Page 35 of The Glass Girl

“Oh my god,” I say, the dish towel falling from my hands. “My paper. Mypaper.”

I rush out of the kitchen and into our bedroom. Rip my folder out of my backpack and grab the syllabus for lit. Tomorrow. Ten typed pages bytomorrow.I grab my copy ofWild.

I still have like a hundred pages to read, but I can’t quite remember what or how far I read on Sunday, when I fell asleep in bed.Shitshitshit.

I feel like crying, but I can’t. I look at my phone. Ten-forty. I can do this. I can do this. I only have one more day of school and then a break and I can rest. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

Wednesday

I’m so tired Ican barely keep my eyes open in algebra. We’re just doing problem-solving games in an app on our laptops, since we’re off the next two days for Thanksgiving, but the equations swim around on the screen.

In English lit, I have to clear my throat twice before Mr. Deavers turns to me. He’s writing poetry quotes on the whiteboard. I shift uncomfortably from foot to foot, wondering if everyone is staring at my back.

“Yes?” he says. He never smiles. It’s always like he looks right through us, especially the girls.

As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.

That’s how Mr. Deavers makes me feel. Like I’m something small and insignificant.

“Hello? Can I help you, Miss Leahey?” He sounds annoyed.

“I…,” I say. “I need a library pass.”

“And, pray tell, whatfor?” He draws it out, like he’s some fancy Shakespearean actor or something.

“Our paper, for today. My dad didn’t have any printer paper, so I couldn’t print it out last night and I need a library pass so I can go right now and print my paper in the library and bring it to you. Since you don’t take stuff on the portal.”

“Yeah, man, save the trees, for god’s sake, let us turn stuff in online,” someone says.

Mr. Deavers looks around. “Who said that?”

Silence.

He puts one hand on his hip and tilts his head at me. “Miss Leahey.”

I wait.

“You’ve had your syllabus since day one of this class. You’ve had plenty of time to prepare and print out your paper so that you can hand it intodayin this class.”

“I just need a pass so I can go print it out right now and come back and give it to you.”

“No, you can’t, because we have a quiz, or did you forget that, too? Honestly, why do I even make a syllabus if you aren’t going toread it?”

My brain says:To be a giant asshole?

My heart says:Well, I have to agree on that one.

He lets out a giant sigh and shakes his head. Puts the whiteboard marker on his desk and pulls out the drawer. Hauls out a pen like it’s the most inconvenient thing ever and starts filling in the library pass.

“Very well, Miss Leahey. You’ll have to do this over your lunch hour and then bring it right to me. Here’s the pass in case you’re late for your class after lunch. Points off the paper for lateness. Take your seat.”

There are fifty questions on the quiz and I can’t focus on any of them. I can’t remember what Juliet’s characterization in act 4, scene 2 is. All I know is Romeo and Juliet wanted to be together, the nurse was helpful, and they died in the end and were probably better off for it.

I’ve got nothing left.

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In art, I’m smudging some tree branches on my drawing as Ms. Green wanders among our easels, checking work and making comments. She’s wearing a floaty green floor-length skirt and a cool pink velvet blazer. I start to tense up as she gets closer to me. I feel bad about slapping the desk yesterday, but I also feel like she could have cut us some slack. It doesn’t seem fair that we have to use laptops to submit work at home, but if something goes wrong, it’s all our fault. I mean, my dad’s Wi-Fi is crappy, though it usually works, but what about those kids who maybe don’t even haveanyWi-Fi? Like when we all had to stay at home for a year and a half and Cherie had to walk down the street with her mask on and sit in the Burger King parking lot for six hours to use their Wi-Fi just to log on for class?

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