First Man (11 page)

I
t didn’t happen the way you’re thinking.

She didn’t walk into my office clad in knee-socks and a pleated skirt, nor was I the leering predator I was made out to be when everything blew up in our faces. When our relationship began, it was purely professional.

I shouldn’t be telling anyone this.

The things that I’ve done should be forgotten, lost in the annals of time. I shouldn’t have the luxury of exorcising my demons to a willing listener. Of course, I never really paid attention to what I should do. God knows if I had, none of this would ever have happened.

She was one of my students. She was. . . beautiful and wild and--

No, not innocent, at least not in the puritanical ways most people in our sex-obsessed society think of. Ember was not exactly popular, more like infamous among the faculty and her peers. She was the girl who mouthed off to the teachers and picked fights with the football players because she
knew
she could get away with it.

Above all, she awakened a passion in me that had been dampened for far too long. Despite the fondness for teaching that had grown in the past three years, I was becoming disheartened by the increasing amount of students that skated through my class, making only the most cursory attempts to really comprehend the material. Was
The Scarlet Letter
really
that
complicated of a book? Getting excited about teaching students who didn’t give a damn about the material was a Sisyphean battle that I was beginning to lose.

Ember quickly established herself as one of my top students. Any teacher that said they never played favorites was a liar. Those at the high and low end of the spectrum stood out, but they were few and far between. The rest blended into a blur unless they did something to designate themselves.

Ember stood out. Habits built in university work were hard to break, and I was a harsh grader, wielding my red pen like cudgel. I’d had more than a few of the over-achievers cursing my name after I skewed their perfect record with a B.

She seemed to barely acknowledge the grades. Far from the usual smug grins the future valedictorians wore, she would glance at her paper and then stuff it into her backpack, a faint smile or frown being the only indication if the mark pleased her.

She strolled into my office that day with a level of confidence that would have been impressive on someone decade older. On a girl who had barely turned 18, it was startling. Two sharp raps on my open door startled me from the stack of papers on
Ethan Frome
. I looked up to see Ember in my doorway. “Hey Mr. Edwards!”

Her pale hair was tied up in a messy bun and she was struggling with an armload of books. I jumped up and helped her before the stack cascaded to the floor.

“What’s all this?” I asked, turning over one of the worn paperbacks. “
The Hero with a Thousand Faces
. Great read. Is this for a class or just recreational?”

Her face broke into a wide smile at my recognition of the book. “That’s actually what I was hoping you could help me out with.” Without being asked, she sat down on the chair across from my desk. “I want to do an independent study for my last semester. My sociology class was just a semester long so it’s ending in a couple weeks. There isn’t a single elective left that remotely interests me, and I have three study halls next semester. I don’t want three study halls.”

I couldn’t help chuckling. Even the overachieving students that argued over every lost point rarely went so far as to request additional work. “Ember, you’ve already been accepted to college, is there a reason you’re heaping more work on yourself instead of relaxing for your last semester?”

She nodded, as though she’d expected the question to come up. “Everyone knows you're a tough grader so I thought it would be good practice for college.”

“Do you really need the practice?” I queried. “The last paper you turned in to me had four pages of footnotes.”

She shrugged. “I like to be thorough.”

I leaned back in my chair, intrigued. “All right. Tell me your abstract.”

Her face lit up. Ember had always been a fierce contributor to class discussions, and she never seemed more alive than when she was arguing her point.

“I want to explore the archetypes of heroes and villains that appear throughout high fantasy literature using Joseph Campbell’s book as a guide.” When I didn’t immediately shoot down her idea she plunged on. “Mankind has told stories around campfires for as long as there’s been language. Fantasy literature is relatively new in literary years, and most teachers and scholars label it as junk. But fantasy is the genre that has produced modern day epics.”

She paused, gauging my reaction.

“You memorized that, didn’t you?” I asked dryly.

“That obvious?”

“’Modern day epic’ isn’t really a phrase you throw around until you’re a literary critic. Or advertising a summer blockbuster.” Literally perched on the edge of her seat, Ember was watching me with rapt attention as I contemplated her fate.

I wonder what might have happened if I’d said no and sent her on her way. Would we still have found our way to each other, or was that one moment the hinge our future turned on? We’ll never know.

“Yes,” I said. “You have me intrigued. Write me up a proposal, and I’ll speak to the principal to see if we can actually get you any credit for this. Not that you actually need it.”

If her smile had been bright before, it was blinding after I agreed. “Thank you, Mr. Edwards!” she exclaimed. “You won’t regret this!”

Do I regret it? I regret the way things turned out and the indignity she suffered. I regret how every grade she ever received became suspect because of what we did, nullifying years of hard work in the eyes of the administration. I regret that we didn’t manage to restrain ourselves until after she graduated. It might have raised a few eyebrows then, but it wouldn’t have cost me my job, and Ember her reputation. But I never, for one single second, regretted loving her.

