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LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY

New York Boston

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of
the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright 2016 by Matthew Quick
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning,
uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the
publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the authors intellectual property. If you would like
to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission
must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for
your support of the authors rights.
Little, Brown and Company
Hachette Book Group
1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104
Visit us at lbteens.com
Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the
publisher.
First Edition: May 2016
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Quick, Matthew, 1973
Every exquisite thing / by Matthew Quick. First edition.
pages cm
Summary: Nanette OHare, a star student and athlete, is given a mysterious out-of-print
cult classic novel by her beloved teacher that sparks the rebel within her, but as she befriends
the reclusive author and attempts to insert her true self into the world with wild abandon,
Nanette learns the hard way that sometimes rebellion comes at a high price.
ISBN 978-0-316-37959-5 (hardcover) ISBN 978-0-316-37958-8 (ebook)
ISBN 978-0-316-37962-5 (library edition ebook) [1. Books and readingFiction.
2. Self-realizationFiction. 3. AuthorsFiction. 4. Teacher-student relationshipsFiction.]
I. Title.
PZ7.Q3185Ev 2016
[Fic]dc23
2015011641
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
RRDC
Printed in the United States of America

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For the green bench near the creek

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PA R T O N E

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1
He Was an Adult and I Was Still a Kid

The last lunch period before Christmas break junior year, when
I arrived at Mr. Gravess classroom, he was full of holiday cheer
and smiling much more than usual. We had been eating alone
together for months. But for that day, his wife had baked me a
plate of Italian pizzelle cookies, which made me wonder what
Mr. Graves had been telling her about me. The cookies looked
like giant snowflakes and tasted like black licorice. We each had
one, and then Mr. Graves handed me a small box wrapped in
blue paper dotted with the white silhouettes of reindeer equipped
with enormous antlers. I had never received a present from a
teacher before. It seemed significant.

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Just a little something from one cafeteria avoider to another,

he said, and smiled.
I tore into the wrapping paper.
Inside was a paperback novel called The Bubblegum Reaper,
written by Nigel Booker. The cover was taped to the spine, and
the pages had yellowed. It smelled like an old camping tent that
had remained slightly damp for fifty years. On the white front
was one of those long Grim Reaper scythes with the curved
blade at the top, only it was made entirely of rainbow-colored
gumballslike someone had arranged them that way on white
marble. The image was certainly weird. It both frightened and
lured.
I opened the book to the first page.
The dedication read For the archery pit.
Bizarre, I thought.
I quickly flipped through the dog-eared pages and saw that
someone had underlined hundreds of passages throughout.
I read that book when I was your age, and it changed my
life, Mr. Graves said. Its out of print. Probably worth some
money, but its just not the type of book you sell. I scanned the
entire thing and made a digital file a long time ago. And I prom
ised myself that Id pass my copy on to the right student when
ever he or she came along. Its maybe not the most literary work
in the world. Probably a bit dated. But its a cult classic and I have
a feeling that it might be the perfect read for you. Maybe even
a rite of passage for people like us. Anyway, Merry Christmas,
Nanette OHare.
When I gave Mr. Graves a thank-you hug, he stiffened and
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said, No need for all that. Then he laughed nervously as he gently

pushed me away.
His doing that made me angry at the time, but later I sort of
got why he was being cautious. He saw what was coming before I
did, because he was an adult and I was still a kid.
I began reading that night.

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2
Like the Story Wasnt Finished

The Bubblegum Reaper is about a boy who identifies himself as

Wrigley because hes addicted to Wrigleys Doublemint chewing
gum. He says it calms his nerves, and he chews so furiously (and
often) that he frequently gets jaw aches and even the occasional
bout of lockjaw. He never tells you his real name as you follow
him through a year of high school.
Wrigley mostly observes his classmates, whose company he
doesnt enjoy, and talks about quitting all the time, only you
really dont know what he wants to quit. I Googled the book
and there are theories online
whole websites dedicated to
answering the question. Some people think Wrigley wants to kill

