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mutual,” she said the following Wednesday. She was reading to them from
The Labyrinth of Solitude
by Octavio Paz. “It is always difficult to give oneself up; few persons anywhere ever succeed in doing so, and evenfewer transcend the possessive stage to know love for what it actually is—”
    â€œAnd you, Miss Porter?” asked Jimmy Galway, interrupting. He was a confusing child: He had the attitude of a tattooed rebel but the fresh-pressed shirts of a diplomat.
    â€œAnd me what?”
    â€œYou one of the few?” It briefly flashed through Ginny’s head that she would never have dreamed of interrupting her teachers, never mind daring to ask if they had ever truly succeeded in falling in love. She leaned back against the front of her desk and wished the slit in her slim black skirt stopped an inch lower than it did. But she didn’t believe in lying, least of all to the young.
    â€œI have often been in love,” she said, matter-of-factly. “But never of the surrendering variety. Or rather, if I do surrender, it doesn’t seem to be sustainable for very long.” Just then the bell rang, and brought relief. Within the relief, there was also a small pearl of pride, that pleasurable feeling that sometimes accompanies speaking the plain truth.
    The pride didn’t last. The days dragged; her kids became less and less engaged. Some would unabashedly toy with their cell phones while she was teaching. They didn’t do their homework; they chewed gum in glass; Tim Harris sat with an unlit clove cigarette perched on his lips during the entire first act of
Waiting for Godot
. It was as if they were challenging her, calling her out. But she didn’t know what was wrong, or how to reach them. Hadn’t there been things that had reached her once? Books, films, scraps of beauty that had moved her so deeply she had wept with gratitude? How could she now not rememberwhat they were? Even the well-worn volumes on her own syllabus seemed to have become mere words on a page.
    â€œThere’s more to life than grammar and spelling,” she announced on a rainy Friday afternoon, but it only made them slouch deeper in their chairs, squeaking their sneakers against the linoleum. She felt like a hypocrite. Grammar and spelling, sadly, were her lifeblood. Against her better wishes, she’d become an enforcer of the picayune. Her students must have perceived her failure; with the wisdom of children, they sensed that she had chosen the easy path in life, and they resented her for it.
    â€œI’m sure they don’t resent you,” Jessica said cheerfully, placing her spoon on the edge of her saucer. All around them, the bright voice of Sam Cooke was greeting itself in the gleaming surfaces of the diner. “They’re teenagers. They probably don’t give you a second thought. They’re too busy thinking about each other, or how to get out of that hellhole.” Jessica had so seamlessly made the transition from pink-haired punk rocker to wife and mother that Ginny sometimes forgot about her undying empathy for the disenfranchised.
    â€œThat hellhole is my life,” Ginny said.
    â€œI know, honey. I’m sorry. I feel for you. You know I do.”
    â€œI need to get out of there. It’s just—something’s got to change,” Ginny said. She cupped her mug with both hands. “You know, when I was their age, I loved English class. It was better than honors chemistry withMr. Marks. Or writing the Presidents report for Mr. Tully. It was exciting. It was English, with Mr. Hennessey.”
    Jessica arched an eyebrow. “Mr. Hennessey, the one you were in love with?”
    â€œI wasn’t in love with him, I was
inspired
by him. He was my
inspiration.
”
    â€œUh-huh. I thought you said you had your first sex dream about him.”
    Ginny was grateful she didn’t blush easily. “He was my mentor. I mean, all these years, he’s