boston {h.s.}

trente et un.*

MY TEXT TO Harry was simple, straightforward. I sent it sneakily while my students were having a free write day in the midst of our memoir unit. Hunched over my desk, I faked looking like I was going over my lesson plan for my AP students. Still in the midst of The Scarlet Letter, I've found that they are not necessarily yet moved by Hester and her storyline. I can hardly blame them. Only recently did I myself begin to find a new layer of dimension to the story.

be here in an hour

h: You're getting bold

is that a yes or a no?

h: Asher?

field trip, out of school

h: Convenient.

h: I'll be there.

The conversation had been simple. We don't frequently text. Typically, our conversations aren't even about our affair. Texting is too damning, too traceable. Instead, most of our conversations are centered around the whereabouts of my brother, any hockey scheduling, and the sporadic random inquiry—such as the text he sent me over the weekend looking for a book recommendation. I'd suggested Charles Bukowski for him; the writing seemed perfectly vulgar and entirely the kind of thing that he would enjoy.

Putting my phone away, I turn back to my students as I begin to go around and check the work that everyone is doing. I'd provided two different mini-memoir prompts that they could choose from. These mini-memoirs are aimed to be about five paragraphs, minimum, and they should just start to develop an idea. It's to be a rough draft; nothing that they need to freak out about. At the end of the unit, they have the chance of developing this memoir—or, any of the other mini-memoirs that they write in class or for homework—and using that as the one in which they submit.

Today, I'd given two different prompts. The first had been to write about a time in which they had a new beginning and a time in which they learned a valuable lesson. In relation to my own life, both had ample material. Throughout my own schooling, I'd written many a memoir myself. Most of them centered around growing up without my mother. Later, in college, I had relied on the death of my father.

"Margeaux, will you read mine?" A student asks, calling my attention to the front of the room.

Silently I make my way over to their desk and begin to read about the time that they transitioned into high school, and what a new beginning that had been for them after moving from New Hampshire. I compliment them on it, and suggest a few small changes that could help make their writing clearer. After, I continue to walk around the classroom, studying which students need help and what they need help with.

The rest of the class passes this way. It's an unusually quiet day in the classroom; especially this close to the Thanksgiving holiday. Typically, students are off the walls crazy with the prospect of having time off and away from school. The atmosphere in the classroom today doesn't quite replicate that enthusiasm. This is the first moment in which I realize that my guilt begins to present itself as paranoia. For, my first thought is that their opinions have changed of me. That they know that I am having an extramarital affair and that they know that I am not the role model that I should be for them. The thought is consuming, constricting. All of the air seems to leave my lungs as I consider the fact.

For the first time, standing in the middle of my classroom, I seem to have the realization that someone could figure us out. Someone could find out about the affair. All along, I've known this. But somehow, it felt far away. It felt like something that wouldn't really effect us because what we are doing hasn't ever truly felt real to me. Or, maybe it did. Maybe I just never actively realized the feeling.