32
“Washington, DC, might represent the face of American government and politics globally and in the eyes of most of our country’s citizens, but the true birth of our nation, its roots and fundamental building blocks, began not in DC or Philadelphia but right here in Manhattan.”
I set my phone back on the table—I’d been using it to read my paper aloud—and I’m met with scattered applause from my classmates seated around the hotel conference room for tonight’s lesson.
“What did we like about Ellie’s paper?” Ms. Geist prompts. “Remember active listening is part of your grade.”
Several hands shoot up in the air. I wait for Mr. Lance to jump in and choose someone, but he’s sitting quietly at the far end of the table, his gaze trained on me rather than the hands in the air.
Geist calls on Jacob, who glances down at his notebook in front of him. “I really liked Ellie’s points about our country being built by immigrants—”
“Yeah, immigrants who stole the land from Natives,” Howie, another junior who I don’t know very well, says.
“No interrupting,” Geist reminds him.
Jacob finishes his comment, clearly reciting back what I’d read from my paper simply to prove he listened and receive the points for doing so. Three more classmates follow Jacob, offering identical responses. That is until Bret speaks up. With all the tension between him and Dominic and all the time I’ve spent around Dominic during this trip, I’ve hardly spoken to the guy at all since we got to New York. Probably for the better if I’m being honest.
“I think it’s clear from her paper,” Bret says, eyeing me, a hint of amusement in his voice, “that Ellie is a liberal.”
I roll my eyes. “What’s your point?”
“My point is that our junior class is filled with spawns of corporate America, most of who are not liberals, and it took balls for Ellie to hate on their political views.”
Several arguments break out, many of them stating something along the lines of “my parents’ views aren’t mine,” but Geist holds a hand up to quiet everyone.
“We aren’t here to debate politics or current events. Tonight’s discussion is on the American Revolution. Let’s stay on topic.” She gives Bret a pointed look and then turns to me. “I was most impressed with Ellie’s grasp of key elements of the argumentative essay. This form is something all of you will be asked to write many times over in college.” She turns in her seat to view the far end of the oval table. “Mr. Lance, do you agree?”
He shifts in his seat, placing an awkward pause between Geist’s question and his answer, but finally says, “I agree that she has an adequate understanding of the structure of an argumentative essay.”
Everyone waits for him to say more, and when he doesn’t, heat creeps up my neck into my cheeks. It’s the most evasive answer I’ve ever heard Lance give, and I have no clue what I’ve done to earn this type of attitude. I duck my head and glance down at the agenda for tomorrow, pretending to study it.
Geist waits a beat longer and then calls on Chantel to read her paper. I sit there for nearly an hour, obsessing over Lance’s comment and all the possible scenarios that might end with his ambiguous disapproval. When everyone is filing out of the conference room, heading back to their own rooms for the night, I can’t take the guessing anymore. Instead of walking out the door, I drop into the seat beside him and state bluntly, “You didn’t like my paper.”
He shrugs. “It was perfectly written.”
“Okaaay…” I say slowly. “But?”
“By perfect, I mean perfection on twelve different levels,” Lance states, and finally some emotion is present in his voice, though it seems to have more of a negative charge to it than a positive one.
I sink back in my chair. “You think I cheated?”
“You’re too smart to cheat.”
“Then what?” I release an exasperated sigh. This was supposed to be the easiest part of my day. I’d enjoyed writing the paper, hadn’t had any trouble getting it done, took less than five minutes to read aloud, and then I got to relax for the rest of the hour. Except I’d spent it worrying about what he thought. “If it’s perfectly written, meets all the requirements, and you believe it’s my own work, why do you look so disappointed?”
With Dominic still pissed at me, the FBI agents begging for evidence every five minutes, and Justice’s hang-up over my leaving that show early, I’m so tired of disappointing people.
“Your paper featured ideals regarding immigration and politics that represent my opinions perfectly,” Lance says. “But you managed to use language that was slightly different, to create parallel arguments meant to tap into my ego, my need to convert others to my belief.”
Still very confused, I feel my forehead scrunch up. “So I’m a good listener and I remember what you tell us in class. How are those bad things?”
“They’re not.” He sighs. “It’s what I expect from most of my students at Holden. They’re driven by motivation to get the best grade possible, as many letters of recommendation as possible. But you? I thought you were driven by a love of learning, by curiosity. Instead of you playing the A game, I would have loved to see you research first, form opinions later. Instead you spent your research time studying me and my opinions, analyzing what you thought I wanted to hear, and then you found the sources to back it up.” He studies my probably mortified look and then adds, “Is that how you’ve always done things? Have I enjoyed having my ego inflated so much that I didn’t notice until now?”
When he asks that last question, there’s a hint of hurt in his voice. How could I hurt an English teacher’s feelings with a perfect paper? But it doesn’t take long for me to understand.
He thinks I’ve conned him. He’s gone out of his way to support me with college admissions directors, like the guy from Brown, put his own reputation on the line for me. Now he’s wondering if our relationship is based strictly on my desire for personal academic gains or simply to manipulate someone in a position of power. And the thing is? I don’t even know for sure if his theory holds true. Is it ingrained in my DNA to always use what I know about a person for personal gain? Have I been forced down this path ever since the night I sat with my dad in the car and he made me understand why we take such care in learning about those we plan to con?
“So this is a personal thing?” I ask. “Not academic.”
“‘Act in such a way that you treat humanity, whether in your own person or in the person of any other, never merely as a means to an end but always at the same time as an end,’” he recites.
I look down at my hands. “That’s Kant, right?”
“Yes.” He leans on one elbow, looking me over carefully. “I thought this was a two-way street, that we were learning from each other, that I knew who you were. But figuring out that I might be nothing but a mere means for you…you can imagine how disappointing that might be for someone.”
I almost want to say, Yes, I can imagine it. Yes, I feel bad. I’m sorry. But only two of those things are true. “You’re simplifying a very complex argument. No one in my life is either a mere means or a rational autonomous being, to quote Kant. Everyone is both.” Okay, maybe Agent Sheldon is just a mere means. But that’s only because she has the same view of me. I stare at my teacher again and take a deep breath before plunging into the deep end. “You were right about something. You don’t know me. You couldn’t. Because most of the truths about my life are hidden even from Holden’s records.”
“Then tell me,” he says, like it’s that simple.
“You wouldn’t believe me even if I did tell you.” I push my chair back and stand. “But I never asked you for anything. I never asked you to help me apply to college or introduce me to Brown’s admissions director. If I’ve subconsciously tried to inflate your ego through my academic work, it’s only because I want you to like me. Because you’re a great teacher. And yes, I know how to manipulate the hell out of people; you have no idea—” I shake my head, biting back incriminating details. “But I’m trying not to be like that. In fact, it’s the only thing I’m completely sure that I want to achieve.”
I don’t wait for his reaction or any response on his end. I’m too afraid to hear it. Too afraid to admit how hurt I am by this person I didn’t even know I valued so highly. Maybe my feelings have nothing to do with Lance and more to do with my constant fear that I won’t ever shake the person I used to be. Miles got over it, but just when one person joins Team Ellie, another one is leaving.
As I’m headed down the hall, I glance out the windows displaying Times Square. The lights are practically blinding, but even with that, I spot a man crossing the street, heading toward a bench. A man who is probably gifted at concealing himself in plain sight, but still I see him clear as anything. I turn abruptly and head toward the stairwell.
Agent Beckett and I need to have a little chat about his son.