What Has Become of You Read Free Page A

viewed it as a private embarrassment that such power was even necessary—that after nearly eight years of off-and-on teaching experience, she still had to summon her every last ounce of composure to not fall apart in front of her students, mortified by the eyes and attention on her, or, worse, the downcast eyes and the
lack
of attentiveness. She wished she didn’t feel so fraudulent sometimes. She wished she were one of those brazen teachers who was comfortable in her own skin and loved the performative aspect of being up in front of a classroom—always glad not only to teach a class but also to put on a
show
. Instead, she forced her way through lectures and discussions, all the while thinking:
They see through me. They know what I am.
     • • • 
    Vera was strategically the first person in her classroom the following morning. She had shown up early not only to set up what she’d need for the class but also to get the lay of the land. After she had wrestled with all the chairs that were placed on the tables and set them right side up—the custodian must put the chairs up to sweep at night, she thought—she paced back and forth at the head of the classroom, skimming her fingers over the whiteboard tray, picturing the students who would fill up the long, empty tables and chairs in front of her. Near the whiteboard was a computer that one could use for teaching purposes with the aid of an overhead projector; though the computer was an older model, Vera turned it on and found that it worked. She did not have a proper desk, but another small table and chair up front seemed to be designated for the teacher. After some consideration, Vera pulled her table back a few inches from the first row of seating. She imagined that whoever sat nearest the table would appreciate not having the teacher right on top of her, so to speak.
    She placed her things on the table in the approximate order that she’d need them: her notebook of lesson plans, the stack of syllabi she’d photocopied, and her library copy of
The Catcher in the Rye
—the paperback version with the plain oxblood cover and mustard lettering.
The serial killer cover.
    The halls were quiet. Eventually she heard footfalls, and she looked up as the sound came closer. A fellow teacher, most likely. Teachers’ walks always sounded different from students’ walks.
    A woman stopped short in the doorway of Vera’s class. “You must be the new long-term sub,” she said.
    “I am.” Vera stood up and approached the woman, extending her hand. She vaguely remembered having read that in ancient times, the handshake evolved when people were trying to find a way to show strangers that they weren’t holding weapons in their hands.
Look, Ma, no gun.
“I’m Vera Lundy.”
    “Welcome,” said the woman, looking down at Vera’s hand before shaking it. “I’m Karen Provencher. I teach eleventh-grade English—various classes.” The woman was wearing jeans and a crew-neck sweater.
Not in a million years,
thought Vera,
would I dare teach a class wearing jeans.
“Good luck to you, Vera,” she said in a manner that seemed fraught with meaning, as though she thought luck alone might save her. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around. Don’t hesitate to ask me any questions about anything.”
    “Thank you,” Vera said, “I appreciate that, I really do,” and then the woman was gone. She hated the fact that she had not been able to keep the shy, deferential note out of her voice in this brief exchange. Karen Provencher was probably close to her age, but Vera could not help thinking of herself as being younger than every other professional person out there—a perception that became more absurd as the years went on.
    More sounds were coming from the end of the hallway. Vera imagined students marching toward her classroom, crashing through the door, blocking off the entrance, leaving her trapped in the classroom with no way out.
    An old memory, fragmented and flashbulb