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himself, thereby quitting the human race. Some believe he simply

wants to drop out of school. Some people think Wrigleys talking
about God and really wants to quit believing in a higher power,
which Im not sure I get, because the narrator doesnt mention
God even once. There are others who theorize that Wrigley wants
to quit America and that the whole book is about communism,
but again, Im not sure I believe that, either.
The problem is that Wrigley falls in love with one of two iden
tical twin sisters named Lena and Stella Thatch, only he doesnt
know which he loves. It happens because one of them likes to
talk to this turtle that suns itself on a rock sticking out of the
creek near the high school they attend. Wrigley names this turtle
Unproductive Ted because it just sits on the rock all day long
doing nothing but soaking up the sun. (I love that nickname
so much: Unproductive Ted.) From behind an oak tree, Wrig
ley eavesdrops on the twin talking to Unproductive Ted about
all her fears and worries and about something awful her father
had done, but you never quite know for sure what that is. Whats
certain is that this girl is on the verge of tears the whole time.
Wrigley listens patiently to everything the girl needs to get out,
and then once he shows himself and she realizes hes heard every
thing, Wrigley immediately tries to comfort the twin by saying,
What you just said. All of it. I understand. I really do. I think
the same thoughtswell, most of t hemtoo. Shes mad at first
about the spying, but then she and Wrigley have this amaz
ing talk about life and their school and how they cant be honest
outside the woods and about just quitting.
The tragedy manifests when Wrigley leaves her. On his way
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home, much to his horror, he realizes he didnt ask for a name and
therefore doesnt know if he had this really intimate experience
with Stella Thatch or Lena Thatch, which induces a crippling and
nauseating anxiety attackhe actually pukesbecause the twin
kept saying over and over, Please dont tell my sister about this.
Please! He realizes that he cant ask one of the twins if it was her
by the creek without risking betraying her confidence, because if
he asks the wrong twin, it would ruin everything. Its obvious
that he cant get out of his own way, but you feel really sorry for
him anyway because in his mind it is an unsolvable problem that
tortures him.
He spends months trying to figure out exactly which twin he
spoke with and waiting for her to say something to him in school
and worrying that maybe shes waiting for him to make the first
move, and hes also worrying even more that she regrets their pri
vate conversation in the woods and never wishes to speak with
Wrigley again.
Finally, after months of watching the two twins in the lunch
room, he decides that Lena is his twin, mostly because she some
times taps her foot nervously when she speaks at the table full of
popular girls, but hes not exactly sure. Furthermore, Lena has
begun carrying a handbag with an L stitched into it, which also
seems like a very good sign. Maybe shes sending him a signal
about her identity, clueing him in, he thinks.
Wrigley decides to ask Lena to the prom, telling himself that
if she says yes, he will know for sure that she was the one who
confessed to Unproductive Ted. She does say yes but seems unen
thusiastic about the proposal, which confuses him even more.
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Wrigley rents a tuxedo and buys a yellow rose wrist corsage,

and yet, just before he rings the doorbell at the twins home, he
realizes that the twin he met in the woods would never want to
go to the promhe knows this because he doesnt really want
to go to the prom, either, and is only in a tuxedo to find out if
he has the right sister. He couldnt care less about any of the rest,
or what he calls pageantry. The twin who talks to a turtle all
alone by the creek would not love the Wrigley who attends the
prom, because he is in a costume and is not being true to who
he really isthe plainly clothed Wrigley in the woods. Its so
obvious, he thinks, and I agree. He cannot attend the prom. It
would ruin any chance he had of a true relationship with the
right twin.
Wrigley decides that he has failed before he has even begun,
and so he doesnt ring the doorbell but goes to the spot where
he and the twin first spoke, thinking that the real sister might
be there waiting and maybe theyd talk and end up kissing like
at the end of a modern fairy tale. Instead, he finds a bunch of
elementary school kids using sticks to spin Unproductive Ted
around on the back of his shell, his four legs cutting a cruel
circle in the air, as if he were a turtle top. Wrigley flies into a
rage, grabs the biggest of the kids, and screams WHY? WHY?
WHY? over and over again.
The elementary-school-kid ringleader says he was only hav
ing a little fun and they werent going to actually kill the turtle,
so Wrigley sticks his gum in the kids hair, throws him into the
creek, and says, Im only having a little fun, too, but I wont
actually hold you underwater until you turn blue and drown.
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Then he holds the kids head underwater until his friends start to
plead for their buddys life, begging Wrigley to let him breathe
again. When the h
alf-drowned kid resurfaces soaking wet, he
gasps and begs not to be held underwater again. Wrigley lets him
go, and the kids run away.
Unproductive Ted bites Wrigleys hand and removes a triangle
of skin when our hero sets the turtle upright.
As Unproductive Ted makes his escape, Wrigley bleeds and
drip-dries and curses and waits for the right twin to show up, but
she never does.
The parents of the kid he almost drowned arrive instead,
and the father throws Wrigley into the creek and starts kicking
water up into Wrigleys face, saying, How do you like being a
bully now? My son is eleven years old and half your size. Youre
a scumbag. A complete and utter embarrassment to the commu
nity. Why arent you at the prom, anyway? You already have the
tuxedo on! Its unAmerican to skip the prom. Are you a pinko
communist?
Rather than explain himself, Wrigley strips out of his prom
costume, swims into the middle of the polluted creek, where he
knows no one will follow, floats naked on his back, and says,
Now I understand, Unproductive Ted, why you sit alone on the
rock all day long doing nothing. I quit. Im just going to float
here forever and ever and ever. And then the novel ends with
Wrigley laughing maniacally as the stars begin to pop through
the night sky above.
On the Internet, there are different theories about the end
ing, but the predominant thought is that Wrigley is rejecting
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conventional societyfamily, government-run school, even his

