A relieved breathwhooshedout.
I looked up at Jessica, whose smile was anything but safe or harmless.
“Of course,” I managed, reaching for the book. “How did you . . . how did you like it?”
Her smile widened, and I immediately regretted asking.
“Oh, Ilovedit,” she said, leaning forward just enough to make me extremely uncomfortable. “All that romantic tension between Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy. The way he wassobrooding and mysterious. So . . .manly.”
She dragged out the word “manly” in a way that made my face burn.
“Yes, well . . .” I cleared my throat, fumbling with the book scanner. “Austen was quite skilled at creating compelling romantic dynamics—”
“You know,” Jessica interrupted, twirling a strand of hair around her finger, “you remind me a lot of Mr. Darcy.”
I nearly dropped the scanner. “I’m sorry, I what?”
“The whole mysterious, intellectual thing you’ve got going on.” She waved a finger up and down as though measuring me for a tuxedo. “Plus, you’ve got that brooding look down pat. It’s very sexy. You know you’re nerdy hot, don’t you?”
“Jessica!” I squeaked, my voice climbing to a register only dogs could hear. “That’s—you can’t—this ishighlyinappropriate!”
She giggled, sounding somehow innocent and positively diabolical. “I’m just being honest, Mr. J. You’re like, the hottest teacher in school. I mean, except for Coach Ricci. He’s athletic hot, and that’s tough to beat. I bet the two of you could film a shower scene for the ages.”
My face was on fire. Literally on fire. I was about to spontaneously combust right there in the middle of the library. They’d find nothing but ashes and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. There was no way a student should ever speak this way to a teacher—or any adult—but my rational brain had lost any semblance of control. My panicked, frazzled, completely shattered mind was unable to compute her pouty lips and overflowing bosom—and I didn’t even like girl boobies . . . or woman boobies . . . or boobies of any kind.
“I need to check this in,” I mumbled, scanning the book with shaking hands. “And you need to . . . to go to class or . . . or somewhere that isn’t here.”
Jessica pouted, and somehow even her pooched-out lips were flirtatious. “Are you kicking me out of the library, Mr. J? That seems very un-librarian-like of you. Aren’t you supposed be the man who makes it last all night? Makes me want to stay . . . over and over?”
“I’m not—I wouldn’t—” I took a deep breath and tried to channel my inner authority figure. “I’m simply suggesting that you have more productive ways to spend your free period than . . . whatever this is.”
“This is me appreciating literature,” she said with mock innocence. “And appreciating the man who introduced me to it.”
“Oh, good God. Please . . . just go.”
She leaned even closer, and I caught a whiff of what smelled like expensive perfume mixed with the faint scent of rebellion. “You know, if you ever want to discuss the finer points of romantic literature over coffee . . .”
“No!” I practically shouted, then immediately looked around to make sure no students had witnessed my complete breakdown. “No,” I repeated, quieter but no less panicked. “Absolutely not. Never. Not in a million years. Go terrorize boys your age.”
Jessica’s brow peaked. “I love a challenge.”
She straightened, grabbed another book from the returns bin—Romeo and Juliet, because of course she did—and slid it across the counter.
“I’ll take this one next,” she said sweetly. “I’mveryinterested in tragic love. You know, the kind where two people are kept apart by circumstances beyond their control, like their stations in life. Sound familiar?”
I stared at her in horror.
She was sixteen.
She was a student.
And she was currently comparing our nonexistent relationship to the most famous doomed romance in literary history.
“It’s about teenagers who die,” I said desperately. “Horribly. Both of them. Very tragic. Very dead. You should read something more . . . age-appropriate.”
“Death doesn’t scare me, Mr. J,” she said, batting her eyelashes. “Neither does tragedy. Sometimes the most beautiful stories are the ones that end in heartbreak.”
I was going to need therapy after this conversation. Lots of therapy.
