If He Had Been with Me

I have Honors English with Jamie and Sasha, the only class I have with either of them. They’re both taking all Honors this year; I only have the one. Finny and Sylvie and several of their other friends are in our class.

Because we’re a small class, and supposedly the smart ones, our teacher lets us get away with a lot in there. It’s delightful to us, this special treatment, this freedom. Jamie is frequently hilarious. I’m more proud when the others laugh at his jokes than I would be if they were my own. He’s handsome and funny and mine.

The teacher, Mr. Laughegan, likes me; English teachers always do. Sometimes after this class, I worry that I talked too much, that I sounded like a know-it-all, yet the next class I can’t keep my hand out of the air again.

The third week of school, I see a book on Mr. Laughegan’s desk. He isn’t in the room, but the bell will be ringing soon. It’s David Copperfield, a book I’ve long been meaning to read. I pick it up and begin reading. I’m absorbed by first page. I sit down at his desk and continue reading.

“What are you doing?” Jamie says.

“Reading Mr. Laughegan’s book,” I say. Someone in the class laughs. Jamie snorts. It’s hard to predict when Jamie will approve or disapprove of any eccentricity of mine. I’m guessing this is borderline; perhaps he wishes that he had done it first.

“She is so weird,” Jack says. I feel the usual swell of pride and shame, and I am determined to stay at the desk and read.

I’m still reading the book when Mr. Laughegan comes in.

“Hello, Autumn,” he says. “Do you like Dickens?” I nod. “I’ll loan that to you after I finish writing my paper if you like.” The surprise must show on my face, because he adds, “I’m taking night classes for my Master’s.”

“Oh cool,” I say. The bell rings and I go to my seat without being asked.

Mr. Laughegan makes good on the loan; Jamie teases me about my new best friend the English teacher and mocks the length of the book. I make a habit of sitting in Mr. Laughegan’s desk before class, reading his books, sometimes going through the drawers. He never minds. I question him about the contents of his first aid kit and his preference for blue highlighters.

I think Mr. Laughegan gets me. One day he asks me if I write. I tell him I do. He asks me if I know about the creative writing class for seniors that he teaches. I do.

***

My one-year anniversary with Jamie is on a Tuesday. He gives me three red roses at school. I expected him to bring me a rose; I am surprised by three. The Friday afterward, Jamie and I go out to dinner and make out on my living room couch. I clutch him tighter than ever before and for the first time I forget about everything else while he kisses me. He stops suddenly and looks at me. I’m bewildered, thinking I must have done something wrong. And I’m annoyed, wondering what it is he doesn’t like this time.

“What?” I say before he can speak.

“Do you want your present now?” Jamie says. He smiles and I nod. We sit up and I run my fingers through my hair as he reaches into his pocket. Suddenly I’m nervous that I won’t like what he got me. He hands me a flat white box and I stare at it.

“Go on,” he says. His voice is so eager, I promise myself that no matter what it is, he will believe that I love it. I close my eyes before opening the lid. The room is dark; when I open my eyes, I have to lean forward to see what is lying on the cotton.

A silver bracelet with two charms. I lift it up and try to see them in the weak light. One is a turtle. The other is a heart with something engraved on it. I hold it closer to my face.

“It’s the day we met,” Jamie says. “That starts it. And then the turtle is our first year together. And I’ll get you one every year for the rest of our lives, and when special things happen, like our wedding and our kids.”

My eyes and throat feel tight, like I might cry. I hug him and rest my head on his shoulder. I think about how certain he is that those years together will come. Our age doesn’t matter to him. He never fears that we aren’t meant to be together. He never doubts us; he never doubts anything.

“I love you, James Allen,” I say. My voice cracks. The tears do not spill from my eyes, but I’m still amazed. I’ve never cried from happiness before.

“Are you crying?” Jamie says. I nod, even though it isn’t quite true. His fingers tighten in my hair and I press my face into his shoulder. We sit together like that for a long time. I think to myself, This is it, I really do love him. Tonight it’s easy to say, to feel.

“Why a turtle?” I say finally.

“They’re slow but steady,” he says. “And I like turtles.” He laughs when I laugh, and we lean our foreheads together. He reaches up and brushes his fingertips under my eyes; I squeeze them closed so that a few tears dampen my lower lashes for him to wipe away.

***

Mr. Laughegan suggests more books for me and loans me several others. I work hard on my first book report for him; I want to impress him.

At lunch, I show everyone his comments on my paper.

“Read this,” I say, shoving it in Brooke’s face. “‘I’ve never noticed that before, Good Job.’ I made a point that he had never thought of!”

“That’s neat,” she says.

“I like Mr. Laughegan too.” Noah says, “He’s cool.”

“Oh, I just adore him,” I say. Jamie rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, you’re in love with him,” he says.

“No, I just love him,” I say, and I realize it’s true. I do love Mr. Laughegan, not like a crush or like a father or a brother or anything that I can define, I just love him. I love him because he said I could stare out the window when it’s raining as long as I’m still listening, and because he said Macbeth was a jerk. I love Mr. Laughegan, and it is a simple and easy thought to have; it is nothing at all to say it.

Jamie rolls his eyes again.

“You’re in love with a teacher,” he says under his breath. I ignore him and read through Mr. Laughegan’s comments again.

***

“Hey, Autumn,” Finny says. I stop in my tracks. His voice is low. He doesn’t look directly at me when he speaks. We’re standing outside the closet-sized classroom. His book bag is slung over one shoulder, and he stands to one side of the door so that he cannot be seen from inside.

“Hey,” I say. I wonder if something is wrong.

“Happy birthday,” he says. He still is looking down at our feet.

“Thanks,” I say. I’m confused. He could have said this at the bus stop this morning. He could have waited until tonight, when we go out to dinner with The Mothers and my dad. Finny turns away and walks into the classroom. I follow him. To the others, it only appears that we arrived at the same time.

Since it’s my birthday, Mr. Laughegan says I can sit at his desk for the whole class if I promise to behave. I fold my hands and sit up straight, miming perfect attention, as if I would ever give Mr. Laughegan anything less.

And yet I am distracted. His desk is to the side of the room, perpendicular to the board. From this angle, I have an unobstructed view of Finny. By looking at the board, I see him too. I see him only.

And I love him. For all of my memory, I have loved him; I do not even notice it anymore. I feel what I have always felt when I look at him, and I have never before asked myself what it is exactly. I love him in a way I cannot define, as if my love were an organ within my body that I could not live without yet could not pick out of an anatomy book.

I do not love him the way I love Jamie. It’s not the way I love Sasha or my mother or Mr. Laughegan.

It’s the way I love Finny.

And it’s impossible to say and even harder to feel.