My students look at me, an audience awaiting a revelation. I have them hooked. I’m good at this, good enough to know that I shouldn’t do the whole sage-on-the-stage thing all the time. But there are times it works well. Like now.
I stop in the center of the horseshoe of desks. “Because he wants to,” I say. “He knows it’s wrong, and he does it anyway.”
My classroom door opens again, but I don’t look to see who’s coming in. All my students are present. It’s probably Coleman dropping by to watch me teach; he does that occasionally. Besides, I’m in the flow, onstage, before my students, and I don’t want to lose my momentum.
“The witches plant an idea in Macbeth’s head that he knows is dead wrong, and he can’t shake it loose,” I continue. “He cannot stop imagining himself as king. And he murders the king, literally has his blood all over his hands. He commits himself to evil. And he pays a high price for it—he can’t sleep, he’s shaken with fear, he isolates himself from the rest of humanity. Lady Macbeth goes mad and kills herself. But Macbeth goes on. He self-destructs, but he does it on his own terms. It’s awful and awesome in the original sense of the word—inspiring fear and wonder. Look at his last words to Macduff. He realizes all is lost, and Macduff even offers him a way to surrender, but Macbeth throws his shield forward. ‘Lay on, Macduff, / And damned be him that first cries, “Hold, enough!” ’ ”
I stop. My students sit unmoving, caught up in this vision of Macbeth. Even Mark looks intrigued, nodding in agreement.
I turn toward the doorway, ready with a smile or a quick retort if it’s Coleman. Coleman is there, all right, leaning against the wall and smiling. But it’s the woman with him who brings the world to a temporary stop. The last time I saw her, she was facedown on a hotel bed, naked, sleeping. Now, in a navy-blue pantsuit, Marisa Devereaux stands in my classroom, hands clasped, and gives me the smallest of smiles, applauding my performance.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Sorry to interrupt,” Coleman says in a stage whisper. He’s smiling like a man who just learned his earlier diagnosis was wrong and he doesn’t have cancer after all. “I just wanted to introduce you.”
Marisa gives me a proper smile now, professional and courteous. I stand for a moment just looking at the two of them, flummoxed. Why is she here? I’m surprised and self-conscious and also feel the pleasant buzz of attraction.
I realize I’m standing there like a schmuck, my students looking at me and Father Coleman and Marisa, so I tell my class to get started on their homework and I step out into the hallway with Coleman and Marisa. “Hi,” I say, taking Marisa’s hand. It’s soft and smooth and well manicured. I realize I don’t know whether I should refer to having already met her or introduce myself as if for the first time.
Marisa solves the problem for me. “Nice to see you again,” she says. “Did you enjoy the conference?” She continues to smile, but there’s no suggestive tone, no sly wink or quick squeeze of my hand. She lets my hand go.
“Yeah,” I say. “Yes. It was good.”
“Marisa met Byron at the conference,” Coleman says. Byron Radinger is Archer’s assistant head of school. “She’s looking for a position,” Coleman adds, raising his eyebrows at me. “Byron was impressed and invited her to visit.”
I turn back to Marisa. “You’re the sub?”
Marisa looks a little bashful. “I’m sorry I didn’t call first to make an appointment,” she says. “I was heading up to Kennesaw State this morning—there’s an adjunct instructor position there—but traffic was so bad I called to tell them I’d be late. They said 285 was shut down, so they rescheduled me for tomorrow. So I got off the highway and realized I was right near Archer, and I remembered talking with Ethan”—she turns to me—“about how you all needed a long-term sub, and since I was already dressed for an interview, I just took a chance.”
We talked about the sub position at the hotel bar on Friday night. It was early in the conversation, only one drink in. Marisa had asked about Archer, and I had mentioned Betsy Bales and the long-term sub debacle. That was before we ordered more drinks and started flirting and wound up in bed together.
Coleman smiles. “I, for one, am glad you took that chance,” he says. His relief is clearly palpable.
We all stand there for a moment, smiling at each other, while I try to wrap my brain around the idea that Marisa might end up being Betsy’s sub. Might? Coleman looks like he would hire her on the spot. “So, where are you teaching now?” I ask.
The smile on her face falters a little. “I was teaching at the Hastings School up in Connecticut until last summer. I came back to Atlanta to help take care of my mother—she’s had some medical issues. But she’s better, and so I’m back out on the job market.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your mother,” I say, and Marisa nods in appreciation.
“Ethan, I’ll let you get back to your class,” Coleman says, “but I’d like you and Betsy to talk with Marisa after lunch. Tell her about the position, get a sense of whether or not this would be a good fit.”
“Betsy’s got a doctor’s appointment at one,” I say.
Coleman looks at his watch. “I’m trying to get Marisa to meet with Teri and Byron and a few other folks this morning,” he says. “Guess it’ll just be the two of you, then.”
Marisa turns to me with a smile and a slightly raised eyebrow.
“Sure,” I say, trying to ignore the nervous flutters in my stomach. “You bet.”
* * *
AFTER TEACHING CLASSES all morning and grabbing a quick lunch in the dining hall—a cavernous room of long tables, wooden beams overhead, and high windows that the students have dubbed Hogwarts—I return to my empty classroom to find Marisa sitting in the front row, looking at her phone. She puts her phone down and stands, smiling. “Hey,” she says.
“Hey,” I say. “How was your morning? They run you through the gauntlet?”
She holds up her hand and ticks off her responses one by one. “Assistant head, principal, athletic director, dean of students, and lunch with a few student council kids. Pretty comprehensive.”
“That’s Archer.” I pull a chair around to face her, and we both sit down.
“How long have you taught here?” she asks.
“This is my fourth year,” I say.
“You like it?”
I nod. “It’s a good place. The coffee is terrible, but Coleman supplements that with his own supply. What do you think so far?”
She considers the question. “The adults seem to care a lot,” she says. “The students seem bright, mostly eager, polite. As for the coffee, Coleman’s is fine.”
We smile at each other. I realize I’m fidgeting with a pen and put it down on the desk. In college, whenever you hooked up with someone and had to sneak out the next morning, it could be awkward later running into him or her between classes or in the student center. Sometimes a relationship would form, either casual or serious. Other times you’d cut your eyes away and avoid future one-on-one encounters. That was the route I usually took. Except now I’m interviewing a woman I slept with four days ago, a woman I could very well end up co-teaching with.