Page 19 of Unbound

“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” by Robert Frost is printed over the last page of the syllabus.

I should be listening to our professor as he introduces the rules and code of conduct for the class, but so should Bennett. Instead, we both read.

It’s familiar; I’ve read it before in one of my high school English classes. It’s not my style, but it’s an all-around crowd pleaser.

“Now.” Dr. Britton claps his hands loudly, grabbing my attention back. “Let’s start on our first assignment. Partner up.”

He might as well have said “fight to the death” for the way my body reacts. Eyes dancing around the room, I hang back as a few more gregarious students grab a friend—or make a new one quickly—so as not to be picked last. And, since there’s an even eight of us in here, there’s no chance of waiting and asking to work on my own.

I find a girl who looks kind enough, if not very approachable, but just as I go to move, she’s snatched up by the guy already seated to her right. Anxiety churns my stomach, a seasick feeling making my neck dampen with sweat.

Except, there is someone else without a partner. Someone else who didn’t even attempt to ask someone. And the only person in here I even moderately know in some capacity.

I grab my binder and the syllabus, march over to him with short, efficient strides, and slide into one of the abandoned desks closest to him. I keep my eyes locked on our professor where he sits atop the large metal desk at the head of our circle.

Bennett keeps his eyes locked on me.

His gaze is searing, heating the side of my face like summer sunlight. And when I finally turn to meet it, it’s just as intense as I suspected it would be.

Whatever I was going to say evaporates on my tongue, throat dry and neck still sweat damp.

“What did you think of it?” Bennett asks, his shoulders hiked and eyes downcast. As if feigning disinterest or hiding embarrassment. He doesn’t ask if I’ve read it. Maybe he was watching me as much as I was him.

“It’s magical,” I say. “Elusive in its meaning, but clearly intentional and structured.”

Blue eyes that are just as magical and elusive dart up to meet my gaze, then shift just slightly to my nose.

“You—yeah.” He clears his throat and looks back down at the papers. “What else?”

He won’t offer his own opinion then, as if he’s testing the waters. So I slump forward, edging a little closer to his rigid form. “I think he’s talking about death.”

A scoff works from his throat almost immediately, voice much louder as he insists, “It’s not—if anything it’s about life.”

“Oh?” I smart, lip curling with well-restrained annoyance. “Did he tell you that himself?”

I wish I could say I’m being playful, but this is exactly what I hate about poetry. My teacher in high school did the same thing, tearing my interpretations to shreds if I offered something contradictory. As much as people preach about interpretation, my experience has been that there’s always a right answer.

Bennett doesn’t say anything, cheeks bright from either anger or embarrassment. I can’t tell, nor do I necessarily care. Really, I shouldn’t be as curious as I am about him.

“Sleep is inherently ambiguous. Is the tone exasperated? Or hopeful? I think I could argue both sides.”

“You sound like my dad,” he grumbles, but his face only burns redder, like he didn’t mean to say it.

“Yeah?” I press him anyway. “He must be a genius.”

“He’s a lawyer.”

A laugh bursts free, shocking us both. I can’t remember the last time I laughed.

For a moment, I’m worried I scared off my surly partner, but then the corner of his mouth kicks up. It’s nearly microscopic, but it’s there. Just the hint of a smile.

Maybe we could be friends.

“What’s so funny?” Our professor garners our attention easily, but there is no reprimand, only genuine curiosity reflected in his dancing eyes.

“Nothing,” I rush to say, shaking my head and feeling chastised even without actually being in trouble. Dr. Britton frowns slightly and leans both hands heavily on the curve of his cane.

“All right. So then tell me about the poem.”