The Tragedy Paper by Elizabeth LaBan Page B

there was only one I would especially miss. That teacher chose a theme every month and everything we did had to do with that theme. He was an English teacher, but he didn’t focus only on that—he brought food into it and sometimes science and history. But, I assured Mr. Bowersox, I was happy to try something new.
    I think it was possible that thirty or forty minutes had gone by and I hadn’t thought of Vanessa, but after I said that about trying something new, I had to stop talking for a minute; I felt like the wind was knocked out of me. I guess I
wasn’t
so happy to try something new. I’d tried something new for half a day and a night—or maybe for just about forty-five seconds in that elevator at the hotel. And now I wanted to go back to before I knew what that could be like. Or maybe I wanted to go back to before I knew what I was missing—that was more like it.
    Mr. Bowersox seemed so genuinely interested in me, asking about my favorite themes, really listening when I told him. I remember telling him all about the Greek gods we studied, and about how we had a whole month’s unitfocused on baked goods. And that was when he told me about Mr. Simon.
    “In that case, I think you will like the senior English teacher very much,” Mr. Bowersox said. “He’s the token adult on your dorm floor too, so you will get to know him very well. His name is Clark Simon. He doesn’t teach through themes like that—although he might argue that the
Moby-Dick
unit could be looked at that way; he does bring in food and a bit of science and history there—but he believes in becoming fully immersed in whatever you’re learning at the time. You will see that there are days he’ll come down to breakfast dressed as one Shakespearean character or another, or days he will choose to eat only things that Captain Ahab might have eaten on the
Pequod
, though I’m not sure what that would be. I think he might end up a little hungry on those days.”
    I nodded, forcing myself to focus and not wonder where Vanessa was at that moment and, worse, what it would be like when we ran into each other. “So, what are they studying now?” I remember asking.
    “Well, you missed the section on
Moby-Dick
and the introduction to Shakespeare. They read
King Lear
and
Macbeth
before break. I think you move into Greek tragedies now as he really gets you guys geared up for the Tragedy Paper.”
    “The Tragedy Paper?”
    “Ah, well, you’ll learn about this soon enough,” Mr. Bowersox said.
    (I hope you’re getting a kick out of this part, by the way. I worked hard to impersonate Mr. Bowersox’s voice. I think I do a pretty good job. Close your eyes and listen. Don’t I sound just like him?)
    “It is meant to be a culmination of your high school years—your reading comprehension, your writing skills, your method of analyzing material and then formulating and communicating your own thoughts,” he told me. “It’s great fun, really. And I’ve taken a look at your transcript. You should have no problem keeping up. But let’s not talk about that now. Are you hungry?”
    I
was
hungry. When was the last time I had had a good meal? The steak that morning? Maybe if I got a little food in me, I would feel better.
    We drove in silence for a long time. On occasion Mr. Bowersox would point out landmarks—this bridge or that tall building off in the distance. The highway looked different, but if I closed my eyes halfway, I could almost convince myself that I was in Chicago and pretend I was on my way home. We ended up having a nice dinner at some small Italian restaurant in what Mr. Bowersox kept saying was Yonkers. What a strange name for a town. I ordered spaghetti with meatballs and worried it would be messy. Mr. Bowersox got the baked ziti and spent most of the meal with strings of melted cheese hanging down his chin. I’msorry I couldn’t get a picture. It would be great to have if you ever need to blackmail him.
    After that, everything sped up,