Page 112 of The Thought of You

Owen’s whistle from the other side of the gym makes me cringe, and the echo of it doesn’t immediately wane as it normally does.

The distraction takes me a second to gather my wits and remember the lesson I have planned. I’ve already done this three times today. I shouldn’t have any trouble successfully completing it a fourth.

“What do you make of the narrator’s specific details and hypersensitivity to his surroundings in the scene?” I pose.

Thankfully, the students do a wonderful job of discussing the complexity of Poe’s character as they dissect and analyze pieces of the short story.

One student raises a hand and asks, “Does this guy have a name? I don’t remember reading one.”

“Excellent observation,” I say. “He does not give a name in the story. Do you think it’s a deliberate choice? If so, why?”

I take a seat as they bounce ideas back and forth regarding the universal relatability of a character with no name, while some students argue it was a lazy choice to leave out the name.

At one point, their conversation is lost in the game Owen’s leading, and my stomach squeezes. I don’t know how long I remain frozen as the room spins around me.

“Lockhart?”

When I glance over, my head moves in slow motion, and my eyes don’t immediately focus on Owen.

“Hey, are you okay?” He kneels in front of me, one comforting hand on my knee.

“I, um, don’t know.” I slowly blink, my eyelids heavy.

“What exactly are you feeling?”

I wrap my arm around my stomach and take a deep breath, but it does nothing to settle the increasing nausea threatening to commandeer my body. “I’m going to throw up.”

“Now?”

“I’m going to throw up,” I repeat more emphatically and use his shoulders for balance to help me stand.

With his assistance, I reach the locker rooms just in time.

I collapse onto my knees in one stall and hurl this morning’s breakfast into the toilet, tears streaming down my face as my stomach clenches in agony.

Owen calls out to me from the entrance of the locker room, but I barely comprehend his muffled words over the throbbing in my temples.

Torture. This is absolute freaking torture.

I slump against the wall of the stall, and my lungs squeeze as I fight for breath. Several minutes pass before my pulse finally steadies, and the nausea subsides.

I press my back into the wall and hoist myself onto my feet, straighten my sweater, and blow the hair out of my face. Once I wash my hands and touch up the smeared mascara in the corner of my eye, I exit the locker room, dragging my feet like I just got off a ten-hour flight.

And when I pause, it’s not because I can’t walk any farther. It’s because Owen is addressing my class. His own class is alternating between running up and down the bleachers and shooting free throws.

I’m within earshot, but he doesn’t immediately notice me.

He points to Mia. “You said this song is so bouncy and catchy, but it’s actually really sad. Most of us would agree, yes?”

Some students don’t move or otherwise respond, but many others nod.

“Why do you think Taylor put such a fast-paced tune to sad lyrics? Why the juxtaposition?” Owen asks my class as I study the scene.

What exactly is going on here?

Students look left and right at one another as if looking for answers written on their foreheads.

“Could it be because it’s yet another way she’s doing this with a broken heart? It’s in the lyrics, right?” Owen poses. “She puts on a happy façade, like the song, but she’s also sad inside.”

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