Lockers slammed. Around them, kids pulled on their backpacks and grabbed their books. Up ahead, Mr. Swanson stood outside his door, ushering students inside.
They were at Trenton. At school. How had they gotten here?
“Ah, Var-obel,” Mr. Swanson said as they approached, “nice to see you make it on time for once. Isobel, I still need that paper on Cervantes. I know there’s a game this Friday, but can we get that in by next week?”
Paper. Cervantes. Don Quixote? Had she ever finished that one?
“I think she’s almost done. Didn’t I help you with that one? Isobel?”
Overhead, the bell rang shrill and loud. She looked up in search of its source.
“Okay, okay, I believe you.” Swanson sighed. He gestured for them to go inside. “Go. Sit. Learn.”
For a moment Isobel stayed. She glanced down the hall behind her, wondering where it was they’d just come from. Why could she not remember sitting through the class before this one? And where did she get these dark-rinse jeans and fitted pink V-neck tee, anyway? Varen tugged her, and like a soap bubble, the thought broke. She followed him in and he led her to their usual spot. Automatically, she took the desk beside his. Why did it feel so different to sit on this side of the room? Hadn’t she been sitting here all year?
“Are we still on for dinner at your parents’ house tonight?” Varen asked.
Her head whipped toward him. Dinner with her parents?
“I want to ask your dad some more questions about the University of Kentucky. I know he went there for football, but I think he mentioned they had a good English program, too, right?”
“Yeah,” she said, thinking she remembered. That’s right. They were supposed to have lasagna, she thought. And hadn’t Danny been pestering her all week about getting Varen over to help with the game he’d gotten stuck on?
“Okay, kids,” Mr. Swanson said, “today is a very exciting day, because we’re covering Robert Frost and Ezra Pound. Two of my favorites. You can be sure that means these poems will be ground into the very marrow of your malleable little brains. Don’t worry, though. Someday you’ll thank me. Now turn to page two-twenty-six, and let’s take a look at ‘The Road Not Taken.’ Can I get a volunteer to read? Emma?”
Emma Jordan’s voice broke through from the back of the classroom. “‘Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and sorry I could not travel both . . .’”
Isobel glanced toward Varen again. She watched as he stared down at the open pages of the book in front of him. Sunlight caught on his light hair. This had been how they’d first met, she thought. The first day of school, when he’d sat down next to her and had asked her to write her number on his hand so that he wouldn’t lose it.
Isobel smiled to herself, remembering.
He’d taken her out to eat for their first date. A fancy Chinese restaurant. And just last week, hadn’t he given her his class ring? Isobel glanced down at her right hand. The thick gold band was held tight on her finger by the soft felt strip he’d wrapped it with so it would fit her. The Trenton blue stone inside glinted in the light, bringing back the memory of the moment he’d asked her to wear it. It had been that day sitting in his car outside her house, the day he’d asked her to go with him to junior prom.
Outside, autumn sunlight winked at her through a fluffy, cotton white haze of cloud cover. She looked forward and watched Mr. Swanson. He leaned against his desk, holding a copy of the textbook open in his hands. His eyes closed, and she watched him mouth key words along with Emma while she read. That was the way you could always tell which parts were his favorites.
When Emma finished the poem, Mr. Swanson opened his eyes and straightened his glasses. “Okay,” he said, “now let’s talk about what Mr. Frost is saying here. Does anyone have any thoughts on what the metaphor is? Yes, Miss Andrews.”
“He’s talking about taking different paths in life. Making different choices.”
“Yes, good. That’s definitely one way to look at it. He’s talking about making not just the literal choice of walking down a physical pathway in the forest, but coming to a fork in the road of life and making a decision. We’re a product of our choices, wouldn’t you say? If the narrator of the poem had taken another path, things would have been different for him, right?
Perhaps drastically so. That’s the ‘difference’ he’s talking about here. Very good. Anyone else?”
Isobel looked down at her desk, realizing she hadn’t taken out her book yet. She leaned over and opened her backpack, pulling out her copy of Seventh Edition Junior English. She glanced at Varen’s copy to get the right page number, then flipped to a black-and-white portrait of Robert Frost. Next she reached down to get a pencil and her notebook. She stopped, though, noticing the time on her pink locket watch clipped to her bag. The hands read 11:20. But that couldn’t be right. Class started at eleven. Was her watch running fast? Or had Danny set it forward as a joke? She unclipped the watch from her bag and held it between her fingers, twisting the tiny dial on one side. The minute hand refused to budge. She shook the small watch, sending the pink liquid glitter within rushing around.