“So, like, beginning to end?” asks Devon, chomping a wad of gum.
“Yes, that’s what I mean,” I say.
“Mrs. Mayfair,” says Zoey, raising her hand. “Is there a particular group you want me to join?”
“I’m sorry, Zoey.” I’d forgotten there was a new student, even though we’d only met minutes ago. My mind is still back at the beach with Danny. “Grab a book and get caught up on the story. It’s called ‘A Rose for Emily’. Page three hundred and sixty.”
“I figured that out from what you said earlier,” she says, bending to the side and retrieving her notebook from under her desk. “I’ve read it before.”
“Great. I’ll place you with a group in a minute,” I say, looking at the student roster on my clipboard. I don’t know anything about Zoey’s academic performance, but her familiarity with the story is a good sign.
“It’s bizarre, don’t you think?” Zoey asks, interrupting my focus. “Reading a story about necrophilia in a high school English class.”
The other students snap their heads and stare. People don’t typically speak in that tone here. We’re a placid school, with even the unruly students understanding they should take advantage of the knowledge being preached so they’ll be prepared for college. I notice some students tapping their phones, I’m sure googling what necrophilia means. I pray to God they don’t click on images.
I clear my throat. “The story is not about that, Zoey.”
“Sure it is,” she says. “The lady held onto her fiancé’s corpse for, like, thirty years. She slept with the body.”
“It could be interpreted that way, sure. But there is nothing in the story which explicitly states she was intimate with the corpse.”
Most students in my class are seventeen. Some of the stories in our state-mandated curriculum cover intense themes, but we usually try to glide over the sex and violence stuff. It’s there, and students can see it if they look closely enough. Most never take the time. Zoey, clearly, has.
“Most great literature relies on inference,” she says. She straightens her posture and leans back, waiting for my response. This entire confrontation feels familiar. The way Zoey is trying to challenge my authority. The way she’s dissecting the story and extracting the goriest parts. And the way she seems to enjoy causing a scene. It’s reminds me of something Brian would do. For a moment, it’s like he’s sitting in the back of the classroom watching me squirm.
I can tell from the blank stares of the other students that their thoughts are swirling. They’re trying to keep up with what Zoey is saying while simultaneously attempting to understand her intentions. Her vocabulary is clearly advanced, but her tone is harsh.
“That’s right, Zoey. A lot can be inferred from this story,” I say, giving her credit where it’s due. “The dead body creates a good twist, but that’s not necessarily what the story is about.”
“No one reads this story and recalls Miss Emily’s objectification by the town, or the subtle racism shown via the character Tobe,” Zoey says. If I were grading essays, I’d assume she pulled that line straight from SparkNotes. But there isn’t a phone in her hands, and she hasn’t been in the room long enough to conduct research. She pushes a fallen strand away from her face. “People remember the dead fucking body.”
The curse word drops like a bomb followed by utter silence. If I flicked a rubber band at Melanie on the front row, I think she’d crack. I wait a beat before speaking.
“Go ahead and get in your learning groups,” I repeat to the class. The students move immediately, grateful for instruction on how to act. They’re a laidback bunch, first period. It’s too early for power plays in the morning. Zoey remains seated as I skate toward her desk.
“Zoey, I really appreciate your interest in this story. And, as you’ll see, a lot of learning in my classroom is discussion based,” I begin. “But you cannot use that language. It’s offensive and distracting.”
It might be her first day, but it’s not mine. Classroom management is a duel of wills. I ignore the majority of inappropriate language I hear throughout the day; they are teenagers. But when someone blurts out something so blatant in front of the class, it’s a test on both ends.
“This is a warning,” I continue.
Zoey stares back, her expression unchanging. It’s the same stare she gave me when we met, the same stare Brian gave me half of my childhood. Like she’s trying to figure me out. Decide if I’m what she expected. She knows it’s her turn to draw a weapon, and she’s choosing which one it should be. Then, finally, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Mayfair. I’ll watch what I say in your class.”
“Thank you,” I say. She’s clearly smart, albeit a brat. Those are the students who secretly search for common ground. They want to connect but don’t know how. I smile. “So, where are you from? Tell me about your last school.”
“I’m from Florida,” she says.
Saliva stalls in my throat. There’s not a big gap between Florida and Tennessee, but Victory Hills is so small, I don’t encounter people from the area often. And when I do, I always experience the familiar pang of anxiety. Like Brian is closer than I think.
She continues, “But I’ve been all over. Most recently, Virginia.”
“You move around a lot?” I ask, wanting to know more.
“My mom isn’t really one to stay in one place, you know?”
“I see,” I say, hesitantly. “That can be exciting, I guess. I’m sure you’ve been exposed to a lot of different cultures.”
“Trust me, my mom’s not moving around for my benefit. But I did luck out this time around. My last school was really shitty.” She stops, holds up her hands. My eyes take in her chipped purple polish. “Excuse me, crummy. My last school was really crummy. I’ll work on the language, Mrs. Mayfair.”
She waits for my reaction.