Chapter 13 Avalynne #2
With a concerted effort, I fill out the forms, though I'm not particularly creative with my course titles—naming them after the textbooks Professor Thatcher has chosen for me.
Still, I think I at least get all the paperwork filled out correctly before the first hour of class is up.
With the paperwork complete, I turn my attention to my stack of books next to me and decide if he isn't going to offer any suggestions for coursework today, then I'm going to read something I actually want to read.
I sort through the books, reading the blurbs, and decide to start with Jane Eyre.
I discard the rest of the monstrous pile of books and open the novel. Promptly, Professor Thatcher sighs at the front of the room, scowling over his own book at me.
"I knew you'd choose that one today," he remarks, his words indolent, like he can barely be bothered to say them. "Could you at least try not to be predictable, Ms. Immorier?"
"What's wrong with Jane Eyre?" I challenge, offended.
"Nothing is wrong with Jane Eyre," he grumbles. "It's just quite unoriginal that given your current predicament, you would choose a book that involved an orphaned young woman having an illicit affair with an older man. You are not Jane, and I am not Mr. Rochester, Clarissima Stella. "
What does that mean? And what did he call me?
He looks at me pointedly, and the scorch of his dark gaze burns everywhere.
"You're the one who gave me the book," I retort, the words breathless.
Professor Thatcher holds my gaze a moment longer, and maybe I am losing it because I swear the air between us steams beneath his stare.
"We will discuss Jane Eyre after you've read it," he says with finality before he returns to his book.
"I have read it," I tell him.
He exhales through his nose as his gaze lifts to me once more. He puts his book page-down on his desk and crosses his arms behind his head. The movement stretches the fabric tight across his chest and biceps, and I hate how my mouth dries in an instant.
"Okay," he tells me, his coal-black eyes locked on me. "Tell me then. Who's your favorite character?"
I know it's a trick.
It has to be a trick because Professor Thatcher is, well, himself, but I step foot-first into the bear trap just the same.
"Jane Eyre," I answer.
He scoffs, and it's annoying how gorgeous he looks even when he's being a pretentious prick.
"You should read it again," he tells me, "and then we can talk when you can contribute something interesting to this conversation."
"What do you have against Jane Eyre?"
"She's weak and predictable." He cocks his head at me, judging me from the front of the room.
"She follows the stereotypical path of the woe-is-me heroine.
She endures hardship, certainly, but she only makes decisions after she's pushed to her breaking point.
Even then, her character growth is abysmal, Ms. Immorier.
Her story unfolds exactly as one would expect. "
I gawk at him. "Why did you choose the book for me if you don't even like the main character?"
"Because Bertha Mason is a character worth talking about." His words swim in arrogance.
I shake my head, not quite believing what I'm hearing.
"You're wrong," I challenge. "Jane Eyre may have been na?ve and young, sure, but she knew what she wanted.
She wasn't afraid to stand up for herself or those she loved.
And … and when she discovered Rochester's secret, she didn't just go along with it.
She left him, and that took incredible strength.
When she ultimately returned, it was on her own terms, too, not because she was forced.
Her journey is about finding self-respect. It's not about finding happiness."
Thatcher raises a lone eyebrow, and I swear all of him goes still as he examines me.
Did he stop breathing?
"And you think that makes Jane a stronger character than Bertha Mason?" He throws his head back and shows all his teeth with his disbelieving laugh. "A woman possessed by demons whose only desire is to destroy everything around her?"
"Yes," I insist. "Jane's strength lies in her morals and staying true to herself despite the pressure to conform. She's not weak. She's a testament to human resilience."
Thatcher leans back, a smug look on his face, and I wonder if this is what he wanted all along—the high of the debate.
"Even if for the sake of argument, I say you're right, think about Bertha Mason for a moment," he instructs me.
"She's a woman trapped in a life she never chose at a time when mental illness was neither understood nor treated with compassion.
Still, she rebels and refuses to be subdued.
Bertha embodies the innate urge to fight against oppression, even in the face of severe adversity. How is she not the stronger character?"
I feel my cheeks heat under his gaze, and I wonder if they burn as bright red as they feel.
"I don't think that makes Bertha stronger than Jane," I argue. "It just makes them different. Bertha's resilience came from a place of imprisonment. Jane's came from her conscious decision to uphold her own moral values."
Professor Thatcher's tongue traces the line of his top row of teeth as he studies me thoughtfully.
"You have a point," he concedes, a smirk gracing his lips. "Perhaps Jane Eyre isn't as one-dimensional as I initially thought, though I disagree with your assertion that she is the stronger character."
His concession surprises me, but he ruins it a heartbeat later.
"Now, get back to work, little troublemaker, and read the novel," he instructs. "When you're done, you can beg for my forgiveness and tell me why I'm right."
Then he returns to his book, and I swear I see the ghost of a smile grace his lips before I open the first page of Jane Eyre and begin to read.