Except I do feel sorry for him.
The whole mess started at the middle of the second semester of last year. It all started with that girl—Addie Severson. I don’t know the entire story, but all of a sudden, everyone was whispering that Art Tuttle was hooking up with one of the sophomores. The first time I heard that rumor, it was like being punched in the gut. Art was like a father figure to me, especially since my own father and I barely speak. I had heard stories of other teachers behaving inappropriately with other female students, but I didn’t expect it from Art. Never him.
But the evidence was pretty damn suspicious. Addie had been struggling in math class, which doesn’t surprise me based on what I’ve seen so far from her, and he spent several hours of his own free time tutoring her to help her with the material, free of charge. He invited the girl over to his house for dinner on more than one occasion. And he drove her home multiple times.
Add that to the fact that Addie was a troubled girl. The daughter of an abusive alcoholic who finally drank himself to death during the fall semester. Everyone felt that she was an obvious target for a predatory teacher.
And then…
Well, something else happened.
Addie never technically accused Art of anything. But when all was said and done, his reputation was completely destroyed. He couldn’t work at Caseham High anymore. He’ll be lucky if he can work anywhere.
“I’ve been better,” Art tells me. He coughs into his palm, and it’s a rattling cough, like something’s stuck in his lungs. “I miss the school.”
“We miss you too.” I abandon my quest for the perfect avocado to redirect my attention to Art. “It’s so unfair what happened to you. Did you have to resign?”
He lets out a wheeze. “Come on, Eve. You know I did. Nobody looked at me the same way after that happened. I couldn’t have stayed even if the parents weren’t kicking up a fuss.”
He’s right, of course. But that doesn’t make it less unfair. “Have you found anything else?”
“No bites yet.” He sighs and rubs at his short, gray hair. “I’ve got a bunch of applications out, but the situation isn’t great. If I can find something, I may have to move because it’s not going to be in western Massachusetts. I’ll be lucky if it’s in New England.”
I want to ask him if he’s okay with money, but I don’t want to embarrass him. I have a feeling the answer is no. How can he be okay if he’s out of work and has two boys in college?
“And how is Marsha?” I ask.
“Good,” he says.
His wife, Marsha, works for some kind of nonprofit, which means she isn’t making nearly enough money to support them. As far as I know, she believed him that nothing went on between him and Addie, but I wonder what sort of impact something like this might have had on his marriage. They were such a good couple, but these kinds of accusations are enough to rattle the most solid of marriages.
“She’s in my class,” I blurt out.
Art’s eyebrows shoot up. “What?”
I wince. I didn’t mean to bring her up, but it’s hard not to address the elephant in the room. The girl who ruined his life.
“Addie Severson,” I say. “She’s in one of my trig classes this year.”
“Ah,” he says.
I study his round face, trying to read his expression. Is he curious about how she’s doing? Does he want to ask about her, but he’s afraid it will look strange if he does? As the thoughts swirl around my head, something hits me:
Like everyone else in the world, I’m still not entirely sure Art Tuttle is innocent.
I know he’s good-hearted and not a dirty old man. But there’s something about the whole situation that just doesn’t sit right with me. After all, how could he be so stupid? How could he have that girl alone with him in his classroom every day after school and not realize how it would look?
“She seems nice,” I finally say. “Not one of the stronger students.”
Art’s bushy white eyebrows knit together. “No, she’s not.”
We stand there for a moment, him with his oranges and turtleneck and socks with sandals, and me with my shopping cart, which needs one or two decent avocados. We never had trouble talking to each other before, but the awkwardness is almost suffocating. I want to invite him and his wife to our house for dinner, but I can’t quite make myself extend the invitation.
In any case, I can understand why he felt that he had to resign.
“Anyway,” I say, “it was good seeing you, Art.”
“You too, Eve.” He nods at the avocados. “The trick is that when you push your finger into the skin, you get a little bit of give with gentle pressure but not too much.”
“Thanks.” Even now, he’s still trying to teach me. “And…good luck. With everything.”
I turn away, returning to the mountain of avocados. I pick one off the pile that is brown and feels like it has a slight give under my fingertips. Just as I’m about to test it, fingers close around my upper arm. It takes me a second to realize that Art is still behind me and has grabbed me. His chubby fingers bite into my bare skin, and all I can think is if we weren’t in the middle of a grocery store, I would scream.
“Eve, wait,” his voice hisses in my ear. “You need to listen to me. Right now.”
OceanofPDF.com
Chapter Twelve
ADDIE
SEE ME AFTER CLASS.
Has anything good ever started with those four words? I’m going to say no. It has not.
Thankfully, this is the last period of the day and it’s almost over, so I only have to freak out for about ten minutes until the bell rings. Everybody else slips out of their chairs and filters out of the room, but I stay glued to my seat. And so does Mr. Bennett.
I hazard a quick look in his direction. Does he look disappointed in me? I can’t even tell. “See me after class” is really bad, but there are worse things. During that whole mess with Mr. Tuttle, they didn’t wait until after class. The principal pulled me right out of biology and asked me what was going on.
“Addie?”
I got so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t even realize that all the other students were gone, and now Mr. Bennett and I are the only ones left. He is looking at me with raised eyebrows, like maybe he thinks something is wrong with me. I manage to flash him a weak smile.
“Sorry. Just spaced out for a moment.” I rise unsteadily from my seat and approach the desk, clutching my poem. “So, um, what’s wrong?”
“Wrong?” he says. Now that I’m closer to Mr. Bennett, I can see tiny dark seeds of what would become a beard if he didn’t shave every day. “Nothing’s wrong. Just the opposite.”
I glance down at the writing in red on my poem. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he says, “your poem is amazing.”
Your poem is amazing. Those four words are so much better than “see me after class.” For the first time since this stupid school year began, I feel a little jolt of happiness. “Really?”
“Oh yes.” He tugs it out of my hand. “The imagery is incredible. ‘His fists a volcano, spouting lava from her lips with each blow.’ Addie, I was so moved. It’s a lyrical masterpiece.”
“Thank you.” I drop my eyes, trying not to think of my inspiration: all the nights when my dad stumbled home drunk and angry. “I appreciate that.”
“And I think you should publish it.”
I jerk my head up. “What?”
“I mean it.” A smile curls his lips. “This is really good, and you need to share it with the world. You know I’m the staff supervisor for the school’s poetry magazine, right?”
I know about the poetry magazine, Reflections. I always wanted to join, but I was scared they would think my poems were dumb. After all, what do I know about writing poetry? All I’ve ever done is scribble them in a marble notebook in my bedroom. But for the first time, somebody who actually knows what he’s talking about is telling me that I might have talent.
“Maybe…if you think so,” I say carefully.