Eleanor Read Free

class, never adding a syllable to a discussion that wasn’t short, whispered, agreeable, and forced out of her under duress. But then David walked in, and she was a different person.
    â€œI don’t think you’re right about your facts,” Mrs. Hart said, retreating to her lectern. “And you’re definitely wrong about their respect for life and all nature.”
    The class turned to follow Mrs. Hart, unsure what they’d witnessed. Robby Guide, the lone Shoshone-born student in the class, kept his gaze on Eleanor longer than the others. His eyes bored maliciously into her and she retreated behind her mask of her hair.
    Mrs. Hart drew a timeline on the board and began adding dates showing the Manifest Destiny of the American Whites across the continent. Eleanor put her head down and listened. She would not be called on again today. She turned her senses to the boy by the door.
    She smelled David’s sweat, deodorant, and cheap shampoo. She drank it like water and allowed herself to hope he had not changed much. But did he even remember her? And why was he back? She thought she’d never see him again, had never allowed herself to even hope to see him again.
    She felt he was afraid, like her. No, not like her. He sat up straight and proud and met the eyes of the others with cool control and detachment. She would dissolve if able.
    After a short break where Eleanor did not leave her seat, the class fell into English lessons, and again Mrs. Hart, enamored with her own voice, lectured the class. Eleanor kept her head on her desk and listened to the birds and the cars and David’s heartbeat, and when she could not avoid it, to Mrs. Hart’s interpretation of 1984.
    â€œI’m sorry. David, is it?” Mrs. Hart said.
    â€œYes, ma’am,” he said, his voice breaking not from emotion but from lack of use.
    â€œYes, David, the class was assigned to read this book over the summer. You’ll have to catch up.”
    â€œI’ve read it,” he said.
    â€œYou have?” she said.
    â€œYes, last year. In school,” he said.
    â€œWhere was that?” she asked.
    â€œAugusta, Georgia. Fort Gordon,” he said.
    â€œYour father is in the army?”
    â€œYes, ma’am. A signalman. He’s overseas now.”
    â€œWell, you might be a little ahead of us then,” she said. “Feel free to contribute.”
    â€œIt was an advanced class,” he said, and Eleanor knew he instantly regretted saying it. “I mean, an A.P. class.” It was too late. The class decided at that moment to dislike David Venn.
    â€œVery good,” Mrs. Hart said and continued with her lecture until the bell rang sending the class to Mr. Graham for chemistry.
    David presented Mr. Graham with a note from Principal Curtz and the aging teacher added his name to the roll and bade him take a seat. David found a tattered copy of the chemistry textbook on the shelf beside the college algebra and trigonometry books he’d need later that day. He took a seat in the back, behind the other students, but still not close to Eleanor, who sat even further back and isolated.
    Mr. Graham plodded ahead as he had for years, wearing the same wide ties he’d owned for decades. His situation was not a secret. He should retire and wanted to, but the school district had been unable to lure another science and math teacher to northeastern Wyoming. They’d convinced Mr. Graham to stay on another year, promising to double recruitment efforts and accepting his ultimatum that no matter what, he’d hang up his chalk in June. Jamesford was a small town and what Eleanor had not learned listening to the sounds of the school, she had overheard in parking lots and at the grocery.
    She liked Mr. Graham. He’d taught her the previous year and if he stayed, would teach her again next. He did not care for personality or words. He never put her on the spot, embarrassed her, or regarded