Page 12

Chapter twelve

Mike

If high school English teachers 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 talk Frankenstein .”

A collective groan rippled through the room.

Excellent. They were already suffering.

“Let’s start with something easy,” I continued. “Can anyone— anyone at 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.

I crossed my arms. “Since you seem so knowledgeable, Nathan, what did the monster do?”

Nathan panicked. “Uh . . . he . . . scared people?”

I nodded slowly. “Okay. That’s technically true. And when people saw him, how did they react?”

Nathan hesitated, then leaned over to Kyle, a basketball player who wore his jersey to school every day and was just as clueless.

Kyle whispered something.

Nathan straightened. “They, uh . . . thought he was a zombie?”

Jessica made a loud, dramatic groan and let her head fall onto her desk, drawing every eye in the room.

“Oh my God,” she muttered.

I gestured toward her. “Jessica. Please. Save us.”

She lifted her head, looking personally offended by the state of the discussion.

“The monster learned how to speak in these chapters, people!” she said, exasperated. “He literally hid in the woods and spied on a family so he could learn about human nature.”

I pointed at her. “Yes. That. Thank you.”

She smirked, clearly pleased with herself, then began twirling her hair and batting her lashes. That morning, her lips were painted a shiny, bright pink with odd sparkles or glitter. I wasn’t even sure how she’d managed it.

Kyle, however, raised his hand, a confused scrunch to his brow.

“Wait,” Kyle said, squinting. “The monster can talk?”

I exhaled deeply.

Seven, eight, nine, ten.

“Yes, Kyle. The monster can talk . . . because he is not a zombie.”

“That sucks. Zombies are rad.” Nathan frowned, thinking a moment before asking, “If he’s not a zombie, why does everyone hate him?”

I grinned. Finally. A real question.

“Great question, Nathan,” I said. “Let’s talk about that. Why does everyone hate the monster?”

Jessica’s hand shot up, and she grunted like she was having an aneurysm, but I waved her off.

“Someone besides Jessica.”

Crickets.

Then Kyle, bless his struggling heart, took another stab in the dark.

“Because he’s . . . ugly?”

“Exactly.” I gave him a slow, approving nod and had to resist laughing as he gave Nathan a fist bump to celebrate his brilliance. “And because he’s different. They don’t even care who he is. They see him, assume he’s a monster, and reject him.”

A few students actually nodded, like they were getting it.

I leaned against my desk. “So let me ask you this—who’s the real monster in this book?”

Jessica made aggressive finger guns at me.

“The real monster is Victor Frankenstein!” she declared.

I grinned. “Yes, Jessica. Thank you for doing the reading.”

She flipped her hair dramatically. “Anything for you, Mr. A.”

Ignoring her flirtation, I turned back to the class. “So? What do we think? Is the monster really a villain, or is Frankenstein the true monster?”

And just like that, the discussion actually started.

Baby steps.

I’d take it.

By the time the bell rang, I was only mildly exhausted. The students filed out, a few actually discussing the book as they left, and Jessica, of course, flashed me her usual smug grin.

“Let me know if you need help next period, Mr. A,” she said.

I sighed. “Jessica, please stop trying to take my job.”

She winked, flicked her hair, and strolled out.

I shook my head, turning to erase the board, when I noticed someone lingering near my desk.

Jamie.

Jamie was one of my quiet ones. The kind of kid who kept his head down, never really spoke unless directly asked. He was small, the kind of small that made you wonder if he ever ate a full meal. Scrawny, almost delicate, with narrow shoulders and limbs that looked like they’d snap in a strong wind. He wore oversized hoodies year-round, the kind that swallowed his frame and made him look even smaller, like he was trying to disappear into the fabric.

He had big, anxious brown eyes, framed by long, dark lashes, and he rarely held eye contact for more than a few seconds. His movements were small, hesitant, like he was always bracing for something, always prepared to shrink away if needed. His hands, when they weren’t shoved into the front pocket of his hoodie, were thin and bony, and when he fidgeted—which he did constantly—it was always with the frayed edges of his sleeves.

Everything about Jamie screamed uncertainty.

Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to take up space.

Like he was used to being ignored or overlooked.

And that?

That was what made me pay attention.

Now, standing before my desk, he was fidgeting with his sleeves, glancing toward the door like he wanted to bolt.

I softened my voice. “Hey, Jamie. What’s up?”

He hesitated.

Then, quietly, “Can I—can I talk to you? Privately?”

I nodded immediately. “Of course. Take a seat.”

He perched on the edge of a desk, looking like he wanted to be anywhere in the world but in my classroom.

I waited.

Finally, he took a deep breath and said, “My, um—my mom thinks you’re cool.”

I blinked. “Oh. Well. That’s a first.”

Jamie huffed a small, nervous laugh but wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“She says you’re a good role model. Someone I could—talk to.”

That last part was quieter.

More hesitant.

Something in my chest tightened.

I kept my voice gentle. “Jamie. You can talk to me.”

He nodded, still fidgeting.

Then, in a small, uncertain voice, he said, “I think I might be . . . different.”

He was definitely different. Smaller than most, quieter than his classmates, scared of his own shadow. And those were the outward differences anyone could see. I suspected what he wasn’t telling me was far more important than anything obvious.

“What do you mean? We’re all different.”

He looked up with that “You’re such an idiot” look only a teenager can produce, but as quickly as our eyes locked, his gaze fell again.

“Gay. I think I might be gay.”

There it was.

A quiet, terrified confession hanging in the air.

I let the moment settle, let him breathe.

Finally, I nodded. “That’s a big thing to figure out.”

Jamie exhaled, shoulders sinking. “Yeah.”

“You worried about how your mom will take it?” I asked.

He swallowed. “I think she’d be okay, but . . .” He trailed off, biting his lip.

“But it’s still scary,” I finished for him.

He nodded.

“What do you think makes it so scary?” I asked.

He thought a moment, his brow furrowing in concentration, then he looked up. “I guess . . . I’m not who she thinks I am. I mean, will she like me when she really knows me? Will anyone? I’m already kind of invisible around here.”

I exhaled, leaning forward, my heart breaking as the boy struggled before me. “Do you think, just maybe, she already knows?”

His eyes flew wide, and panic threatened to steal his voice. “Why . . . Mr. Albert, why would you think that?”

I shrugged. “She did say you should talk to me. She could’ve suggested any other teacher, but she picked the gay one. Everyone here knows about me, including the parents.”

His expression relaxed, if only a little.

“She knows?” he whispered, more to himself than to me. It sounded like a plea . . . or a cry.

“Jamie, look at me.” I waited until he did. “This is your story to tell, no one else’s. It’s personal and private and very special. You don’t have to rush it, and you don’t have to tell anyone before you’re ready, especially the kids here at school. You don’t owe anyone a timeline.”

He blinked, like that had never occurred to him.

I shrugged. “And if you ever need someone to talk to? My classroom’s always open. Think of this room as . . . as your safe place, okay?”

Jamie’s eyes narrowed.

“Really?”

“Really,” I said. “No pressure. No expectations. Just a place where you don’t have to carry everything alone.”

Jamie let out a breath, rubbing at his eyes quickly before nodding.

“Okay. Thanks, Mr. Albert.”

In a blink, I was alone, staring at the empty desk where a frightened boy just confessed his most terrifying secret.