Mr Stessman was making them all memorize a poem, whatever poem they wanted. Well, whatever poem they picked.
‘You’re going to forget everything else I teach you,’ Mr Stessman said, petting his mustache. ‘Everything. Maybe you’ll remember that Beowulf fought a monster. Maybe you’ll remember that “To be or not to be” is Hamlet, not Macbeth …
‘But everything else? Forget about it.’
He was slowly walking up and down each aisle. Mr Stessman loved this kind of stuff – theater in the round. He stopped next to Park’s desk and leaned in casually with his hand on the back of Park’s chair. Park stopped drawing and sat up straight. He couldn’t draw anyway.
‘So, you’re going to memorize a poem,’ Mr Stessman continued, pausing a moment to smile down at Park like Gene Wilder in the chocolate factory.
‘Brains love poetry. It’s sticky stuff. You’re going to memorize this poem, and five years from now, we’re going to see each other at the Village Inn, and you’ll say, “Mr Stessman, I still remember ‘The Road Not Taken!’ Listen … ‘Two roads diverged in a yellow wood …’”’
He moved on to the next desk. Park relaxed.
‘Nobody gets to pick “The Road Not Taken,” by the way, I’m sick to death of it. And no Shel Silverstein. He’s grand, but you’ve graduated.
We’re all adults here. Choose an adult poem …
‘Choose a romantic poem, that’s my advice. You’ll get the most use out of it.’
He walked by the new girl’s desk, but she didn’t turn away from the window.
‘Of course, it’s up to you. You may choose “A Dream Deferred” – Eleanor?’ She turned blankly. Mr Stessman leaned in. ‘You may choose it,
Eleanor. It’s poignant and it’s truth. But how often will you get to roll that one out?
‘No. Choose a poem that speaks to you. Choose a poem that will help you speak to someone else.’
Park planned to choose a poem that rhymed, so it would be easier to memorize. He liked Mr Stessman, he really did – but he wished he’d dial it back a few notches. Whenever he worked the room like this, Park got embarrassed for him.
‘We meet tomorrow in the library,’ Mr Stessman said, back at his desk. ‘Tomorrow, we’re gathering rosebuds.’
The bell rang. On cue.
