ADDIE

SEE ME AFTER CLASS.

Has anything good ever started with those four words? I’m going to say no. It has not.

Thankfully, this is the last period of the day and it’s almost over, so I only have to freak out for about ten minutes until the bell rings. Everybody else slips out of their chairs and filters out of the room, but I stay glued to my seat. And so does Mr. Bennett.

I hazard a quick look in his direction. Does he look disappointed in me? I can’t even tell. “See me after class” is really bad, but there are worse things. During that whole mess with Mr. Tuttle, they didn’t wait until after class. The principal pulled me right out of biology and asked me what was going on.

“Addie?”

I got so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t even realize that all the other students were gone, and now Mr. Bennett and I are the only ones left. He is looking at me with raised eyebrows, like maybe he thinks something is wrong with me. I manage to flash him a weak smile.

“Sorry. Just spaced out for a moment.” I rise unsteadily from my seat and approach the desk, clutching my poem. “So, um, what’s wrong?”

“Wrong?” he says. Now that I’m closer to Mr. Bennett, I can see tiny dark seeds of what would become a beard if he didn’t shave every day. “Nothing’s wrong. Just the opposite.”

I glance down at the writing in red on my poem. “What do you mean?” “I mean,” he says, “your poem is amazing.”

Your poem is amazing. Those four words are so much better than “see me after class.” For the first time since this stupid school year began, I feel a little jolt of happiness. “Really?”

“Oh yes.” He tugs it out of my hand. “The imagery is incredible. ‘His fists a volcano, spouting lava from her lips with each blow.’ Addie, I was so moved. It’s a lyrical masterpiece.”

“Thank you.” I drop my eyes, trying not to think of my inspiration: all the nights when my dad stumbled home drunk and angry. “I appreciate

that.”

“And I think you should publish it.” I jerk my head up. “What?”

“I mean it.” A smile curls his lips. “This is really good, and you need to share it with the world. You know I’m the staff supervisor for the school’s poetry magazine, right?”

I know about the poetry magazine, Reflections. I always wanted to join, but I was scared they would think my poems were dumb. After all, what do I know about writing poetry? All I’ve ever done is scribble them in a marble notebook in my bedroom. But for the first time, somebody who actually knows what he’s talking about is telling me that I might have talent.

“Maybe…if you think so,” I say carefully.

He bobs his head vigorously. “I do. I think you would enjoy working on the magazine. And it would help you make some friends.”

Oh my God. Does Mr. Bennett know about my problem making friends this year? That is mortifying beyond words. But then again, of course he would know. Everybody knows about the scandal with me and Mr. Tuttle. It was stupid to think he might not know.

“I just mean,” he adds quickly when he sees my expression, “you would meet other students like you, with similar interests.”

Mr. Bennett is kind—pretty much the only person to be kind to me this year, including the teachers. He’s trying not to make me feel like a loser, which I appreciate, even though I am a loser. I’m sure he never had problems like this when he was in high school. I mean, look at the guy. I bet he had a posse of girls following him around, hanging on his every word.

Then it hits me. Maybe he doesn’t like my poem after all. Maybe he’s just saying all this nice stuff because he feels sorry for me. Maybe when some kids who actually have talent read my poetry, they’ll laugh at me.

“I’m not sure if this is a great idea,” I finally say.

He frowns. “Really? I think you would truly enjoy it.”

“I…” I look down at the poem in my hands, the one he claims he loved. “I’m not sure.”

“Come to a meeting.” Mr. Bennett’s eyes hold mine. I love the dark brown color—like a chocolate bar. “You’re not under any obligation to ever return. But I believe you will.”

And somehow I find myself agreeing, although a nagging voice in the back of my head won’t stop telling me it’s a bad idea.