When Reason Breaks (7 page)

Emily patted her pendant and repeated her wish before she jumped into the water.

Elizabeth stormed into the classroom seconds before the bell. She dropped her bag to the floor as she plopped into her assigned seat. Her hair was down, hanging straight. She wore black jeans and high-top Converse sneakers, and an oversize army-green T-shirt tied in a knot in the back. Even stretched as it was, an outlined sketch of Frida Kahlo could be seen on the front.

“Okay class, let's begin,” Ms. Diaz said after the bell. “I read your first-day reactions last night.”

Elizabeth had been digging through her bag but stopped to listen to her teacher.

“Very interesting,” Ms. Diaz said.

What the hell was that supposed to mean?
Elizabeth's response was genuine. She didn't draw and write what she
did to provoke her teacher, but it wasn't typical. And all she gets in return is “Very interesting?”

Elizabeth was not impressed.

Maybe she was wrong about Ms. Diaz.

She pulled a beat-up copy of
Wuthering Heights
from her bag. She slouched in her seat and rested the opened book in the space between her body and the edge of the desk.

“I love seeing the variety of interpretations,” Ms. Diaz continued.

Unlike yesterday, Elizabeth only half listened. She scanned the room and noted Tommy whispering to Abby about how he grows out his hair in the summer and then shaves it off in the winter during swim season. Abby listened intently while she circled one of his wavy strands around her finger. Tommy grinned and blushed but didn't pull away.
Stupid seating arrangement
.

Given their last names, Elizabeth would have been looking at the back of Tommy's head if they had been seated in normal rows. But, no, Ms. Diaz put them in a double semicircle to “encourage discussion.”
Bad move and good luck keeping our attention
. Even worse, because of this fancy seating arrangement, Elizabeth had a clear shot of Abby and Tommy. Elizabeth finger-combed her hair forward to try to block them from view.

“As readers, you'll bring your own experiences to your literary interpretations,” Ms. Diaz continued. “So, each of us can see something different.”

After several more glances at Tommy and Abby, Elizabeth
forced her attention elsewhere. Next to her, Emily sat up straight, books and notebooks neatly stacked on her desk. She was mouthing a question to Sarah across the room, using her hands in a form of sign language they seemed to understand. Kevin, who sat behind Sarah, witnessed the exchange and joined in. He made exaggerated, nonsensical signs to imitate the girls, which made Emily and Sarah giggle.

“I'll pass back what you wrote yesterday,” Ms. Diaz said. “We'll read the rest of the poem and analyze it a bit. And then for homework, you'll write a one-page, typed reaction to it, building on what you started yesterday. This will be due the day after tomorrow.”

Students groaned. Elizabeth agreed. She was not amused.

“This isn't a research project,” Ms. Diaz added. “I want a one-page paper, no more, so you shouldn't need more than two days.”

“Wow, Miss,” said Kevin. “You don't mess around. We have a paper due the first week of school? What about a get-to-know-you activity?”

Elizabeth laughed along with the rest of the class.

“First, please call me Ms. Diaz.” She walked around and distributed the students' first-day papers, a copy of the Dickinson poem, and the directions for their assignment. “Second, you're a sophomore in high school. The days of the week-long, get-to-know-each-other, lovey-dovey stuff are over.”

“Aw, man,” said Kevin.

Ms. Diaz placed Emily's papers on her desk. Elizabeth watched the girl immediately pick them up and read them.
She opened her school-issued agenda to write down the assignment.

Elizabeth glanced at her paper. “See me at the end of class” was written on the top. She smirked, turned the essay over, and returned to her book.

“Third,” Ms. Diaz continued, “getting right to work is the best way to transition out of summer vacation and into school. Trust me. I'll go easy on you today.”

“Okay, okay,” Kevin said.

Ms. Diaz returned to the front of the room. “First, let's talk briefly about Emily Dickinson. Does anyone know anything about her?”

“She was a poet,” said Kevin.

“Yes, thank you for stating the obvious,” Ms. Diaz said with laughter in her voice. “Anyone else?”

“Didn't she live around here?” asked Abby.

