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Me: If you could see me laughing now . . . I’m fine. Worst thing I might do is drop my phone and kill someone.
Prof Mike: Jesus. You’re sick.
Me: You have no idea.
Me: Speaking of sick, I owe you a dinner. How about I cook this time?
Prof Mike: Oh, hell. He looks like Reacherandhe cooks?
Me: I don’t know about Reacher, but yeah, I do okay in the kitchen. Tomorrow night? Seven o’clock again?
Prof Mike: It’s a date. Can I bring anything?
Me: Nope. Oh—leave Homer at home. I know we’ve bonded and all, but I’m scared I might get pregnant if we keep seeing each other.
Prof Mike: I just snorted so loud my students are staring. I need to go.
ME: See you tomorrow, minus the pup and his little pink thing.
Chapter twelve
Mike
IfhighschoolEnglishteachers had a battle cry, it would be:“You were supposed to read this last night!”
I should have known.
But hope was a dangerous thing, and I had hoped that maybe—just maybe—this time would be different.
I was an idiot.
I leaned against my desk, scanning the classroom like a detective searching for signs of guilt.
“All right,” I said, clapping my hands together. “Let’s talkFrankenstein.”
A collective groan rippled through the room.
Excellent. They were already suffering.
“Let’s start with something easy,” I continued. “Can anyone—anyoneat all—tell me what happened in the chapters you were assigned last night?”
Silence.
A few students shuffled awkwardly. One kid in the back, Nathan, a football player and my resident expert in looking guilty, suddenly became very fascinated with his shoelaces.
I raised an eyebrow. “Nathan?”
Nathan sighed. “Uh. The monster did stuff?”
I closed my eyes and counted to three.
“Brilliant,” I said. “Truly, Nathan. You have captured the depth and tragedy of this novel in one sentence. A masterpiece of literary analysis.”
A few students snickered.
Nathan grinned, thinking he was off the hook.
He was wrong.