One Last Thing ✅

thirty-two things

First up is my new English class. I show up early so I can talk to Mr. White and find out where I should sit. He's sitting at his desk, reading a newspaper and sipping from a gigantic, steaming cup of coffee. He swings his crossed leg, jiggling his foot, and I check out his Converse shoes.

That's mostly what people talk about when Mr. White comes up in conversation—his huge collection of Converse shoes. It's like he's got a pair in every color. This pair in particular has Batman on the right and Joker on the left. When he sees me, he folds the paper into thirds and slides it into a drawer. "You must be Liliana," Mr. Cooper says, uncrossing his leg and lowering Joker to the floor.

"That's me," I say, trying to sound lighthearted and not stare at his shoes too much.

He gets up and offers his hand to me. I reach out and grasp his with my right, and he shakes it. "Good to have you," he says. "You can sit here." He walks down an aisle of desk and points to one decorated with some inappropriate drawings of male genitalia. Embarrassed, I cover it with my notebook. Mr. White seems oblivious.

"We're a little bit behind the other class, so you might be bored for a couple of days. We're discussing the end of Hamlet today. Do you remember what happens?" I must look pretty clueless because he quickly continues. "Don't worry about it. You can just kind of sit back for the next few days, take it easy."

The door opens, and a couple of people walk in, one of them being Abbott. He does a double take when he sees me sitting in the corner, and I give him a little wave. He strolls over to me and puts his books on the desk beside mine.

"Hey, you get lost or something?" he asks.

"I switched," I reply, hoping he won't ask any more questions. I don't really want to explain how I had a panic attack, just thinking about going into Mrs. Edwards's room yesterday.

Abbott nods. "White is cool. You'll like it in here."

We both look to the front of the room, where Mr. White is arranging a couple of Star Wars figurines. He angles Yoda so it is perfectly aligned with Princess Leia and Han Solo. It's enough to bring a smile to my face. I turn back to Abbott and say, "Is he always so conscientious about his nerd paraphernalia?"

With a straight face, Abbott replies, "Always."

The bell rings.

Students pour into the room and scatter to various desks. Abbott leans over me and says softly, "Glad you're here." I'm not sure what he means by that, but Mr. White is clapping his hands to get everyone's attention. The kids around me quiet down and look toward the front of the room.

"Okay, get out your notebooks," Mr. White instructs. He then turns toward the white board, picks up an orange dry erase marker, and scribbles these words: Is Ophelia a tragic heroine? When finished, he spins around to face us, a hopeful expression on his face. "We're going to start with a quickwrite. You have five minutes to answer this question. Then we'll discuss."

The girl next to me rustles through her bag to find a notebook and pen. I follow her lead and open my own notebook to a clean page. Chewing on my pen, I consider my words. My reaction to Ophelia was an intense one—partly because I could relate to her situation so strongly. She grew up without a mother. The one person she depended upon—Hamlet—ended up rejecting her. When her father died, it was the last straw. I totally got where she was coming from.

It seems everyone else is bent over their notebooks, scribbling, and I'm just sitting like an idiot. Mr. White walks around the room, peering over people's shoulders. When he sees me staring, he glances at the board and says, "According to Aristotle, a tragic hero—or, in this case, a heroine—is one who brings about her own demise based on her character flaws and choices." I nod and lean over my notebook. He strolls away.