Mr. Freestone,

By the time the war ended, Father had made a number of friends in St. Louis. Officers, wealthy men. He knew I’d already read every book in the schoolhouse by the age of 10, so he asked them to send me more books whenever they considered Christmas presents. Novels, scientific journals, college textbooks - I’ve read them all. And I’m good at learning. If I’d gotten a proper education in some cushy academy somewhere, I’d probably be at Stephens getting my degree right now. In a few years, when my education finally catches up, I’m going to apply there.

I see how you write to me about me. “Considering my circumstances”, “I was young too once”, as if you’re much older than I am. I understand your aloofness. I saw a golden opportunity and grew obsessive over it. I acted inappropriately after you didn’t answer my questions at the dinner, something I realized since our last encounter. You’re a human being, not a specimen to be examined and catalogued. But I assure you, this is no game to me. You’re wielding a lost art. An undiscovered tradition that defies both mundane and magical rules about how the human body works. I’ve been doing experiments and compiling every scrap of knowledge I could find about this for the past two years in the hopes of publishing a paper on it once I finally get into college and out of this town. And I will not be treated as the hapless ingenue from podunk, as a bored child.

Nobody in this town respects me besides my father, who only recently started spending more time with us than with the army. The reverend thinks I’m too clever for my own good. Birch never said as much but he only let me borrow his books with extreme reluctance. And everyone else in town thinks I’m a busybody or a church bell or a floozler. Just waiting for me to get boring and become a homemaker. You’re well-read, cautious and novel. I want you to respect me as a student, as I will respect you as a teacher. If that is fair, then I accept your terms.