Page 14 of The Black Table
“Very well. Claire,” the professor calls on the blonde girl. “What sort of text do we have here?”
“A poem,” answers Claire primly in prep-school French. “Which comprises a dialogue between a rose and a tomb?”
She phrases it like a question, even though it’s the most undebatable part of the entire exercise. I twirl my pencil in the air and look out the broad arched window to the campus beyond—Grove Quad, if I’m not mistaken, looking vibrantly green in the burgeoning morning light. I think longingly of the coffee I intend to pick up from Holy Grounds as soon as this class as over, maybe find a bench to sit on with my books?—
“And…Mr. Late-to-the-Party,” the professor says, leaning on her desk and nodding indulgently at Lanz. “What themes do we see presented here?”
I force my attention back to the discussion, to the person who’s been called on, and that’s when I notice he’s been staring.
At me.
“Ah…it…” Lanz stammers, looking down at his book and flipping pages back and forth, even though the poem itself only takes up two paragraphs. “I’m sorry, one moment?—”
I’m not the only one who notices, either. Elena, sitting between the two of us, shoots me a look as rigid and cold as marble.
Heat prickles up my the back of neck and scalp in spite of myself. I did nothing, I want to say. I simplycame to class.I do not know you, or him, from Adam,mademoiselle.
The professor snaps her elegant fingers. “Too slow. Your partner, Madamemoiselle Elena?”
Elena goes stick-straight in her seat. “Um…” She glances down at the book, at Lanz, at her friend Claire, as if any of them has the answer written on their face.
“L’amour,” she manages at last.Love.
The professor raises an eyebrow. “L’amour?” she repeats.
Elena looks lost. “Um…oui,” he says. “It’s about a rose, so?—”
“The poem is titledThetombsays to the rose,” the professor interjects. “Or did you not even read that far?”
I snort.
But my amusement is short-lived, because the professor wheels on me next.
“Ah, our little novelty. Mademoiselle Gwenna, you think you’ve unlocked the theme properly, then? Enlighten us.” She folds her arms, her long fingers settling elegantly on the draping sleeve of her blouse. “Ifanyonein your little threesome was paying attention.”
In fact, I was, I think. “J’avancerais plutôt que ce poème traite du thème de la mort—ou, plus précisément, de la relation entre le changement, la transmutation et la mort éventuelle de toutes choses dans le monde, qu’elles soient volontaires ou non.”
As I answer, the professor curls a smile, but it’s not her attention I feel. It’s Elena’s.
Whether or not she’s understood anything I just said.
I conclude, suck in a breath, and turn to her.
“Death,” I say, in English. “Not love.”
A beat of silence. Then the professor claps—with delight, it seems.
“Formidable,” she declares. “Brillamment argumenté.”
I duck my head, loathing the attention even as the tiniest flicker of pride lights in my chest. Elena, for her part, looks like she’s swallowed an entire lemon studded with thumbtacks…and she’s aiming the look right at me.
Sorry, I try to thought-beam to her.But maybe read the poem if you don’t want to get embarrassed?—
“Show off,” she mutters, glancing from me to Lanz.
And that just makes things worse.
Because Lanz is also staring. At me.
