Read Online The Dead Don't Dance by Charles Martin - Free Book Online Page A

cigarettes and something else. Maybe cloves. Whatever it was, he had been in a lot of it. His eyes were glassy and looked like roadmaps. “Professuh, ain’t none us want to be here. Why don’t we all leave?”
    A wave of laughter spread across the room. Yo high-fived Uh-Huh and then slapped Deep Voice on the knee. I checked my seating chart and started again.
    â€œB.B., I understand. But the fact is that ‘not wanting to be here’ is what landed each of you in this particular class a second time. Do you really want to make that mistake again?” Scanning the room, I said, “Anyone?”
    Quiet replaced the laughter. Watching their faces straighten, I thought, Maybe that was too much, too soon. From the far right middle I heard somebody say, “Uh-umm. That’s right too.” I checked my seating chart. Charlene Grey.
    From the middle of the room someone asked, “Professuh, was yo’ granddaddy that farmer that everybody used to talk to in the hardware store? The one that raised all the steeples? I think they called him Papa Styles.”
    â€œWell, a lot of farmers fit that description, but yes, I called my grandfather Papa, he made a lot of friends in the feed and seed section, and he had a thing for steeples.”
    Marvin sat back in his chair, tossed his head up, and pointed
    in the air. “Yo, Dylan, answer me something. Why they send the grandson of a steeple-raising farmer to teach us how to write? I mean”—he looked over each shoulder, garnering support, and then pointed at me—“you don’t look like much of a professor. What makes you think you can teach us anything?”
    The class got real quiet, as though someone had pressed an invisible pause button. Three minutes in, and we had reached a silent impasse.
    What struck me was not that he asked the question. Except for the gold-rim glasses I wear when I’m reading, I look more as though I should be riding or selling a tractor than teaching an English class—cropped blond hair, oxford shirt, Wranglers, and cowboy boots. No, it was a fair question. He could have phrased it differently, but it was fair. Actually, I had already asked it of myself. What surprised me was that Marvin had the guts to express it.
    â€œI don’t know. Availability, I suppose. Mr. Winter’s probably got an answer.” I was losing ground. “Okay, English 20—”
    Marvin interrupted again. “But I don’t want Mr. Winter’s answer. I asked you, Professuh.”
    Sneers and quiet laughter spread through the room. Marvin sat low in his chair, in control, on stage and loving it.
    I walked to the front of his desk and put my toes next to his. To be honest, I was too scattered to have said it the way I should. My body may have been in that classroom, but my heart was lying next to Maggie.
    I took a deep breath. “Marvin, if you want the title of Class Clown, I really don’t care.” I waved my hand across the class.
    â€œI don’t think you’ll get much of a challenge. What I do care about is whether or not you can pass my class. Your ability to make everybody laugh is secondary to your ability to think well and learn to write even better. Do we understand each other?” I leaned over, laid my hands on his desk, and put my eyes about two feet from his.
    Marvin half nodded and looked away. I had called his bluff, and everybody knew it. I had also embarrassed him, which I wouldn’t recommend. For the first time that hour, no papers were ruffling, nobody was trying to outtalk me, and nobody was looking out the window.
    I let it go.
    I backed up, walked to my desk, and leaned against it because I needed to. I then made a few procedural announcements and mentioned the syllabus. Everyone followed along. Point made. That’s probably enough for one day.
    My introduction had taken, at most, four minutes. Once finished, I said, “It’s too hot to think in