“Oh, I’m definitely a smuthound with daddy issues.” His half-smile morphed into a whole grin. “You’re a smut-hound with daddy issues?” The corner of his mouth turned up in a slow, condescending smile. “So,” he said, his eyes meeting mine again. My heart thundered so loud he could probably hear it. Our fingers brushed, and a warm current coursed through them. His eyes wandered over the pink-lipped mouth on the cover, then handed it to me. “Lolita,” he said, turning my book over in his hands. But before I could think of a reply, Noah crouched and picked up my book. But the way he said it, the way he was looking at me, was shockingly intimate. I would have laughed-the whole thing was sort of ridiculous. I stood there staring, openmouthed and speechless. “She stands unrecognized by them and unconscious herself of her fantastic power.” “You have to be an artist and a madman, a creature of infinite melancholy, in order to discern, at once, the little deadly demon among the wholesome children,” he said, his British accent melting around the words, his voice smooth and low. A shadow darkened the cover before I could reach for it. A throng of oncoming students jostled me and my book fell to the ground. Slightly ruffled, I broke the stare and gathered my things before hurrying out of the classroom. He gave me the same familiar, knowing look as yesterday.
I crouched to lift it and set it right, but my chair was already in someone’s hands. I sprung out of my seat, knocking it over. When the bell finally rang, I was fiending for some fresh air. The air conditioner in the class must not have been working, and the atmosphere grew increasingly stuffy as the minutes ticked by. A bit bored, I took out my thoroughly dog-eared and well-loved copy of Lolita and hid it behind my notebook. Then she continued on with her lecture, most of which I’d heard before. There was a collective groan from the class.
And for next Monday, I want a five-page paper from each of you with your brilliant analysis of the subject.” I would love it more if the rest of you would look alive, but hey.” The teacher turned back to the board and wrote my answer and Noah’s on the board, under “hamartia.” “I think there are arguments to support both claims that Oedipus’ failure to acknowledge who he was-to know himself, as it were-caused his downfall, or that his pride, or more correctly, his hubris, led to his tragic fall. “His fatal flaw was his lack of self-knowledge.” I was wrong yesterday-his eyes weren’t gray, they were blue.
Please, demonstrate your dazzling intellect for the class.” Can someone-not Mara-tell me what Oedipus’ tragic flaw was?” “Yep,” I said, fighting self-consciousness.
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