“Yes. She lived in Amherst, Massachusetts, which isn't far from here. Anyone else?”

“She was a recluse,” said Elizabeth. She closed the book but was still slouching.

“True,” said Ms. Diaz. “At about the age of thirty, Dickinson retreated from society, staying mostly in and around her home.”

“Why?” asked Tommy.

“Good question. No one knows for sure. Some of the theories are: an illness, depression, a broken heart, maybe. She may have simply chosen to live a quiet life and dedicate her time to her work. She wrote almost eighteen hundred
poems, but according to the Emily Dickinson Museum, only ten were published in her lifetime and likely without her knowledge.”

“Should we be writing this down?” Kevin asked, interrupting her.

“Yes,” said Ms. Diaz. “You can assume that anything we discuss may come back to haunt you on a quiz.”

Elizabeth rummaged through her bag and retrieved a notebook and pen. Kevin had nothing but a single-subject notebook on his desk. He patted his pockets but came up empty. He leaned forward and gently scratched Sarah on the middle of her back with his finger to get her attention. Sarah wiggled a little at his touch and turned to hear his request for a pen or pencil.

Elizabeth noted how Emily crossed her arms as she watched the exchange. When Kevin saw Emily looking in his direction, he winked at her, but she looked away quickly. Elizabeth would ask him about it later. On the other side of the room, Abby now sat sideways so her perfectly tanned legs directly faced Tommy. Elizabeth sighed and continued to stroke her hair forward to block them out.
Worst seating arrangement ever
.

“Dickinson's poems were discovered and published after she died, and she has since been considered one of the most important American poets in history,” said Ms. Diaz. “I'll tell you more about her as we read her poems throughout the year. Let's get to today's selection.”

Ms. Diaz projected the first stanza of poem #657 on a
wall. She asked Emily to read aloud. She seemed startled to be called upon but didn't protest. She read:

I dwell in Possibility –

A fairer House than Prose –

More numerous of Windows –

Superior – for Doors –

“You were supposed to go easy on us. This is making my head hurt,” said Kevin.

“Good,” responded Ms. Diaz. “That means you're thinking. Now, who can tell me what's going on in the first stanza?”

No hands went up. Elizabeth stared at the lines of poetry, rereading them several times. She then started to write and draw in her notebook.

“What do you notice about the poem? Let's start there.”

Tommy tentatively raised his hand. Ms. Diaz nodded at him.

“She uses capitalization in unusual ways.”

“Good. That's a start.” Ms. Diaz underlined the capitalized words.

“Should we be underlining these?” asked Kevin.

“Yes,” she said. “Now, what does the capitalization do for these words?”

“Gives them importance,” said Tommy.

Abby smiled admiringly at Tommy. Elizabeth noticed when she peeked from behind her hair-curtain.

“Good,” said Ms. Diaz. “Please read the rest of it, Emily.”

Elizabeth raised her gaze from her notebook to the projected poem. Emily sat up straighter and read with a clear, singsong voice:

Of Chambers as the Cedars –

Impregnable of Eye –

And for an Everlasting Roof

The Gambrels of the Sky –

Of Visitors – the fairest –

For Occupation – This –

The spreading wide my narrow Hands

To gather Paradise –

Ms. Diaz waited to let the words settle. “So, what is she talking about?”

“I have
no
idea,” Kevin said. Several students giggled, but not Elizabeth. She lowered her head, letting it hover a few inches above her work. She furiously jotted notes and drew.

“Anyone else?” Ms. Diaz asked. “Is anyone else confused?”

Several hands shot up. Elizabeth didn't raise hers.

“That's all right,” Ms. Diaz said. “Dickinson is often hard to understand. Let's take a closer look. She says she dwells in Possibility, and then she mentions Chambers, Gambrels, and Visitors.”

“She's describing it like a house,” said Sarah.

“Yes, good. Now, what is she describing like a house? Where does she dwell? Where does she live?”

“In Possibility,” said Tommy.

“Yes, but what is Possibility? What does it represent?”

