I began each class simply by smiling—perhaps my nervous hope showed through—then scanned the room for any eye contact that was returned to me with a promising streak of restraint. Connor initially seemed to be perfect: he was quiet, studious but not exceptionally smart, and didn’t appear to have a great deal of friends nor an interest in gaining any. The Monday of the second week in, having had the entire weekend to pine and fantasize, I asked him to stay after class for a moment. I’d managed to keep my portable classroom despite AP Rosen’s repeated offers to take an opening in the main building; I claimed I’d become fond of its deficiencies—“It almost feels like a one-room schoolhouse,” I told him. “When I was a little girl I always played that I was a teacher back in the pioneer times.” He absolutely loved this white lie. Apparently a great-great-grandmother of his actually did preside over a one-room school; he told me a long story about it while I thought about humming “The Star-Spangled Banner”