sexualityto just be in that moment, floating unclothed in the
creek.
Some say its a lesson in Zen Buddhism and that Wrigley
maybe even experiences enlightenment.
It felt like the story wasnt finished, which upset me because I
wanted to know what happened to Wrigley after he got out of the
water. I even reread the book three times over Christmas break
thinking I had missed something.

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3
Youve Got to Meet Him Yourself

When school started up again in January, I was waiting in the

hallway with my back against Mr. Gravess classroom door.
Did you sleep here last night, Nanette? The sun isnt even up
yet, he joked when he arrived.
What happens to Wrigley? I asked. I have to know. Because
Wrigley is me. And it just cant end like that. It. Just. Cant.
Why not?
Because I need more.
Always leave them wanting more. Thats one of the great rules
of show business.
This isnt show business. This is literature. And its my life,

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too, I said. This book is me. Me. Its so much more than a
story. The author has a responsibility to provide answers. All the
answers!
Mr. Graves smiled, laughed, and said, I thought you would
like The Bubblegum Reaper. Like I saida rite of passage for
weirdos like us.
Mr. Graves was always using the word weirdo to describe him
self and people he liked. He said that all the great writers were
weirdos, toothat our best artists, musicians, and thinkers
were first labeled weird in high school or when they were young.
That was the price of admission.
Why is it called The Bubblegum Reaper, anyway? I said.
Why do you think?
I have no idea. Thats why Im asking you!
He laughed. Well, there are many theories.
I did an Internet search already. Im not buying whats out
there.
Then maybe you should ask the author yourself.
How can I do that?
Mr. Booker actually lives within walking distance of this
school. Did you know that?
Are you even serious?
Mr. Graves smiled like he had been leading me down a path
without my knowing it. And I hear that if you offer to buy him
a cup of coffee at the House, hell speak with you. Although I
should warn you that he never, ever gives a straight answer. And I
think he actually hates The Bubblegum Reaper now.
How do you know that?
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Because I wrote him many letters when I was a teenager,

until he finally met with the s ixteen-year-old me.
What did he say?
Oh, Im not going to spoil it for you. Youve got to meet him
yourself. Its definitely an experience. One that Im pretty sure I
can arrange for you. That isif youre game.

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4
A Hymn to the Noble Art of Quitting

I was most definitely game.

Mr. Graves made the arrangements, and I soon found myself
sitting down across from Nigel Booker, the author of my new
favorite book. The House is the local coffee place, and its only
about six blocks from my actual domicile. Youll find mostly
older people in there, which doesnt bother me one bit, because
Im not all that fond of my generation, truth be told.
Ms. OHare? he said when he arrived. When I nodded,
he extended his hand. I shook it, and he said, Call me Booker.
Im not a mister type. He was older than Mr. Graves by a few
decades. Tufts of white hair sprouted from his gigantic ears. Plaid

