Flint
I’m so distracted in class that a few of my students actually ask me if I’m okay. A few others whisper things to each other behind grins, and I have an amused feeling they can sense my underlying glee; I can almost hear the mutterings of Mr. Cooper totally got laid last night! But beneath that glee are so many other feelings—feelings of nervousness, confusion, and concern.
The hardest by far is Lacey’s class. I know there’s no way she talked to Fallon between that morning and that afternoon, but I can’t stop staring at her—at the sharp line of her cheekbone; at the tiny dimples that form when she smiles—seeing resemblances to Fallon that I never noticed before. It becomes so distracting that I eventually have to give the class a half-hour of independent writing, unable to think
