Page 10 of Written in the Oceans

Me:I just got to class. I should be done by about 3. What’s up?

Claire:Nothing. I just wanted to see if you wanted to hang out after.

Me:Yeah, that sounds good. I think I could use a little pick me up today.

Claire:Happy hour?

A smiley-face emoji follows.

Me:I guess. Only cause it’s you.

Claire:Better be only for me! Ok, text me when you get out of class then.

I respond with a thumbs-up emoji before sliding my phone to my back pocket. I smile at our exchange. While heavy alcoholic consumption has never been my preference, I know a small chat with Claire will temporarily lift my spirits.

My toes wiggle into the linoleum floor, and my eyes fixate on a small hole that’s starting to appear at the edges of my canvas shoes. I lift my head up as my professor breathlessly jogs to the door to our classroom and unlocks it with an armful of papers and a stained paper coffee mug.

“Sorry, guys. Just running a bit behind today,” he explains over his shoulder as he enters the room and flicks on the lights.

I slowly find my unofficially assigned seat towards the back of the auditorium and get settled. The familiar faces of students start to trickle in, and we all silently take our seats. This is my last class of the day and usually takes me into the afternoon, leaving me drained and tired by the end of it.

“Have you looked at the study guide?” a breathless voice whispers to me. Austin, the one classmate I managed to make friends with, sits in the empty seat next to mine and looks at me with worried eyes.

“Yeah, I tried for a bit, but nothing’s really sticking.”

“Okay, I thought it was just me. And I don’t even understand half the stuff he talks about.”

Austin is a senior, just like me. We bonded over our hatred for this class and everything that involved statistics. Still, it’s been nice to have an ally while working through distribution models and endless hypothesis testing.

“I think he’s going to go over some of the questions today,” I say in an attempt to provide some reassurance. “If not, they have some tutoring sessions available at the learning annex.”

“I think I might have to attend one of those. You want to go with me? Next week? Maybe we can both get some help.”

“Uh, yeah. I’m sure I can use it.”

We set up our laptops as our professor turns on his and begins his lesson for the day. I sit quietly with the screen brightly lit in front of me, clicking away at the keyboard and struggling to follow along. My attention wavers in and out, catching only glimpses of whatever our professor is writing furiously on the whiteboard. He’s so animated, eagerly answering every question and passionately describing the material in minute detail.

I continue to see Austin to my right peering at the screen of my laptop to see if my notes look any better than his. Mine are sparse, barely getting the important markers that are highlighted on the projector. I continue to sit through my class while occasionally glancing at the clock hanging at the front of the auditorium, willing it to move faster.

When I look again at the large dials moving at a snail’s pace, it’s 1:46 p.m. More than an hour left. I resist the urge to bury my face into my hands and try to focus on the notes. I guess I actually will be needing that tutoring session.

FIVE

ELLIE

My drive to work the next morning is gloomy. The fog lingering along the empty roads is shrouding my vision as I drive slowly but make it in time for my early shift. After happy hour with Claire followed by a restless night of going back and forth from TV to overdue homework, I pulled myself out of bed this morning with a large amount of will on my end.

When I enter the store, the copper bell hanging from the door handle jingles, announcing my arrival. I’m greeted by the drifting scent of stale books and fresh coffee. The latter, which I assume, is coming from the Styrofoam Dunkin’ Donuts cup sitting next to Mrs. Le on the glass counter.

“Good morning, Mrs. Le.” I wave towards my boss, a middle-aged Vietnamese woman whose love for literature convinced her to open a small local bookstore some twenty years ago. I’ve always loved this place. The Cottage Bookstore, aptly named after the street it’s located on, sits in a busy strip mall that’s frequented by locals and popular amongst angsty teens looking to get away from their parents. As a teenager myself, I used to beg my mom to drop me off and leave me there for hours on end. Any excuse to get out of the house. I would usually settle into a small corner after having collected a stack of novels ranging from romance to psychological thrillers. Now, my weekends are spent working here, stocking books rather than buying them.

“Good morning, Ellie.” She smiles sweetly at me. “There’s a new shipment in the back. Do you think you could stock those before you take over the register?”

I nod. “Sure.”

I walk myself to the back storage room and open one of the boxes stacked against the nearest wall. The first book sitting snugly, nestled right on top in the packed box, isThe Perks of Being a Wallflowerby Stephen Chbosky, one of my favorites. I frequently have to stop myself from reading books I find in the store, reminding myself that I am an employee and no longer just a customer.

“Umph!” Unable to actually lift it, I drag the box out towards the sales floor and begin sifting through to organize it alphabetically. A calming quiet fills the store while I sink into a comfortable routine, shelving book after book with the smooth classical music playing off of Mrs. Le’s small speaker system situated behind the counter.

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