Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 769(@200wpm)___ 615(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 769(@200wpm)___ 615(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
“Oh,” I say, looking down again. I forgot that my shirt says No One Will Ever Love You. “It’s a Magnetic Fields song,” I say, and I turn around to show him the back: 69 Love Songs.
“Mmhmm.” He pats my ass. “That’s a band, I suppose?” he says with a playfully exaggerated drawl.
I once again slide my copy of The Secret History into my back pocket and feel for my iPod in the left.
I’d almost forgotten she was here, but Marilyn lets out one bark and stands up.
“Yeah, girl, time to go,” Rex says, and pats her head.
I stick my fists in my pockets, trying to figure out how I can make sure I see him again.
“Hey, where am I?” I ask Rex. “I walked from that way, I think.”
“You living in town?”
“Yeah. Above the hardware store.”
“Carl’s place?”
“Whoa, small town,” I say. I’m joking, but he doesn’t smile.
“If you follow the road for about a mile, you’ll hit town,” he says. “On your left.”
“I walked for a lot more than a mile, I’m pretty sure,” I say.
“Yeah, you likely looped around. This road has a horseshoe curve that you can avoid. Just stay left. I can drive you if you want. I mean, I need to go back home and get my truck, but—”
“Nah, I’m cool,” I say. “It’s a nice night.” I need to clear my head.
“Sure,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, I guess I’ll see you, Daniel.”
Wait, that’s it? He still doesn’t want my number, or…?
“Um, yeah, I’ll see you,” I say. “Maybe… in town?”
“Very likely,” he says.
“Okay. Well, I guess I’ll just….” I gesture down the road. “Bye, Marilyn. I’m really glad you’re all right.” I pet between her ears and she puts out a paw.
“She wants you to shake,” Rex says.
“Oh, right.” I take her large paw in my hand and shake it. “Um. Good night.” I turn away slowly, my face burning. He doesn’t have any interest in making plans, clearly.
“Daniel.” Rex’s hand on my shoulder spins me around. He leans down and kisses me, short and hard. “I’m glad you’re here. I’ll see you.” This time it sounds reassuring. He doesn’t just think I’m a quick fuck against a tree.
Better.
Then he walks away, Marilyn trotting at his side.
Chapter 4
September
“BECAUSE RESTATING the prompt isn’t a thesis, Malcolm. A thesis needs to make a claim. It tells the reader what you’ll spend the rest of the paper demonstrating. Remember?”
Stab, throttle, smash, annihilate, disembowel. I try to calm myself down by listing words that describe what I’d like to do to Malcolm. Preppy, entitled, slickly handsome Malcolm. Raze, liquefy, obliterate, eviscerate, pulverize, gut. Malcolm is the sixth student to come to my Friday afternoon office hours to argue about his grade on the first short paper for my Intro to American Literature class. All six complaining students missed class the day I assigned the papers and explained very clearly what a thesis was. All six complaining students turned in papers with no thesis statements.
“But you never said we needed to make a claim,” Malcolm says, scanning his paper. “I mean, like, if I’d known that was a requirement, then I totally could have done it.”
“Well,” I say, “this assignment is called ‘Advancing a Claim.’ I’d suggest, in the future, that you draft your papers with the assignment sheet in front of you. And I’d suggest making sure you find out what you miss on days when you aren’t in class. Anything else I can do for you?”
“I mean, I basically made a claim. It’s right here.”
“As I mentioned, this is a restatement of the prompt I gave you in class, so it can’t be your claim.”
“But it’s totally a claim.”
“It’s a question, Malcolm. My question. I wouldn’t really assign a paper where you were supposed to make a claim I already made on the assignment sheet, would I?”
“How am I supposed to know what you’d do?” Malcolm says, sounding sincerely confused. But it’s clear that his confusion masks aggression. He disliked me on sight.
“Look, I’ll give you the same opportunity I gave your classmates who were unhappy with their paper grades. If you’d like to rewrite the paper and give it to me next week, I’ll regrade it with a cap at a B-. It’s up to you.”
“So I can’t get higher than a B-? No way, man!” Ooh, Malcolm’s pissed now. I admit, I get a little bit of a rush out of staying perfectly calm when I know that a student would be punching me in the face if we were at a bar instead of across a desk from one another.
“Well, as of now, this is a D paper. Whether you choose to keep that grade or try the assignment again is completely up to you.”
Malcolm gathers his things up angrily, sliding his chair back with a loud scrape on the old hardwood floor.