Ember showed up at my office during lunch the next day with four typed pages clutched triumphantly in her hands. She waited expectantly as I read her proposal.

For as long as there have been stories told around campfires, the seemingly clear cut differentiation between good and evil has been discussed with a dramatic flair. The genre of literature commonly known as fantasy is relatively new, a vast majority of its texts having been written within the last century. Far from being the mindless drivel many literary purists would have it labeled as, the fantasy genre has produced texts that could only be called modern day epics.

“The protagonists in these tales are called heroes or heroines, and they are rarely the one-dimensional defenders of the righteous. Truly well-written heroic characters make mistakes and have moral ambiguities. The same goes for the antagonists, usually referred to as villains. Though creatures of ultimate and unwavering evil
are
used with relative frequency in the fantasy genre, a much more interesting type of villain is one who can draw the sympathy of the readers.

Joseph Campbell’s ‘
The Hero with a Thousand Faces’
is a text devoted to the study of heroism in human mythology. It contains detailed descriptions of the progressions people undergo as they change from normal humans to heroic figures. Since a well written character should have the same feelings and dilemmas as a real person, Joseph Campbell’s book helps answer many questions. Why is literature filled with great struggles between good and evil? Why are heroic characters so enticing, and why do villains have a similar draw?

“This is good,” I said, flipping though the other pages to find a meticulous reading schedule and plans to write a lengthy paper documenting her findings. “This is very good. It’s also incredibly ambitious for one semester when you do have five other classes.”

I looked up at Ember to see her practically beaming, and I wondered if she had even heard anything beyond the praise.

“I can make it work,” she replied, the surety in her voice quieting any more potential protests.

“All right,” I agreed. Back then I really had been curious to see where she would manage to take this project. Her topic wasn’t entirely revolutionary, but this would be the longest paper she had written so far in her academic career. How she handled a project of this level would likely be a perfect indication of how she’d fare in university life.

The bell rang, and Ember ran off to her next class, leaving me with the copy of her proposal resting on my desk.

I’d generally treated my fellow teachers with the same aloof courteousness that I afforded my students. I can’t pretend that I never had a momentary stab of envy at the clusters of teachers gossiping together at the lunch tables. Their topics might not have interested me, but my closest friend was over four thousand miles and an ocean away. Even a lone wolf gets lonely sometimes.

The behavior of New Englanders suited my personality far more than the overtly friendly Southerners of Atlanta had. The Southern habit of striking up conversations with strangers and telling your whole family history in a casual conversation was largely absent in New Hampshire, a personality trait I was deeply grateful for.

I’d heard the people here described as flinty and cold by outsiders, but it couldn’t have been farther from the truth. People here were simply more cautious of outsiders and more introspective. The long winters will make anyone turn inward.

I hadn’t even noticed the slow progression from outsider to local. The faculty lounge had stopped falling silent when I entered, and without even realizing it, I’d been accepted into the fold.

Laura Watson taught freshman and sophomore English, herding the rambunctious bands of 14 and 15 year olds through the finer points of Shakespeare. A no nonsense woman in her late fifties, she wore her iron-grey hair in an immovable topknot. I’d seen that woman walk through blizzards without so much as a hair slipping out of place.

She had taken the new art teacher under her wing. Janet Parsons was a tiny, birdlike woman. Pretty enough, but she seemed terrified of her students half the time. Fresh out of graduate school, the 24 year old still seemed a bit baffled that she was actually in charge of her own class.

The two women were lingering in the faculty lounge, nursing steaming hot cups of the barely tolerable coffee the school provided. “Good morning ladies,” I said, pouring myself a cup.

“So what’s this I hear about the Pierson girl wanting to do an independent study?” News certainly did travel fast in such a small school.

“That’s basically all of it, Laura,” I replied, stirring a liberal amount of cream into my coffee. “She approached me a few days ago with an idea about an independent project. It’s a bit of a combination of literature and mythology. She turned in a proposal today, and I’m quite impressed already. This is obviously something she’s been considering for some time.” Sifting through the pile of folders in my hands, I handed Laura the proposal.

She flipped through the pages for a moment, nodding in approval as she read through it. “She always was a good student, if a bit cocky.” Laura paused as she scrutinized the proposal, her brow furrowing. “I wonder what her endgame for this is. College acceptance letters have already come out, and I know she got a stack of yeses from up and down the eastern seaboard.”

I sat down in the empty chair next to Janet, and idly scanned the front page of the newspaper. “She said it would be good practice for university. Apparently I’m a brutal grader,” I added sardonically.