Mud Vein (37 page)

I HATE Maugham. Hate, hate, hate!

Wow...such strong feelings.

If you bring him up around me, I’ll spike you in the face with my heel.

Fair enough! Frequently bring up Maugham in your presence...

There will be serious consequences for breaking my rules, buddy!

Oh yeah? Like what?

You’ll see. Don’t underestimate me.

The morning flew by, thanks to movies and a texting partner that was as into the conversation as I was. My classes were all occupied watching videos, but I had no idea what she was doing over there that allowed her to be on her phone the whole time. I hoped she wasn’t interrupting class every two minutes to text me. I could just hear it now, kids wandering the hallways and lunchroom saying “Mrs. Batista and Mr. Harper texted alllll morning!” Then the glances would come from other teachers, then someone would inform the principal, and then pretty soon we would be called in for meetings and threatened with punishment if we continued this little texting game. I could try to convince them it was harmless. “It was an author game!”—I would say—but they would kick me out, fire me. I’d end up homeless, living out of my Roller Skate, begging Holly to take me in, along with her delinquent alcoholic of a brother. She would say family comes first, and I’d be stuck in my car until Marco eventually found me and shot me in the head. Or had one of his Cuban cronies do it for him. At my funeral, they would all be muttering “Supposedly it was just an ‘author game’... if you can believe that!” I’d be dead, and it would all be James Joyce’s fault.

Yeah, so maybe my mind can turn everything into the worst-case scenario. My mother was a worrier.

But, these thoughts of being murdered in my house-car didn’t stop us from talking. We continued the game, back and forth with authors we had read: London, Hughes, Achebe, Stein, Chesterton, Dostoevsky, Browning, Longfellow. On and on we went, and she seemed to have a story behind every author she was familiar with, every story she had read. I hadn’t met anyone who shared my love of literature to quite the extent that she seemed to.

As the lunch bell chimed and my class dismissed, she was immediately at my door waiting for me.

“You are a persistent man,” she said, smiling.

She was doing bad things to my mind. I was contemplating a throw down on the death couch with her, but if I was worried about texting getting me fired and killed, having sex with her in my classroom would probably achieve that end much more quickly.

“Can you blame me for trying?” I asked, getting up from my desk to meet her at the door.

“No,” she replied, “I’m just not used to someone so competitive.”

“Please,” I said as we began walking down the hall, “you are married to a professional athlete. I am fairly certain he’s competitive.”

“That’s different,” she said. “So, you need to read James Joyce,” she added, clearly wanting nothing to do with the fact that I brought her husband into the conversation.

“Okay. I will.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, tell me what to read and I will.”

“Okay. Well you have to read
Dubliners
then. Short stories, mostly depressing.”

“Sounds like my kind of pleasure reading.”

“Oh shut up. You’ll love them. He’s my favorite author.”

“That’s a pretty bold statement coming from someone who has read so many different books.”

“I can be a fairly bold person.”

“I can see that,” I said, wondering why certain things she said gave me goose bumps—the good kind.

“So you promise you’ll read it?” she asked as we neared the lunchroom. The sound of the students waiting in line was almost as offensive as the smell of fried food wafting through the halls.

“I do. I’ll just have to hit up my local public library and find it. It’s probably covered in dust.”

She jabbed me with her elbow.

“I have two copies at the house. Come by after work sometime tonight and I’ll let you borrow one.”

“Are you sure your husband won’t mind if I stopped by?”

“He won’t be home.”

And with that, she smiled and walked into the lunchroom.