by Celeste, B.
Mr. Nichols smiles from where he sits behind his desk. I can see why girls always giggle and gossip about him. His face still screams youth, which isn’t a surprise. He told us on the first day that he only just graduated with his Master’s, putting him somewhere in his mid-twenties. His eyes are a chocolate brown, his hair a dirty blond and chopped short, and his body is in physically good shape highlighted by the button-up shirts he wears with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and pressed dress pants that seem to emphasize long legs. It’s hard not to notice a cute teacher like him.
“I won’t keep you long, I’m sure you’re eager to start the weekend like everyone else,” he promises lightly.
Shrugging, I readjust my bag strap over my shoulder. “It isn’t like I have any exciting plans. Did I do something wrong?”
He straightens. “Not at all. I’m sorry if I worried you. I actually wanted to talk to you about the paper you turned in.”
On the second day of class, he assigned a short paper for us to write about our favorite novels. It made most people groan to have an assignment so soon in the semester, but I didn’t mind. During my worst days, I’d stay in bed with a book by my side. There’s always two on my nightstand waiting to be loved.
When he told us that we had to explain why we chose the specific book, it seemed like an easy assignment. It was informal and we got to talk about literature in a way that’s personal to us. Yet, I learned based on the muttered complaints and protests that reading isn’t a common hobby among my peers. Another reason why I have yet to make any friends here.
He rests his hands on his desk. “I noticed that you didn’t just choose one book. You like reading, don’t you? The ones you talked about said as much.”
Wetting my lips, I manage a nervous head nod. Maybe I should have just chosen one, but he never said we couldn’t write on more than that.
“The ones you chose,” he says, “they all seem to have a common theme. I’m curious as to why you selected them.”
He knows about my condition. School policy states that teachers must be made aware of all students with chronic illnesses that can impact their attendance and performance in school. Personally, I think it’s an invasion of privacy. Dad and Cam think it’s a good idea though.
You’ll have people in your corner, Dad told me in comfort.
I wanted to say, Like you?
Hostility gets us nowhere though.
“You told us to pick our favorite,” is my reply. It’s quiet and unsure, like I’m not sure what he wants me to say.
“And those are?”
Another nod.
He studies me for a long moment. “They all seem to question mortality. I wonder if it’s a reflection on personal matters. We tend to hold onto stories when we relate to them.”
I shift on my aching feet. “If you’re going to suggest I see a counselor, I already turned down the idea when Principal Richman insisted.”
Despite Dad telling me I had no choice, I never made an appointment with either the counselor or nurse. When I told him that setting aside a free period just to tell the counselor that school is fine is a waste of time, he saw my point. The nurse…not so much. He’s insistent that Ms. Gilly will be a handy ally here.
I told him I didn’t need an ally.
Nichols’ smile widens, making him look even more boyish. “I was actually going to suggest joining Book Club.”
Taken by surprise, my lips part. I didn’t even know there was a book club here. It’s not on the school’s list of activities students can join. Cam convinced Dad I should consider looking into different options to make friends faster. I only looked to get them off my back.
He takes my silence as consideration of his suggestion. “We meet every Thursday after school, usually around three thirty. It’s held in the library, although sometimes it’s moved to the classroom.”
“We?”
“I’m the faculty supervisor.”
Oh.
He feels the need to explain when I make no move to say I’ll come. “The last English teacher was responsible for it, so I agreed to take over for her when I met with her before the year started. It seemed like a passion project of hers that she wanted to see remain. It’s small, the list is only about ten people long. You should consider joining if you love to discuss books. They’re seeing if it’ll last past this semester, and if it does—” He shrugs. “—then great.”
Pressing my lips together, I glance down at my shoes. Another pair of Toms, except these are light purple cloth with a big brown button off to the side. They look handmade according to Cam. Maybe that’s why I like them so much, they’re unique like me.
Mr. Nichols brings my attention back to him. “Just think about it, okay? Your paper was very well written, and I think you’d make a great addition to the club.”
I give him a timid smile and start to turn to the door. He calls my name before I make it, causing me to glance at him once more.
His head tilts. “Which of the ones you spoke of is your favorite? I couldn’t tell.”
“My Sister’s Keeper.” He doesn’t ask why, yet I find myself explaining anyway. “I find that the books with the saddest endings are the best because it makes us feel. We don’t always get a happily ever after no matter how hard we work for it.”
I think Lo always knew that.
His smile is genuine. “Have a great weekend, Emery.”
I murmur a you too before grabbing my jacket from my locker. It’s been raining on and off throughout the week, nothing unusual for upstate New York’s early fall season. With summer fading into the distance, the transition from sunshine and warmth to clouds and cold hasn’t been a fun one. Especially not with my sensitivity to abrupt weather shifts that has me hunkering down in layers.
Dad put a small electric space heater in my room when the sixty-something temperature turned into fifty-something with the nonstop rain showers. My fingertips turned blue until I’d have to walk around with winter gloves on. Cam would frown and ask if I want the heat turned up, but nobody else has the same problem as me so I always tell her no.
