Free Bewitched by Daisy Prescott

One

    “Hester Pryne was a slut.”
    “She was not. You’re a Neanderthal asshat!” My chair scrapes across the worn wood floor as I stand and shout. Yep. Shout. I am shouting in my New England Fiction seminar led by a man in a tweed jacket with elbow patches. What is wrong with me?  
    “Miss Bradbury, please sit down,” Professor Philips scolds me from the head of the long, polished mahogany table.  
    I cross my arms and try to control my temper as I stare down the tree troll known as Luke Hamilton, aka self-proclaimed “Big Man on Campus” and golden-boy. “Professor Philips, how can you just let him spout off all that bull— nonsense about Hester Pryne being a slut? She didn’t take a religious vow or have sex with herself.”  
    “That’d be hot.” Hamilton snorts from a few seats away. His golden-boy blond hair droops over his forehead as he doodles boobs with A’s on them in the margins of his book.  
    Disgusting. I can’t figure out why he’s even in this class. Reading doesn’t seem to be his thing. The only things that appear to interest him are boobs, keg parties, and himself.  
    I continue my rant. “It takes two people. Two. Hamilton and his hand don’t count as two people. Argh!” I toss my pen down on my notepad. “He’s missing the point. Hawthorne wasn’t slut shaming Hester.” I flail my arms around in some sort of awkward orangutan mating dance.
    A pen tapping at the opposite end of the long table draws my attention, and the spell of my frustration dissolves. The sound comes from Andrew Wildes, resident brooding, quiet, serious, handsome, slightly dangerous man of mystery. Or maybe he’s just quiet. There is something about him I find fascinating, like the dark hero in one of the Brontë sisters’ novels. Blushing, I sit down in my chair, straightening a stack of note cards and my post-it note filled copy of The Scarlett Letter . Dr. Phillips has banned laptops from the class, encouraging us to take handwritten notes because of some brain study he read about memory.  
    “Do you have something to add to the discussion, Mr. Wildes?” Dr. Philips asks focusing his attention on the other end of the table.
    Andrew stares at his fingers, which tap on the table in a patch of dust dancing in the mid-September sun. The rest of him remains in the shadows, making his thick dark hair and pale skin stand out in contrast even more. His faded black T-shirt only adds to the brooding vibe surrounding him. He never speaks in class unless Dr. Philips calls on him, and his answers are often so odd, the majority of students ignore him. This should be interesting.  
    “Madison is right. Hawthorne wasn’t shaming Hester. The Puritans were. Hawthorne was more interested in sin and knowledge, exclusion, and fear of the unknown. It’d be like us writing about the Victorians. The Puritans were ancient history for him. If anything, I think he’s mocking them.”
    My mouth drops open. Andrew is defending me. He clarifies my entire argument in two sentences. I’ve assumed he doesn’t know I exist even though it’s only a class of twelve students.
    “Well said, Andrew,” Philips praises him. “You and Miss Bradbury are on the right track with your thinking.”
    Hamilton scoffs and leans back in his chair, letting the front legs rise a few inches above the floor. Under his breath he mutters, “Slut.”  
    Andrew’s head jerks in our direction. Behind his glasses, his brown eyes flash to mine before they settle on Luke’s smug expression.  
    I want to wipe the stupid frat-boy grin off Hamilton’s face. My fingers twitch as I concentrate on resisting the urge to hurl my book at him. For once I would love to see him fall flat on his smugness. I scrunch up my nose and narrow my eyes as I imagine him crashing to the floor. Clouds cover the sun, darkening the room’s only source of light. Luke’s chair tips further back, past the point of balance, but he doesn’t seem to notice until it’s