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pants that were too short at the bottom and too baggy around
the waist. His oversize c able-knit wool sweater was worn and a
bit dirty. And he had hair slicked back on the sides and poufed
up at the top like Elvisonly gray. You really want to buy this
old man coffee? he said, pointing his thumbs back at his face.
How did I get so lucky?
I nodded, and then we ordered and I paid, and we sat down.
So? he said.
I took a deep breath and said, The Bubblegum Reaper is my new
personal manifesto. I didnt know that there were other people like
me, but there obviously are. And you get it, too. Which is why
Okay, he said, and then chuckled. Thats enough of that.
I couldnt tell if he was just being modest, so I pressed on with
my questions. Why isnt it in print anymore?
Probably because it isnt very good, he said, and then laughed.
I didnt have any formal training as a fiction writer. I just had this
story in my head and I had to get it out. It was like I had a fever
one summer and the writing was the medicine. I couldnt believe it
got published, and I have no idea why I sent it to New York in the
first place. Probably a double case of temporary insanityme and
the obscure publisher, which went out of business shortly after the
book came out. Go figure. They only had time to do one moderate-
sized paperback print run. Thank God.
I had no idea what he was talking about, so I stuck to the
questions I had prepared ahead of time. Is it true that you buy
all the used copies off the Internet and burn them?
He laughed and said, I dont even have an Internet in my home.
The way he said an Internet made me believe he was telling
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the truth. You can always tell when an old person has no idea
what you are talking about, because they mess up the wording
almost as if theyre trying to defeat the thing you are discuss
ing by refusing to name it correctly. I call this technique s enior-
citizen word voodoo.
I went to my third question, saying, What happens to
Wrigley after he gets out of the creek?
Who says he ever gets out?
So he drowns?
We cant know for sure.
Why?
The story ends.
But you could write more.
No, I cant. Theres no more to write.
Why?
Just the way it is. The story ends where it ends.
I dont understand.
See that nice woman who served us our coffee?
I looked back over my shoulder at the tall cashier with the
brown ponytail and the permanent smile on her face, and I
nodded.
Her name is Ruth, Booker said. Ever see her before?
Kids my age never came into this coffee shop, so I said, No.
Maybe you wont ever see her again.
So?
You only got to see five minutes of Ruths story. And thats
just the way it is. But Ruth, well, she goes on now whether youre
looking or not. She does all sorts of things that some people see
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and some dont. But your version of Ruths story will be the five
minutes you spent buying coffee from her. Thats just the way it is.
All right, I said. But what does that have to do with The
Bubblegum Reaper? Ruth is real. Wrigleys a fictional character.
There are no such things as fictional characters.
What?
He sipped his coffee, smirked, and said, I wrote that book a
long time ago. Before you were even born. Its hard to remember
what I was thinking back then. I can hardly remember what I
was thinking this morning. You seem like an intelligent young
person. You dont need me to explain anything to you.
My head was spinning, so I went back to my prepared list of
questions. What did you mean when you said Wrigley wanted to
quit? In the book. He kept saying he wanted to quit. Quit what?
He raised his eyebrows and said, Dont you ever feel like you
want to quit doing something everyone else makes you feel like
youre supposed to keep doing? Didnt you ever just simply want
to...stop?
I dont know, I mean, I guess so, I told him, even though I
knew exactly what he meant.
A silence hung between uslike when you suddenly notice
the dust motes dancing all around you in the late-afternoon sun
and you wonder how the hell you didnt notice them before.
Why dont we talk less about my failed attempt to be a novelist
and more about you? he finally said. Are you a happy person?
Im not sure anyone had ever bothered to ask me that before,
so I said What do you mean? to buy time and think of a clever
answer.
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I meanwhen was the last time someone asked if you were

happy and then looked you in the eyes in a way that made you
feel as though they actually gave a shit about your response?
Do you enjoy all that you are participating in? he said.
Likedo I want to quit anything?
Its not a crime to admit such things. The Participation
Gestapo isnt hiding behind that plant over there. No Participa
tion KGB, either. This is America. You are free to utilize freedom
of speechfreedom, period. And I already know you want to quit
something or you wouldnt be so interested in my stupid little
book, which isat the end of the day, if I remember correctly
a hymn to the noble art of quitting. So lets have it. What do you
want to quit more than anything else in the world?
Soccer, I said, surprising myself, although it was absolutely
true. Id hated soccer for a long time.
Soccer. Okay. Now were getting somewhere. Next ques
tion: Why?
I dont know.
Oh, I bet you do. Are you on the school team?
I looked down at the counter, noticed the white grains of sugar
scattered around the table. Im the captain and leading scorer.
So youre good at it?
Sort of, I said, even though I made the A
llSouth Jersey Team
as a sophomore, colleges were recruiting me, and scouts came to
my games. But I didnt really care about any of that. The attention
was embarrassing. Made me feel like even more of a fraud.
I bet no one ever told you this truth before, so here it is for
the price of a cup of coffee. He took a sip and then stared into
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my eyes before saying, Just because youre good at something