The class was silent for a while. Some students stared at the poem, others at their desks, hoping not to have their names called.

“Poetry,” said Elizabeth.

“What was that?” Ms. Diaz asked, a little surprised.

“Poetry,” Elizabeth said louder. “She's talking about poetry. She doesn't go out usually, so she lives through her poetry.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Partly because of what you said about her. Writing is what she does. It's her Occupation—capital ‘O.' Also, because she compares it to prose. Writing is either prose or poetry, so she's talking about poetry. She thinks poetry is better, a fairer house; it allows her to better capture what she sees, the paradise that surrounds her.”

The students stared at Elizabeth and Ms. Diaz, waiting for a response.

“I'm impressed,” said Ms. Diaz.

Elizabeth wanted to smile but didn't let herself.

Several students scribbled rapidly into their notebooks.

“Wait, can you say that again?” asked Kevin.

“No, no,” Ms. Diaz said. “I don't want your papers to be about what Elizabeth thinks. I want to know what each of you thinks. On one of your handouts, I was kind enough to list some websites to help you analyze the poem. The one-page response must have some analysis, but the main question is personal: Where do
you
dwell?

“As Elizabeth said, Dickinson lived through poetry; it's the vehicle through which she observed the world and expressed herself. So I want to know: What is your vehicle? How do you express yourself? We all have something that helps us to make sense of this world.

“Use the rest of the class time to start the paper. Some of you can use the computers to check out the websites. I'll walk around to help anyone who needs it. Let's get started.”

For about twenty minutes, Ms. Diaz circled the room, answering questions and reading students' developing work. When the bell rang, students packed up and filed out the door. Elizabeth lingered, obeying the note on the paper handed back to her.

“You wanted to see me?” Elizabeth asked.

“Yes.” Ms. Diaz smiled and sat on top of a desk. “It's about your paper yesterday.”

Elizabeth stared at the floor. Her heart started to beat faster.

“You're obviously very smart and creative,” she said, tilting her head down. Elizabeth realized Ms. Diaz was straining to establish eye contact, so she looked up. “Your comments today and the detail in your drawing yesterday were both impressive. I talked with Ms. Gilbert yesterday …”

Elizabeth blinked hard and clenched her jaw.

“You're sending me to guidance?”

“No. Don't worry, you're not in trouble,” said Ms. Diaz. “She told me how you often draw within your notes, that it's a way for you to capture what's going on in class and in your
mind. That's fine, but if you draw weapons like the bloody daggers yesterday, then I have to report it. I think you know that. I want to encourage your creativity, but we do have school rules to follow.”

“Got it,” said Elizabeth.

“Do you have any questions?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, then.” Ms. Diaz scribbled on a piece of paper. “Here's a pass to class. See you tomorrow.”

Elizabeth grabbed the pass, and as she strolled down the hallway, she crushed it in her fist.

Later, Emily skipped lunch, telling Abby and Sarah she had to meet with her counselor to change a class. Instead, she sneaked out a side door and tucked herself into a corner near the art wing, far enough from the cafeteria that her friends shouldn't find her.

Sitting on the grass, her knees pulled up to her chest, Emily's heart pounded as she texted Kevin. She retyped the message a dozen times before she settled on: It's over.

Her phone buzzed seconds later.

Kevin: WTF? Is this a joke?

Emily: No.

Kevin: Meet me in the drama storage room. Let's talk.

Emily: I can't.

Kevin: I deserve an explanation.

Emily: Fine. I'm outside, near the art wing, by the bench-sculpture thing.

Kevin: On my way.

Emily stood and paced. Her hands turned cold, but her heart pounded. She sat on the bench-sculpture, ignoring the sign telling students not to, leaned forward, and gripped the seat so hard her fingers hurt. She wanted to appear calm when Kevin arrived, but she couldn't stop her legs from bouncing.

Kevin rounded the corner in a jog. Emily remained seated.

“What's going on?” he shouted.

She sprang to her feet. “Be quiet,” she said and looked around.

“No one's here but us.”

Kevin closed the gap between them and instinctively reached for her.

“Don't touch me,” she warned.