Free The Revenant by Sonia Gensler

“Alice, you will continue to read, but you must stand here by my desk.” The girl hesitated. “Come on up here—I’m not going to bite you. Now,” I said to the rest of the class, “we are going to act out this poem. Everyone in this room will play a part.”
    Many of the girls looked up. A few eyes brightened, while others rolled. My smile did not falter.
    “I need someone to play the role of Love.”
    There was a pause as the girls looked at each other. Some of them simpered. My heart thudded in my chest, and yet I smiled on. Finally, Lelia raised her hand.
    “I will!”
    I silently blessed the girl. “Good for you, Lelia! Come up here—bring your book. Now I need someone to play an armed knight.”
    Lucy raised her hand. After that, more hands shot in the air, and the girls began to grin and whisper. I cast the roles of the Lady of the Land and the murderous band that threatened her. I cast the role of the poem’s speaker. That left only Fannie.
    I looked hard at her, and she stared back, her eyes defiant. I longed to cast her as the “wild and hoary ruin.” That would teach her to ask about compositions I’d put off marking for too long. But when I glanced at her arm in its sling, thought of her lying in pain upon the landing, I swallowed my resentment and smiled once more.
    “Fannie, would you be so kind as to play Genevieve, the poet’s lady love?”
    She narrowed her eyes. For a moment, I thought she might decline simply to vex me. But, as I’d hoped, her vanity won out and her frown softened into a smug smile.
    “Yes, Miss McClure.”
    Their performance was a disaster, riddled with false starts, missed cues, and laughter in all the wrong places. But the lively spirit in the room lifted us. No one thought of drowned girls, ghosts, or accidents in the dark of night. We were all caught up in the moment, living the poem instead of merely hearing it. Their indifference had vanished.
    Afterward, when everyone was seated again, they shared their opinions on the poem. Good ones at that, and well expressed. Once they’d enacted the poem, lived within it, they also seemed to have something to say about it.
    And I learned a very interesting thing about Fannie—a little tidbit to tuck away for later use. It was difficult to accept, but I had to admit Fannie was a natural actress.
    • • •
    That Friday night I went to bed early. It seemed I’d had my eyes closed only for a second when I woke to the faint strumming of a guitar. Were ghosts musical? I shook my head, dismissing it as another queer dream, but the whispers and squeals in the corridor brought me upright. Scrambling out of bed, I pulled my shawl around my shoulders before going out to see what new horror had upset the students.
    But it wasn’t fear on the faces of the girls. They smiled and giggled as they made their way to the wide windows in the second-floor landing. Olivia followed them, holding a lamp to light the way. She must have sensed my confusion as she drew close, for she smiled knowingly.
    “Don’t worry, Willie. It’s only the boys from the male seminary come to serenade us.”
    “But won’t Miss Crenshaw disapprove?”
    “As long as the girls keep well covered and don’t hang out the windows, she doesn’t mind. After all, there is quite a distance between them and the young men.”
    The girls had already opened the windows and filled every available spot for viewing the scene below. It was impossible to see over them. So I stood and listened as the guitar strumming grew louder and the singing began. The young men’s voices were enthusiastic if not particularly sweet, and the girls laughed and clapped their appreciation.
    “I have to see this,” I murmured to Olivia. “I’ll just dash to my room for a moment.”
    She nodded. “It’s quite a sight.”
    Once in my room, I pulled the curtain back and opened the window, propping a ruler under it to keep the heavy panel from crashing down again. There were seven boys