Page 34 of This I Know
She’s left for work.
An oversized, white bowl has been set in a pristine position atop a placement on the table. It’s full of cereal. A gallon of milk sits beside it, still cold.
That was nice of her. Maybe I won’t start something with her after all. But she can’t keep doing that to me. I need my sleep. Iama recovering girl.
There’s enough time to eat my breakfast slowly and in peace, so I do just that. I set my phone next to my bowl, lying flat, and I scan through my notifications between bites. I already have two texts from Mara, which doesn’t surprise me.
She’s complaining about her parents forcing her to get to school early to work with a study group.
I take the last few bites of my cereal, then tip the bowl back and drink the milk, enjoying the complete, wonderful freedom that is home.
Mara’s parents are like that, so there’s no easy response to her texts. When they learned she was getting a C in math on her midterm, shit hit the fan. They grounded her for a few days, then told her the only way she could getun-grounded was to join a study group. To Mara, that was practically equal to torture.
It’s the little things like that that make me thankful for my mom. She may barge in on me at some horrible hours of dawn, but at least she would never make me do something like that.
I type her a quick reply telling her to hang on, I’m on my way and I’ll meet her at school. Not that I’ll be able to help her, really; if I leave now, I’ll be right in time for class. But we might be able to see each other for a minute and exchange a famous Mara-Avery hug before we have to go our separate ways.
My cereal is done and I set it in the sink. Then I grab my purse and head for the door, making sure to pick up my keys from the counter. I peek through the hazy glass of the kitchen window before I leave, trying to gauge the weather. Despite the earliness of the day, it’s already so sunny and clear that I can almost sense the warmth. A pair of birds are singing in the olive tree closest to the porch, and I our neighbor peacefully revvs up his car for work.
All good signs.
It seems like I don’t even need a light jacket, and the sunshine always lifts my spirits.
I place my hand on the door’s handle and before I open it, I pause and cross my free fingers at my side. I say a silent prayer that on this sunny day, finally, things will go my way.
Turns out, that little prayer of mine may have actually worked.
While I’ve been going through what felt like a series of cursed days and felt like I might lose it, today’s nice.
It’s calm.
Dare I say, it’s almost back to normal.
Mara and I did get to share that hug, one quick, communicative pat in the hallway. It was quick, it was inspirational, and before I knew it, we were forced to go our separate ways.
So now I run through my usual routine of collecting my things from my locker and meeting up with some friends for lunch until, finally, it’s time for Chemistry. I try not to dread the butterflies that always accompany this period since Ethan joined, but it doesn’t matter. Even when I given them no attention, they don’t leave.
And when I finally do see him in all his sickeningly perfect glory, it makes everything worse. He walks in with a commanding presence, holding his books down by his hip. He’s beautiful, and his arms are veiny, as though he’s just worked out hard, and his skin has a hint of a tan, too. His hair slightly sticking to his forehead in some areas, like he just came from gym class, and his choice of sandals are as carefree and relaxed as his baggy sweatpants.
Tired. That’s it. He looks tired.
I can relate.
I take my usual seat, and the moment my butt hits the chair, the girl sitting to my right opens her mouth. She’s never before said one word to me, but her instant conversation is a pleasant surprise.
“I’m Hannah.” She holds out a perfectly manicured hand.
I shake it.
“Avery.”
“Avery. I know. I’ve heard about you.”
I cringe. “Oh … you have.”You have.I don’t say it as a question, because what’s there to ask? She has. Nothing I can do about it.
“Mm-hmm.”
She answered it like a question.
