Push this girl as far away from me as possible.
It’s fine, I tell myself. There are forty-seven people here, none of whom look as terrified about poetry as she did on day one (never mind that now, of course, I realize exactly why she looked so terrified). It won’t be her.
Still, my stomach ties itself in knots as I watch the class file in. My eyes keep flicking to the doors, waiting, watching, hoping. Maybe she dropped the class after all. We can avoid disaster before it even starts.
No such luck.
Thirty seconds before the bell, and a lot later than she showed up on her first day, Harper shuffles into the back of the room. Her outfit looks as torn as she does about being here. The tight jeans and low-cut loose sweater reveal a lot more than her clothes at the party, from what I remember. Not to mention, when paired with the sleek bun she’s pulled her auburn hair into, and the turquoise heels she’s balancing on, sharp enough to pierce a heart, she’s clearly dressed for the occasion.
But the moment our eyes lock, which happens the second she enters the room because I’ve been staring at the doors like an idiot, waiting for her, she flees to the farthest corner, hiding behind a particularly bulky guy I vaguely recall from Intro to Modern Poetry.
Well, at least if she keeps hiding for the rest of the semester, I won’t have to face my mistakes quite so openly.
Better for both of us this way, I tell myself. The bell rings, and I wait another moment for the stragglers to filter in before I clear my throat.
“You’re probably wondering why I asked you to labor over a paper you didn’t get to take credit for,” I say, once we’re all here. A few people laugh, one corner of girls in particular. I’m used to inciting the occasional giggle from my female students—a risk of the position—but it frays my nerves today. Is it just the usual crush syndrome, or did anyone see me at the party? I hid my face when I left the booth, and the whole living room seemed distracted by watching Harper go, anyway (not that I can blame them). But what if someone saw?
I clear my throat. “Well, I had a good reason, I promise. You’ll all get full credit for your essays once we announce this.” From there, I launch into a quick explanation of the research seminar. I don’t mention Eliot—not yet. I’m not ready to let that particular rumor run rampant.
Assuming, of course, that Harper hasn’t already spread the news herself. But somehow, I can’t imagine her doing that.
You don’t know her at all, I remind myself. But I do know that she wants the position herself, badly. Why tell the other students if it would only motivate them to work all the harder in competition?
Suddenly, fear grips me. The Heaney essay, the one I chose. The author went above and beyond, totally all out. More than you’d expect any student to do on a paper this early in the term, unless they were a complete overachiever.
Or, unless they already knew how much that paper would matter.
Just like that, I’m sure.
I finish my explanation about the extra course credits my research aid will receive, and how great an honor it will be (not to mention that it will be graduate level work, which any serious poetry students will love to hear). A good couple dozen students are salivating over the prospect by the time I finish, even without me explaining what we think the papers we’ve found might be.
“I selected the aid based on the papers you all submitted anonymously. It seemed the fairest way to me, to ensure that everyone had an equal chance.” I force myself to look at my usual suspects, Henry and Jenny, instead of letting my gaze drift to the distant corner where it longs to dart.
“The paper I chose delved into not just the surface meaning of Heaney’s poems, but the deeper themes he wanted to illuminate. Henry, could you please read the highlighted section?” I tap a button to ignite the projector, and my laptop’s home screen fills the page, a scanned PDF copy of the paper I chose blazing across the screen. The highlighted lines represented the final page, the thesis of the whole essay. The author would recognize it at once, I was sure.
My gaze drifted across the students. Lots of people slumped in their seats, having realized they weren’t the authors of the paragraph.
In the back corner, bulky Modern Poetry guy leans forward to squint at the screen, blocking my view of Harper. No one seems too excited, though, as Henry finishes reading aloud the highlighted lines, and silence descends over the room.
I clear my throat into that pause. “Would the author please stand?” I say, finally, unable to stand the suspense.
My gut sinks through the floor as Harper’s now-familiar red-gold head rises above the bulky guy’s shoulder.