EMILY DICKINSON
I hate Mondays. I skipped breakfast because I stayed in bed with Hitch for too long. Our school lunch is unreasonably early, so I barely nibbled on the imitation cafeteria food. By the time school ends, I’m starving and my stomach’s growling. I glance around the media center to make sure the handful of kids studying or using the computers don’t hear it and remind myself to eat something—anything—for dinner. I tell myself to load up on veggies and hummus like Ayla. No matter how hectic my new schedule, I can’t afford to skip meals. Bad eating habits can interfere with the effectiveness of my meds. Dr. Wellesley and my neurologist would flip if they knew I wasn’t making nutrition a priority.
For the twentieth time I peek at the clock above the checkout desk, wondering if Chatham’s going to stand me up. He’s seven minutes late.
Maybe he won’t show. We took our literary time periods test this morning, and he was grinning from ear to ear when he walked out of Ms. Ringgold’s room. Maybe he realized he doesn’t need my help after all.
I check my phone again to see if he texted me. Nothing. If he’s not here in three minutes, I’m leaving.
I shuffle my notes on postmodern literature, trying to look busy, which is pointless, as I’m pretty invisible to most everyone at this school. I should be happy. A couple of weeks ago, I would rather have died than be here. Now, I’m not so sure. I still think it’s better to keep my connections to a minimum. If Chatham fades out of the picture, that only leaves Ayla to explain my departure to, and I’m pretty sure I still want a departure.
When I glance at my phone again, I see a missed-call notification from Mom. My hands tighten like fists. Last night, an unfamiliar number popped up on her phone again.
“Who is it?” I asked, sounding way less concerned than my insides felt.
“Wrong number,” she answered without much thought.
“You’ve been getting a lot of those,” I said without trying to hide the edge to my voice.
Her head snapped toward me. Our eyes locked. My stomach tightened, warning me to proceed with caution, but I barreled right ahead.
“You seem to have a lot of new stuff going on in your life lately,” I hedged.
“What does that mean, Emilie?” She enunciated each word carefully.
“It’s just an observation, Mom.”
Tense silence draped every molecule of oxygen in the room. She blew on her chai tea and started to take a sip.
“And then, you know, there’re also the manicure and sundress . . .”
She paused mid-sip, peering at me through the steam rising from her cup.
“. . . and Dad’s clothes all boxed up in the closet.” The words came out all jumbled together in one incomprehensible mess.
She struggled to swallow, then carefully placed her cup on the table. “First of all, Emilie, I am an adult and your mother. I do not have to explain myself. But I will, because I love you. Some things are changing around here—your school for one. Change is not always fun, but it is a part of life.”
When she started quoting Dr. Wellesley, I gritted my teeth and tuned her out.
I’m not buying it. Something’s up. The thought that she might be interested in someone—a man other than my father—makes me squirm in my seat. The only good thing that came out of my little confrontation was she was eager for the change of subject when I also brought up applying to North Ridge’s online-learning program. She said we’d discuss it at the end of the three-month trial period, which was an improvement from the last time I brought up taking virtual classes.
Two minutes since the last time I looked at the clock, the media specialist announces that students should begin making their final checkouts. I take that as my cue to tuck my papers into my backpack and head for the door. I’m texting Mom to tell her I finished early when a familiar gray T-shirt that reads Dare to Soar in front of a picture of the Wright Brothers on Jockey’s Ridge stops me in my tracks. The air whooshes from my lungs.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” Chatham smiles down at me. “Don’t leave.”
“Oh . . . I . . . uh.” I bite my lip. I sound like Dad’s bad Elmer Fudd imitation.
Chatham guides me back to one of the empty tables in the center of the library. “Coach Carnes stopped me in the hall,” he explains as he unzips the messenger bag slung across his chest. “He wanted to know about my English grade. I told him ‘No worries—I have a tutor now. I’ll definitely be eligible.’” The table squeaks when he drops his heavy bag onto it.
The media specialist scowls down her nose at us.
Chatham pulls out a rectangular package wrapped in papers from the funnies section of the Sunday paper. The gift is sealed with enough tape to secure two or three Christmas presents. He places it on the table in front of me.
“What is it?” I ask, sitting with my hands folded in my lap under the table, uncertain. What do I say? I haven’t exactly been showered with gifts from hot guys in the past.
