a book of shots | tbn one shot collection

VIOLET | PT. 2

"So," Ms. Poirier started, pacing the front of the class, "we'll be doing the Socratic Seminar today, assuming that everyone has read their respective books."

A quick glance around the room confirmed to Lane that she was indeed one out of the few who had actually finished their literature for the assignment they were meant to do. Lane chuckled to herself, turning her attention away from her peers and back to her study notes. It would be fun to watch them try and save their grades for this one.

She'd always found it ironic that her English teacher was a woman who originally came from France. It wasn't to say that she was a bad teacher, but Lane thought it odd that the school board had chosen her to teach the course. They could've even had her teaching a French class, except they were all stuck with a teacher Lane was positive didn't know the very first thing about French. Anything she knew about the French language certainly didn't come from her.

"Go to the places I assigned to your group yesterday," Mrs Poirier continued. "Half will be talking about their books today, and the other half will be taking notes and grading them to prepare for their turn to present tomorrow. The students whose books I'm going to call out will be going today..."

Lane tuned her out after that, instead resorting to watching the people in her groups to see if they got up, while she thought about which kids her group would be graded by if they were chosen to talk about their book — which had been To Kill A Mockingbird — that day.

She knew the process, even though their teacher seemed determined to explain it to them over and over until it was drilled in their brains. A few groups would talk about their books while other groups graded them, indeed, but Mrs. Poirier had also failed to mention the fact that each person from the group grading them would have to choose a person to evaluate, which meant that someone would have to specifically pick out Lane if she were to be graded. Which she would be, eventually.

Lane wished that this whole thing had already been assigned, too. She had only to wait for the inevitable — being the last of the litter to be chosen from.

It was only when Albert got up, did she become more alert. Albert was in her group, and so was Davey, as well as Abby — Gilbert's daughter, who she'd neglected to mention before. When she noticed Finch get up and start heading towards them, too, did she know she was in trouble.

Finch, unlike the others, wasn't in their group.

Finch observed Lane as she lost herself while talking about her book. Her hands were flying around to exaggerate her point, and her words were going as fast as a falcon in flight, but still, he could still clearly make out everything she said. An intriguing gleam lit up her eyes, and though she was slightly slouched in her chair, her voice carried across the room like crystal glass, demanding everyone's attention.

In short... she was ethereal.

He'd never seen her look so passionate about anything. She would usually make fun of other people's interests, or stare at them judgingly from behind a book. He'd sometimes wonder if she was truly emotionless, although he'd always suspected it was a front she put up to hide behind. But this... never would he have imagined that she could ever produce such well thought out arguments on her thoughts of the novel. He felt almost intimidated, knowing that, come his turn, he would not be able to reach this level of eloquence. He could only hope that she wouldn't choose to grade him, too.

He had chosen to grade her from the start, even if she had nothing to say. Yet from the looks of it, she was carrying her group's whole grade on her back. He couldn't help but wonder what it would be like if he took up a conversation with her about another book she's read. How eager she'd be to speak with him then, now that they had common interests. To see that spark in her eyes up close...