The Headmaster. Tiffany Reisz

fell silent. Every pair of eyes had turned to study her.

      “Use me but as your spaniel,” Laird continued the scene. He looked into Christopher’s eyes and spoke again. “Spurn me. Strike me. Neglect me. Lose me. Only give me leave, unworthy as I am, to follow you.”

      Gwen stepped back into the shadows and the play continued. Side-by-side with the headmaster she watched until the intermission at the end of the second act. As the boys in their costumes and uniforms rearranged scenery, Headmaster Yorke lead her out into the hallway.

      “You have A Midsummer Night’s Dream memorized?” he asked her.

      “Yes, and Hamlet, Richard III, Henry V, and most of the comedies—the good ones.”

      “You’re not an actress, are you?”

      She laughed at the disdain in his voice. Why were the English so good at disdain?

      “Merely a teacher,” she said. “I always have my students act Shakespeare out. You can’t really understand a play until you see it performed. Shakespeare especially. I had no idea he was funny until my junior year of high school when they took us to see A Comedy of Errors.”

      “Tell me—” he began, but a familiar redhead opened the door and stuck his head into the hall and interrupted.

      “Did you hire her yet?” Laird asked. “We need a new English teacher.”

      Headmaster Yorke turned and glared at Laird. Laird winced and made a hasty retreat.

      “As I was saying,” the headmaster continued. “What are your qualifications as—”

      Now Christopher’s dark head appeared in the doorway.

      “Are you the new English teacher?” Christopher asked, without stammering once.

      “She is,” Laird said, standing next to him in the doorway. “Her name is Gwen Ashby.”

      “Hello, Miss Ashby,” Christopher said. “You’re not married, are you?”

      Headmaster Yorke answered the question for her by putting his hand on Christopher’s head and pushing him back through the doorway. Laird’s head popped through the door.

      “Have you ever read Ivanhoe?” Laird asked.

      “I’m afraid not.”

      “Oh, thank God,” Laird sighed with obvious profound relief. He pointed his thumb at the headmaster. “He’s made us read it six times.”

      The headmaster glared at Laird so hard that Laird seemed to shrink back into himself.

      “No more Ivanhoe please,” he mouthed as he disappeared back through the door.

      “You have very interesting students,” Gwen said. “I like them.”

      “I don’t.”

      “Liar,” came Laird’s voice from behind the door.

      Behind his glasses, Headmaster Yorke looked up at the ceiling.

      “Is it still illegal to kill students in America?” he asked.

      “I’m afraid so, yes.”

      “I’ll simply have to risk it. Come with me to my office, Miss Ashby.”

      “Yes, I will. Thanks for asking.”

      He arched his eyebrow at her.

      “I was pretending you asked me, instead of ordering me.”

      “But you are coming to my office.”

      “Yes, since you asked so nicely.”

      He looked at her, turned on his heel and stalked down the hall.

      She knew he expected her to follow him so she paused, counted to three and then followed him. The sun was sinking but hadn’t set quite yet, and long slants of golden light poured in through the windows in the school building and set everything alight. The floors, walls and windows looked like they were on fire with so much sunlight, and ahead of her the headmaster cast a long shadow that she stepped into as he led her up the winding stairs.

      They came to a room that was likely Headmaster Yorke’s office. He had a grand desk and large leather chair and windows behind him that would allow him to look down onto his school. And books, so many books in his office. Shelf after shelf of leather-bound volumes. No paperbacks. Not a one. This man took his library seriously.

      He gestured to a chair in front of his desk and she sat down. He took his seat in his high-back leather chair, steepled his hands in front of his chest and stared at her.

      “You won’t like it here,” he said. “I strongly encourage you to leave.”

      “Is this how you start all job interviews?”

      “Yes.”

      “Is this like that scene in Fight Club where you tell me to leave and I get the job only if I stay?”

      “The scene in what?”

      “Fight Club? The movie? Ever seen it?”

      “I’m a busy man, Miss Ashby. I don’t waste time on popular entertainment.”

      “I’ll adjust my references accordingly then. Look, Mr. Yorke, I—”

      He raised his hand to silence here.

      “I realize you’re seeking employment, and I respect that,” he said. “But it would require an enormous sacrifice from you to become a teacher at this school. I left my home country years ago and have never returned. The students are here year-round. We work year-round. We teach year-round. We have everything we need here at the school, and we rarely leave the grounds. You would be required to commit yourself to this school as we have. Whatever life you have outside the walls of the school, you would have to give it up to remain here.”

      “I appreciate your concern, but it’s safe to say I have no life outside the walls of this school. Having a life inside the walls of this school would be one more life than I have right now.”

      “I find it hard to believe that a lovely young woman such as yourself has no life.”

      “I don’t have any family anymore except for grandparents I don’t see very often. I had to switch colleges my freshman year after my dad died, and I lost all my friends in the process. I had a boyfriend. He moved to Africa to teach in a village there. When I tell you my entire life is in that car I wrecked trying to not kill a deer? I mean it.” She paused a moment. “Also, you think I’m lovely?”

      He ignored the question.

      “My condolences on the loss of your parents.”

      “Thank you.” She swallowed a sudden lump in her throat.

      “You look very young, Miss Ashby.”

      “I’m about to turn twenty-six. Definitely old enough to teach high school students.”

      “Even students such as mine? The boys here are precocious, highly intelligent. They require constant intellectual stimulation to keep their minds occupied. One student, bored by his classes, turned the courtyard statue of our founder, Sir William Marshal, into a jet-propulsion experiment.”

      “I didn’t see any statues in the courtyard.”

      “That’s because the experiment succeeded.”

      “Oh, my.” She almost said something about the movie Real Genius and how it could have been worse—the headmaster could have ended up with a building full of popcorn or an indoor ice rink. But she kept that reference to herself.

      “Indeed. It would be unfair of me to ask such a young and lovely woman to give up her life to teach here. I must insist you return to where you came from.”

      Gwen might have agreed with him.