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that he could recite “Kubla Khan” from memory. Or how his hair looked dark and wild, like it wanted to fly off his head. Rumor had it that he and his wife had separated, and sometimes when I was the first one in the classroom, I’d find him wiping off his eyeglasses, looking like he’d just been crying. He was dark and melancholy and brooding, like some dashing hero from a nineteenth-century novel.
    That afternoon, he was telling us about our big research project for the year. We were to choose a classic novel from a list of nineteenth-century British authors and read at least fifty pages of it by Monday. This was on top of the Samuel Johnson essays he’d assigned for Wednesday. The class uttered a collective groan. It was last period on Friday with two minutes to the bell, and Gallagher had just dashed dozens of plans for shopping excursions to Boston, sailing trips to the Cape, and parentless parties with pot and beer.
    “Now, come on, you knew this year was going to be a challenge,” he said. “You will be writing a research paper based around a thesis that is critical in nature. This will not be a book report. You’ll actually have to read this time.” The class forced some weak laughter, and Mr. Gallagher raised one of his jutting eyebrows. “Do you know what I mean by ‘critical’?”
    I glanced up at the clock, willing the second hand to move faster. As much as I adored Gallagher, I lived in mortal terror that he might call on me some day, as I’d recently come to believe that my voice made me sound like a cartoon rodent. Besides, if there was any hope of him returning my affections, the chances were far greater if I kept my mouth shut.
    “How about you, Ms. Townsend?” Gallagher said, confirming my fears.
    “Um, critical,” I said, buying some time by repeating the word. “Critical means ... using criticism to prove your point?” I knew this was a feeble answer, but honestly I couldn’t speak intelligently in front of someone as good-looking and intimidating as Mr. Gallagher.
    “I suppose that’s true,” Gallagher said, to my relief. Public flogging wasn’t his style. “But I was hoping for something a bit more ... incisive. How about you, Ms. Fairchild?”
    “Critical,” Elise said in a breathy voice. “I don’t know what you’re looking for by way of a definition, but I know I’m an expert at it.” The class laughed, spurring her on. “Being critical is judging something, like what someone’s wearing, for example. Because it’s so ... trashy and awful, you can’t believe anyone would be caught dead in it.” She turned around in her seat, her eyes boring into Michelle’s red, off-the-shoulder sweater as her mouth curled into a smirk that reminded me of the Grinch’s evil smile that keeps going and going until it takes over his entire face. Amber gave Elise a dainty fist bump, and Jess and Chelsea both laughed under their breath.
    Mr. Gallagher ran a hand through his flop of dark hair. “That’ll do, Ms. Fairchild,” he said. “But let me remind you, a critical thesis doesn’t have to be negative. It simply must take a stand. And sometimes in the face of majority opinion, that’s a difficult thing to do. I will be asking some of you to submit your papers to the Middlebury Essay Symposium, held this spring. The deadline is January, so you’ll want to finish your drafts by December.”
    And with that, the bell rang, and the ghastly week came to an end.
    Everything was a competition at Lockwood. Sports, academics, music. If you were good at something, you better believe some teacher would be hounding you to enter a competition. And if someone else was good at the same thing you were good at, watch out. On the other hand, if you were mediocre at everything, people ignored you, and sometimes that was better.
    I watched as students pulled out their cell phones, affixing them to their ears as if reattaching their limbs. “If he thinks I’m reading fifty pages this weekend,”