He laughs. “Open it. I found it at The Potter’s House.” He pushes the package toward me. “My mom and I volunteer there twice a month.”
I don’t know what surprises me more: the fact that Chatham York bought me a present or the fact that he volunteers with his mom at a thrift store for battered women and children.
I slip a finger under a loose piece of tape, tearing back a corner of paper, expecting a toy snake or something to pop out and scare me. But it’s not a joke. It’s an old book. I peel back the rest of the paper to reveal the title: Collected Poems of American Authors.
I’m speechless.
He leans across the table to inspect the book with me.
Careful not to crack the brittle spine, I open the front cover. Inscribed in Chatham’s blocky handwriting on the first page is a Walt Whitman quote: Keep your face always toward the sunshine—and shadows will fall behind you.
“I thought you’d like it,” he says. A flash of doubt flickers in his eyes before being replaced by the confident spark I’ve come to recognize.
“I love it.” I concentrate on enunciating each syllable to cover the shakiness in my voice. “But you didn’t have to buy me anything.” I thumb through the old book in an effort to avoid his eyes.
“I know I didn’t have to.” He pauses, resting his elbows on the table. “I wanted to.”
Suddenly I’m on high alert. Chatham’s normally in constant motion. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him sit so still. When he moves his hand across the table toward mine, I freeze. There isn’t much physical contact in my life. Dad was the touchy-feely one in the family—always hugging me and Mom and rubbing my back after a seizure.
I want to meet Chatham halfway, but I promised myself I’d be careful—keep my distance. I feel like reaching out would be compromising my principles, crossing some invisible line in the sand. Plus, I can’t stand the thought of Mom or Dr. Wellesley smiling at me with their smug I-told-you-so-Emilie smiles.
Instinct tells me to run while I can—that I’m about to be in over my head, about to be sucked out to sea in an undertow, about to drown. If I stick around too long, I’ll make a fool of myself. It’s inevitable. I need to escape with my dignity while I have a chance. So I just sit there like a lump of petrified driftwood on the beach. I want to run, but my feet feel like lead bricks.
I want to touch his hand, but I don’t know how to reach out.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
He pushes his chair back, coming around to my side of the table and pulling me to my feet. His hands rest on my hips. When I look up at him, the left side of his mouth creeps up in a mischievous smile.
I slip one tentative arm around his waist, inhaling the smell of him—soap, oranges, and boy. I’m in heaven with my head against his chest. If people are watching, I don’t know, because the entire library has blurred and faded into the background, like some special effect in a movie. I pray for time to stop right now while I’m wrapped safely in Chatham’s arms. Despite all my promises to myself to keep my distance, I’m tired of bobbing around alone in the ocean, about to capsize. I want to grab on to Chatham like a life preserver.
He leans down, his mouth so close his breath tickles the sensitive skin in front of my ear. “Let’s do something this weekend.” His lips brush my earlobe.
I pull back, confused. “Like . . . like a date?” I ask, untangling myself from his arms.
The librarian steps out from behind the counter. She’s wearing a disgusted “I’m about to write you up for PDA” face. Chatham smiles at her sheepishly. “Sorry, ma’am,” he apologizes, and the woman retreats.
How does he do that?
He studies my face and nods, like he’s just made an important decision. “Yeah. Like a date.”
“Um . . .” This stuttering thing is getting out of hand. Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes, my heart begs. But as usual, my brain steps in to protect me from myself. “I, uh . . . I . . . My mom said something about family day this weekend.” Lame, my heart screams. That’s the best you can do?
“I’m flexible.” He grabs my finger, wiggling my arm. “Let’s climb Bodie Island Lighthouse.”
I squirm free, my chest tightening at the thought of climbing anything higher than the steps to our front deck. It’s too risky. What if I seize? “I don’t think I can. I actually have to get going.”
“But we didn’t even have time to study.”
“Sorry.” I grab the poetry book and scraps of paper off the table. “It’s too late to get started now. The media center’s closing in a few minutes.”
His face falls. “What about another day this week?”
“I’ll let you know tomorrow.” I press my lips into what’s supposed to be a smile. “Okay?”
I don’t wait for an answer, turning to go, hurrying past the onlookers who’ve been gawking at us. When the media center door closes behind me, I groan. It’s been eighty-something days since I’ve seized. Maybe I should just take a leap of faith and say yes.