The heater is a peace offering, a way to tell me that it’s okay to ask for help. I think it was Cam’s idea, though Dad must have thought it was a good one since I watched him set it up and show me the different controls on the tiny remote. When Kaiden saw it in the corner of my room, he stared with furrowed brows before leaving without a word.
When I walk outside, jacket zipped up all the way and shoes hitting the tiny puddles, I see Kaiden all alone leaning against his car. It’s new, probably made in the past few years, and a polished black. Dad mentioned he’d look into getting me my own if I wanted since Kaiden will start going to practices soon. Lacrosse doesn’t start until the spring, but he trains for the season with his friends. Dad tells me it’ll be easier if I don’t have to depend on Kaiden for rides.
Kaiden pushes off the car as I approach him. I note the empty parking lot before walking toward the passenger side of his Audi A6. Until a few days ago, I didn’t know what it was. Just that it had to cost a pretty penny. One of his jock friends, the one with moppy brown hair like Kaiden’s, was begging to take it out for a spin with his leggy girlfriend. Kaiden’s response was the usual bluntness, something about not wanting to get it back with a stained back seat. I stopped listening to the conversation after that.
Just as I’m opening the door, he taps on the top of the car. “You can’t screw Nichols, you know.”
Halting with the door half-open, I stare wide-eyed at him. His expression gives nothing away, as if stating something like that is no big deal, much less offensive.
“Excuse me?”
I think he shrugs, but the car hides his body from my view because of the height difference between us. He’s at least six foot to my five-four. Between that and the car separating us, all I see is his indifferent features.
“All the girls at school seem to think they can stay after class and flirt their way into his attention,” he rep
lies casually. “The guy seems smart enough to not fall for their tricks. I’m just saying, he won’t sleep with you.”
I’m gaping, trying to gather a reply. There’s a lot I could say, could call him, but nothing gets past my lips besides a squeaky noise that he laughs at.
“I think I’ll call you Mouse.”
“M-Mouse?”
He grins. “You’re quiet like one.”
Stunned speechless, is more like it.
“Mouse,” he repeats, nodding. He taps the hood of the car again and gestures toward the interior. “Get in, I want to go home. Got shit to do, people to see.”
Climbing in after he does, I drop my bag on the floor by my feet and buckle up. “Doesn’t seem like you like it there.”
“Doesn’t seem like that’s your business.”
I glance out the window as he pulls out of the parking space and toward the exit. “Your mom seems nice. I like her.”
No response.
“You should talk more at home.”
“Mouse isn’t a fitting nickname if you insist on talking,” he informs me, turning onto the road heading home.
My jaw ticks.
He sighs. “Cam and I have an understanding that you wouldn’t get.”
I shift toward him. “You call your mom Cam?”
He grunts.
“But she’s your mom.”
He looks at me. “You call Henry, Dad, yet I can tell you don’t want to. It bothers you to label him for what he is. That’s where you and I are different. I don’t have to call Cam anything that I don’t want to.”
Why is on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow the question. He won’t answer it. And if he does, it’ll lead to some snarky remark that I don’t have the energy to dissect, so what’s the point?
The ride home is quiet. I watch the scenery pass, the patches of evergreens and sycamores changing into developments that look identical to each other. Lo and I used to want to live in houses just like these right next to each other. Mama would tell us that it’d change when we got older because we’d be two different people, but neither of us believed it.
Mama probably wishes she could see us live out that old dream. Identical twins living in identical houses, raising families together and being happy. Coffee dates on Sundays. Our children on swings in a park somewhere. Lots of smiling and laughter.
She hasn’t called since I moved. Sometimes she’ll text me and ask how I am but when I respond, I’ll only ever get a one-word reply back. Even through the screen I can feel her sadness. It seeps into the words and I picture her typing each letter with glassy, golden eyes.
I don’t realize we’re home until Kaiden asks if I’m getting out. He doesn’t say it in a rude way, but I grab my bag and slip out of the car without so much as looking at his expression which I only assume is unreadable as ever. Sometimes it would be nice to have someone close by who gets me like Lo used to.
That’s asking too much now.
Nobody could get me like Lo did.
Chapter Three
Saturday is quiet. Dad and Cam went to a farmer’s market in the morning. I pretended to sleep so they wouldn’t ask me to go, and then listened to them leave before pulling out a book and curling under my warm blankets.
Kaiden left a little before noon, not saying a word when he saw me making a sandwich in the kitchen. He grabbed an apple and stared at the pajama shorts I wore before grabbing his keys and leaving. I went back to making lunch before closing myself in my bedroom and cranking up the heater.
Glancing at all the furniture in the room has me comparing everything to my old one. Here everything is white and gray. The bedding is white and fluffy and warm, the sheets a deep gray, the pillows a mixture of the two that match the patterned curtains. In the corner is a full-length mirror trimmed with white with dangling lights in shapes of stars. I keep them on at night in case I need to get up, that way I don’t trip on the shoes I kick off in the middle of the floor.
