Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71967 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71967 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
In the following days we were told to show no fear, and not to let this change us, or affect us. We have to stay strong. It all happened too quickly in my eyes. How can we simply get past this?
Because I can't.
I can’t move on.
Maybe this was the start of it - of me not being able to move on, or maybe I've always been like this - stuck on things after they happen.
Never letting go.
By next Monday, everything is back to normal, or new normal, as I call it. Not quite the same as it was before, but how it's clearly going to be from now on.
Ms. Harrington is the sweetest of all. I can tell she’s sort of like me in that she has trouble moving past things. She always wants to talk and tells everyone that her door is always open. All of her students like her, and it’s easy to see why. She’s so easy-going and wonderful.
Meanwhile, I just try to understand why all I do is sit in her class and think about her brother. Is her door open to help me comprehend that?
In chemistry, we get our periodic table quizzes back and my face falls when I see my 98. I know I got them all correct! I study the paper with a confused look as I meet the big, red, circled -2.
I almost rip it to shreds.
I did get all he symbols right, but I spelled “sulfer” instead of “sulfur".
What the hell?!
This isn't English. Your sister teaches that! I shouldn't be tested on spelling. If he just had to point out my mistake, fine, but why deduct the two points?
Not even a month into school and adios to my perfect grades. Maybe I shouldn't even bother from here on out, but I tell myself September is too early to give up completely.
When the bell rings I nod to Chloe that she should go ahead without me. I’m going to voice my unhappiness to Mr. Harrington, despite not really wanting to because not only am I a little embarrassed, but because my weird attraction to him frightens the hell out of me. We’ve never really spoken one-on-one before. In fact, we’ve barely said more than a few words, even during class.
I take a deep breath, pushing my shyness aside and hoping my voice doesn’t crack. I watch as he gets up and starts erasing his writing from the overhead projection. His track pants make a swishing sound as he moves. He’s clearly coaching after school, and I hate how happy it makes me, knowing what his after school plans are, like it matters.
“The test was on the periodic table symbols, and I got them all correct,” I slam the paper onto his desk. He stops erasing and smiles. I bite my lip to stop from automatically gleaming too; because the way it makes him glow is so striking, I almost can’t help it. “It’s not fair,” I look away, proud of my confidence.
“Haven't you realized? Life isn't fair.” He’s cocky, not only in his voice, but in his demeanor too. My eyes land on the muscles protruding from his shirt and travel down his arms to his white knuckles, straining against the eraser, holding on tight. I imagine his grip on me, and I swallow hard.
“Do you not like me or something?” He suddenly has me feeling bold, saying things I would normally never say.
“Or something,” he chuckles lightly, and I know I don’t hide my surprised look very well.
“So you don’t?” I don’t what I am more - crushed, furious, or confused.
“It was a joke,” he shakes his head. “Why would you think I don’t like you?”
Maybe I’m imagining all his annoyed and intense stares during class. Outraged by my own absurd feelings, I roll my eyes.
“Never mind,” I whisper before turning to grab my things and go.
“You’re reading War and Peace?” His voice interrupts. Surely he’s seen it on my desk a dozen times by now. I don’t answer as he approaches his desk, picking up the paper I slammed down. He stares at it with an amused expression. “I didn’t think they read that in high school.”
“They,” I clear my throat. “They… don’t.”
“And yet you do?” He does that stupid eyebrow thing again that makes me melt.
“I like Tolstoy,” it comes out as another whisper.
He laughs. It’s a magical sound, causing me to hold my books a little closer to my chest.
“So the quiz?” I ask, just as the late bell rings.
“It stays,” he smiles.
“But it was a mistake! Spelling has nothing to do with the material that was asked!”
“We all make mistakes,” he shrugs as he hands the paper back to me.
There's no use in arguing with someone who won't listen, so I say nothing as I leave.
“Luci?” I stop, not having enough courage to turn back around and face him. “Do you need a pass to your next class?”