never stood a chance?”
“You’re not allowing me the chance to explain.”
“I’m saving you the time because it’s obvious you have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.” I roll my eyes. “You need to leave arguments like that here in high school. They won’t work in college.”
Gasps fill the room as Genevieve’s jaw drops to the floor.
Her face reddens in disbelief.
“Moving on,” I say, flipping the page. “Is there anyone who wants to offer alogicaldiscussion point?”
Charles Mitchell, a guy who wears sweater vests every day, raises his hand.
“Go ahead, Mr. Mitchell,” I say. “We’re listening.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the girl next to Genevieve whispering.
“You should stop raising your hand in this class,” she suggests. “I think he really hates you.”
Genevieve’s eyes meet mine. “I fucking hate him, too…”
3
GENEVIEVE
Mr. Donovan’s house sits on the edge of campus, tucked between a grove of sweet maple trees and a sandbank. A small light blue cottage with a wraparound deck, it offers him a clear, panoramic view of our school’s most stunning gardens.