When I saw the stars, I immediately thought of when Lo and I begged Dad to take us out to watch the night sky. He told us once that he and Mama went stargazing on their first date. Did he put them there to remind me that he thinks about it too? How we all laughed and pointed and made up names for the constellations because none of us knew what they were called?
The room is huge, and almost everything is new. It’s the exact opposite of the one I shared with my sister. Cam said she had a lot of fun decorating it by adding canvas art on the walls with quotes and images—flowers, animals, people. Dad said she always wanted a daughter.
By midday, my body starts aching. It begins in my wrists, a telltale sign for more to come. I struggle holding my book, so I decide to rest after taking some Motrin. An hour nap only settles the pain in my elbows and shoulders, and when I try getting up for some water I cringe at the dull pang in my hips.
Pushing past the feeling, I force myself to walk out to the living room. Both Dad’s and Cam’s cars are in the driveway and I hear them talking from the backyard. When I glance out the window, I notice them in the garden together.
Since when does Dad garden?
Cam laughs and brushes dirt off Dad’s face, only smearing it worse. He smiles and says something before looking up and noticing me. Cam glances too, waving at me with a bulky beige glove covering her hand.
I open the glass door and stand at the doorway. My feet are bare, my legs exposed by my sleep shorts, and my body still sore from the oncoming flare. Instead of showing them, I give a tiny wave back.
Dad helps Cam up and helps brush dirt off her pants. He gives my attire a once-over, clearly wanting to say something. They walk to me, Cam ditching her glove and putting it on the picnic table. When they stop in front of me, Dad lets go of her hand.
He frowns at my pajamas. “Don’t you want to change into actual clothes? It’s a bit late to be wearing those.”
Instead of frowning like I want to, I tug on the hem of my tee. “I’ve just been lounging. Why bother dirtying regular clothes if I’m going to stay in all day?”
Cam pats my arm and I try not to wince at the ache radiating from my joints and muscles as she does it. “Your father and I were thinking about taking the family out to dinner tonight. How about we all get cleaned up and get ready?”
Shifting my weight, I debate on telling them I’d rather stay in. If I do that, they’ll ask questions. Dad will shove pain relievers in my hand, Cam will ask if I need to go to the hospital, and Kaiden will glower like I’m an inconvenience—like his mother’s attention toward me is pathetic.
I wonder what Cam’s eyes look like when she cries.
“Kaiden isn’t here,” is my weak attempt to back out of the dinner. Going out when I don’t feel well is too much of a hassle. Pretending to be okay for the sake of others is a draining act to an already underpaid show.
Cam waves her hand in dismissal. “He’ll meet us there. Let’s go inside. The Cantina isn’t a formal restaurant, so jeans and a blouse will be fine to wear.”
The Cantina sounds an awful lot like it serves Mexican food. Considering Dad said he did some research on my disease, something tells me dietary habits isn’t something he google searched.
I don’t say anything. Cam seems excited and Dad seems happy because Cam is, so I walk into my room and slip into a pair of black leggings and slide on a loose long sleeve shirt. Slipping into the pineapple Toms that Kaiden called ugly, I make my way back out to the living area.
Dad is cleaned up and wearing a new pair of jeans and a black button-down, like his version of casual only half exists. Cam is in a sundress with her dirty blonde hair pulled back and she looks a lot like Kaiden. Same tan complexion, same round eyes, and same plump lips. Their hair and eye color are different though, and where her features are soft and inviting, his are hard and repellant. It makes me wonder if he got his brown hair and eyes and rough personality from his father. Where is he?
Cam grabs her purse from the counter. “I know you’ll love the food, E
mery. They have the best nachos. In fact, they make everything from scratch! How many places can say they do that?”
Not many, I admit. Still, the idea of fried, spicy food has my stomach churning already. It doesn’t sound appealing, and I doubt this place has many salad options that aren’t coated in the type of stuff that’ll trigger a bigger flare.
Internally sighing, I get into the back of their car and pull out my cell from where it’s tucked under my leg. No text messages. No calls. Nothing from Mama.
I stare out my window in silence.
Grandma put a lot of money into getting me seen by dieticians to formulate a special diet that would limit any food inflammations. Honestly, it’s not a plan I follow as closely as I should. I limit the amount of dairy and gluten I eat, but cheese pizza is my weakness just like any other person, and carbs are my one true soulmate.
Mama used to make me bland meals with no taste and high iron and protein because that’s what the dietician told her to do. But I know Mama hated the food as much as me, and her on again off again employment made it hard to keep buying the type of foods that were better for me. She lost her fulltime job as a pediatric nurse because she was taking too much time off bringing me to appointments and tending to my every need.
It’s why I told her I didn’t need special organic brands or gluten free snacks or lactose free alternatives. I think she believed me because she was desperate to see the truth in it. She didn’t want to let her unemployment impact me any more than it had, but she didn’t understand my guilt over her situation.
She struggled because of me.
She hurt because of me.
Pain comes in countless forms. The worst is seeing what your suffering does to everyone around you. Mama is my biggest victim.
But I’m also hers.
When we arrive at the restaurant, I paint a bright smile on my face. Maybe I’m an artist after all. The Picasso of the modern era.
