Thanks for the recommendations,
Franny and Frank. I will look into those titles. I didn't see your comments,
though, until just now. I did end up going to see Miss Hamilton for her advice
on other Shakespeare plays to read.
But when I went to talk to Miss Hamilton today, Sarah was with her. It shouldn’t have surprised me because I knew that she was always spending a lot of time with her. But I guess I was so focused on wanting to find something good to read, another good Shakespearean tale that it didn’t immediately occur to me.
I walked into Miss Hamilton’s class during a spare, seeing her at the front of the room working at her desk through the window on her door. I walked in and started to ask her a question and I froze in mid-sentence and mid step.
There was Sarah sitting about three rows back writing in a notebook.
“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t realize that . . .”
“That’s okay, Peter,” Miss Hamilton said, getting up from her desk and walking over to me.
“What was it you needed to ask me about?”
“I was interested in . . .” I began, but I could feel Sarah’s eyes on me and just couldn’t focus, couldn’t think. I suddenly felt embarrassed, not being one of those reader types comfortable about talking books with a teacher, particularly not in front of someone, and especially not in front of such an extremely well-read person like Sarah. Back in the day, I think I would have been excited to share my enthusiasm for Shakespeare with Sarah, and she would have been delighted to recommend something.
But now it was just embarrassing.
And that made me angry.
I stopped, suddenly starting to feel angry. Angry with Sarah, who broke up with me. Angry with Miss Hamilton, who was obviously one of the only people close to Sarah lately.
“Nevermind,” I managed to say through mostly clenched teeth. And I turned and walked out of the class.
But when I went to talk to Miss Hamilton today, Sarah was with her. It shouldn’t have surprised me because I knew that she was always spending a lot of time with her. But I guess I was so focused on wanting to find something good to read, another good Shakespearean tale that it didn’t immediately occur to me.
I walked into Miss Hamilton’s class during a spare, seeing her at the front of the room working at her desk through the window on her door. I walked in and started to ask her a question and I froze in mid-sentence and mid step.
There was Sarah sitting about three rows back writing in a notebook.
“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t realize that . . .”
“That’s okay, Peter,” Miss Hamilton said, getting up from her desk and walking over to me.
“What was it you needed to ask me about?”
“I was interested in . . .” I began, but I could feel Sarah’s eyes on me and just couldn’t focus, couldn’t think. I suddenly felt embarrassed, not being one of those reader types comfortable about talking books with a teacher, particularly not in front of someone, and especially not in front of such an extremely well-read person like Sarah. Back in the day, I think I would have been excited to share my enthusiasm for Shakespeare with Sarah, and she would have been delighted to recommend something.
But now it was just embarrassing.
And that made me angry.
I stopped, suddenly starting to feel angry. Angry with Sarah, who broke up with me. Angry with Miss Hamilton, who was obviously one of the only people close to Sarah lately.
“Nevermind,” I managed to say through mostly clenched teeth. And I turned and walked out of the class.
-- 1 Comment --
Frank said...
The waves of your emotion
must be exhausting. How are you sleeping these days Peter?
