that movie at home, and I’m pretty sure that” and brought almost every discussion to a dead halt.
Although the other students, themselves a fairly jaded and experienced bunch, usually rolled their eyes at Penelope, Claudia had noticed that they were beginning to be affected by her behavior. More than once, a student had unthinkingly directed a question directly to Penelope rather than Claudia. Perhaps this wasn’t so surprising, considering that Penelope’s inside knowledge of late-twentieth-century cinema, culled from her father’s filmography, occasionally seemed greater than Claudia’s own. (One evening, Claudia cross-referenced her curriculum with Samuel Evanovich’s IMDB profile, only to discover that he was linked to almost half the movies in her lesson plan.) Still, Penelope’s presence in the classroom was like a black hole, draining Claudia of energy and enthusiasm.
To make matters worse, Penelope wasn’t exactly turning out to be the star pupil that Claudia had once envisioned. (That role belonged unequivocally to Mary Hernandez: the deadly serious student hadn’t received anything lower than an A minus). Penelope offered up half-written essays, failing to complete them even when Claudia cut her a break and gave her extra time. She turned in quizzes with more doodles on them than answers. It wasn’t that Penelope didn’t know anything about film; that was abundantly clear. Was there some kind of learning disability that had yet to be diagnosed? Fear of test-taking? ADD? Dyslexia? Claudia didn’t want to consider the alternative: that Penelope had taken a dislike to her for some reason, and this was a deliberate gesture, a middle finger extended straight at her. After all, she’d borrowed that screener of Spare Parts and not only never gave Claudia any feedback, she never even returned it. The vision of that cozy evening chez Evanovich was fading, week by week, no matter how hard she tried to overlook Penelope’s antics and encourage some sort of camaraderie in their place.
This afternoon she would have to address these problems with the Evanoviches. It was a conversation she’d been dreading for weeks: Hi, Mr. Evanovich, so nice to meet you, I’m a huge fan of your work. Will you please autograph my copy of The Manchurian Candidate, which we’re discussing in class next week? By the way, your daughter is a know-it-all who needs an attitude adjustment. Yes, I know she’s gotten this far at Ennis Gates without anyone else making a stink, but I’m just that kind of teacher. Also, I know she worships you, but can you tell her to stop mentioning you when I’m lecturing? She could not imagine this going over well.
Her plan was to draft out her thoughts in advance, leaving no room for blurted annoyance or unintentional obsequiousness. She sat with a pencil in hand, thankful for the stillness of these dark moments before dawn, as she mulled over the most politic way to present her case. I think we need to discuss your daughter’s motivation issues, she wrote, then scratched it out. Penelope is a winning kid but … No, too pandering. I wonder whether a consultation with a learning capabilities tutor would be useful, she finally began, just as she heard a rustling in the hallway, footsteps approaching. A male figure appeared in the doorway, tripped over the threshold, and toppled forward into the kitchen, landing almost in Claudia’s lap. She pulled her bathrobe closed with one hand as she tried to steady him with the other.
The man was wearing nothing except for a pair of tight white cotton briefs. He was also, by Claudia’s measure, about twice Lucy’s age: A thin ruffle of hair encircled a bald patch on the top of his head, gray curls erupted off his bare barrel chest, and his fleshy face drooped, as if someone had tugged his skin loose from the bones. When she reached out to grab his hand—soft, like a baby’s—and heaved him upright, she noticed that he was wearing a wedding ring.
“Thanks,” he muttered, clearly embarrassed by her presence. “Didn’t think anyone’d be up at this hour.” He turned to flee, and bumped straight into Lucy, who had appeared in the doorway behind him. Lucy wore an astonishing garment: a floor-length silk nightgown in pink, trimmed with marabou feathers, like something the femme fatale would wear in a 1930s film noir.
“Claudia, you’re awake! I hope we didn’t wake you up?” Her face revealed none of her partner’s mortification; if anything, she looked pleased to have been caught. “I see you’ve met Pete. Pete, this is my roommate, Claudia.”
“You’re