doesnt mean you have to do it.
We locked eyes for a second.
He smiled like he was giving me the secret to life.
Try telling that to my coach and my father, I thought. I shook
my head and then said, I wanted to kill those little kids who
were spinning around Unproductive Ted. And then I wanted to
kill the kids dad, who throws Wrigley into the creek. And Im
not a violent person at all. I wont even let my mom set mouse
traps. Never been carded in my entire soccer career. No reds.
No yellows. Ive never wanted to kill anything before. Not even a
weed or a spider. But you made me feel such intense feelings. The
ending of your book made me so incredibly angry.
Booker smirked in this awfully sad way and then looked out the
window at nothing in particular. Oh, please dont blame me for your
hatred. It was there before you cracked open my Bubblegum book. I
can assure you of that. Its in all of us. We at least need to take respon
sibility for our own shareespecially whatever we let leak out.
Im not trying to... I said, but then stopped because I real
ized I was.
You should read Bukowskis The Genius of the Crowd, he
said, reestablishing eye contact. That poem has a thing or two to
say about hatred.
Who?
The great Charles Bukowski. Hero of nonconformists and
blue-collar poets the world over.
My family certainly wasnt b lue-collar, but I liked the sound
of nonconformist.
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I asked him how to spell the last name and typed the letters
into my phone. Then I typed The Genius of the Crowd in, too,
which I later read and loved. Reading that poem was like putting
on the proper prescription glasses after bumping into walls for my
entire life. Bukowski was able to sum up precisely what I had been
feeling for many years, and he made it look so easy on the page.
Be careful with the Buks poems, Booker said that day in
the coffee shop. Powerful stuff. And pleasewhatever you d
o
dont tell your parents I told you to read counterculture poetry,
especially if theyre uptight types who send out family portraits
as Christmas cards. Definitely dont say a word about the Buk if
they make you coordinate holiday outfits. Even n
on-Christmas-
card-sending suburban parents tend to despise Charles Bukowski,
which, of course, is why so many suburban kids love him.
How did you know they do that? I asked, astonished. My
parents. The Christmas cards. Coordinating holiday outfits.
Far too often, people are woefully predictable. And I know
many things. Its a curse. Heres something else I know: You are
not doomed to be your parents. You can break the cycle. You can
be whoever you want to be. But you will pay a price. Your parents
and everyone else will punish you if you choose to be you and not
them. Thats the price of your freedom. The cage is unlocked, but
everyone is too scared to walk out because they whack you when
you try, and they whack you hard. They want you to be scared,
too. They want you to stay in the cage. But once you are a few
steps beyond the trapdoor, they cant reach you anymore, so the
whacking stops. Thats another secret: Theyre too afraid to fol
low. They adore their own cages.
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I opened my mouth to defend my parents because they really

are good people, and I didnt want him to believe that they
whacked me, even metaphorically, but for some reason, no words
came out of my mouth. The afternoon had gotten intense much
too quickly.
You seem like a weird, lonely girl, Nanette OHare. Im a
weird, lonely old man. Weird, lonely people need each other. So
lets just cut to the chase. He smiled and took another sip of his
coffee. Then he said the seven words that would change my life
forever. Would you like to be my friend?
I nodded a bit too eagerly and was shocked to feel myself well
ing up.
Well, I never under any set of circumstances whatsoever dis
cuss The Bubblegum Reaper with my friends. So once we make it
official, thats it. We never talk about Wrigley or Unproductive
Ted or the Thatch twins or any of it ever again. Understood?
I had one more question p
reparedand maybe to stop myself
from crying, I asked, Before I become your friend, t henon the
Internet, I read that several publishing companies have offered to
rerelease the book and you turned them all down. Is that true?
Yes.
Why?
Because I own the copyright and can do whatever the hell I
want with it. I chose to quit publishing. I made that decision a
long time ago. Publishing The Bubblegum Reaper was the biggest
mistake of my life.
You want to q uitlike Wrigley?
Yes! So can we end all this literary talk and simply be friends
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already? True friends are better than novels! Better than Shake
speare plays! Any hour of the day! Fake friends, on the other
handwell, Id rather smash open my skull with a solid-gold
Bible than endure the slow poison of a fake friend! When a few
other patrons looked over at us, Booker thumbed his nose at
them and then smiled at me.
I laughed. Is this just a way for you to get me to stop asking
questions about your book?
No, its a way to move beyond the book. The books there
stagnant. It never changes. We evolve as people. Im not the same
man who wrote that book t wenty-some years ago. And you wont
be the same girl in love with Wrigley forever.
I blushed because he was right about one thing: I absolutely was
in love with Wrigley. Id even begun hanging around the pond in
our town where turtles sun in the summer because I was secretly
hoping that Wrigley would magically show uplike I could think
him into existence, as we do when we read fiction. I felt my cheeks
burn and changed the subject by saying, So why did you agree to
meet me today? If you hate talking about your book so much?
I love free coffee in real cups and saucers, he said without
missing a beat. Buy me a cup of black and I will meet you every
single week forever and ever.
I smiled and pushed a strand of hair behind my ear. What
happens when we become friends?
No way to tell now. I think we just have to give it a try and
find out. There are no guarantees when it comes to such treacher
ous things as friendship. Its a tricky business.
You were Mr. Gravess friend when he was my age, right?
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We corresponded. Yes.
Mr. Graves was one of the few adults I admired. I wanted to
do whatever helped make him the person he turned out to be.
Okay, I said. Were friends now.
Good.
And that was it.
Booker and I became friends.
We met regularlysometimes for coffee at the House, some
times in his garden, where he has a pet turtle named Don Quixote
who sits eternally between two miniature windmills that have
faces and arms holding swords, which makes Booker laugh and
laugh every time he looks at his pet, which is daily. Initially, we
didnt talk about his book even once, although I continued to
reread it dozens of times. I kept my word, even though I also kept
accidentally calling Don Quixote Unproductive Ted, which
made Booker angry. Thats not his name! hed yell whenever I
slipped up.
And if you are one of those pessimistic people who think that
an old man cant befriend a teenage girl without some sort of
perverted, deviant ulterior motive, let me end the witch hunt
right here and now. Booker was as grandfatherly as they come
and never once did or said anything inappropriate or sleazy. No
funny business at all ever went on between us. I loved him like
I loved walking through summer grass barefoot, like I loved a
warm mug in my palms, like I loved driving on a long road as
the sun sets in the distance. It was a good, safe, simple sort of
friendshipwell, at first, anyway.

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5
He Never Told Anyone Else What I Did

It was our usual lunch period, except it was Valentines Day. Mr.
Graves and I were alone in his classroom, talking about Booker.
We had turned two desks sideways and were watching a flock of
birds perching on the wires just outside the windows. We were
also laughing and smiling and trading info like old friends. He
turned to say something at the same time I did. Our faces were
so closeI could smell his aftershave and see where his razor had
irritated his neck just below his jawboneand when I looked up
into his eyes, suddenly I was full of electricity.
I didnt plan to do what I did next.

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That was when whatever we had ended. And Im pretty sure it

was why he quit teaching at the end of the year, too.
It just sort of happened spontaneously, like when you see a spi
der crawling up your bedroom wall and you reflexively shiver. Or
maybe like the first time you accidentally stumble upon Internet
porn and your skin tingles and you want to stop looking, but you
just cant, and so you click on more and more links.
I clicked Mr. Gravess link without his permission.
I shouldnt have done it. I dont know what happened, but it
cost me. Ill never forgive myself. The worst part was that I knew
I was ruining everything as I leaned in, and yet I didnt stop. He
turned his head away at the last possible second and I kissed his
cheek. His face reddened as he removed my hand from his neck,
and then he whispered, What are you doing? When I tried to let
him know I could keep the secret with a smile, he yelled at me,
saying, You cant do that! Ever! Do you understand, Nanette?
Youve crossed a line. His words felt like a slap across the mouth.
I suddenly felt so stupid. When I started crying, I couldnt stop.
I sobbed and sobbed. He used the phone in his classroom to call
for the nurse. I didnt even know her name, but she came and led
me to her office, and I got to lie in a bed surrounded by a white
curtain and feel guilty for the rest of the day. I told her I had
cramps, and she didnt ask any further questions.
The next day, Mr. Gravess door was locked during his lunch
period and the lights were off. I peeked through the little rectan
gular window, and no one was in there. My attempted kiss had
driven him to the dreaded teachers lounge, a place he had often
told me he hated, saying, Some teachers are even worse than
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the students when it comes to making their peers feel awful. He

never told anyone else what I didor at least I was never called
down to the principals officeand I never heard about it again.
He wouldnt even look at me in class, and then one day I was
suddenly transferred out. My adviser, Mr. Bryant, wouldnt tell
me why, but his stiff, awkward manner made me feel like I was
Abigail Williams in The Crucible.
After some time had passed, I stopped by Mr. Gravess room
between periods and, standing in the doorway, asked him if we
could speak. In a cold, distant voice, he said we could meet at
the school counseling office if Mr. Bryant was present, and that
was when I knew Id never share another private lunch with my
favorite teacher ever again, that whatever wed had was dead and
gone forever.
And I was right.

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