EMILY DICKINSON
In the morning I trudge down the hall to second period, missing being at home in my pj’s with Hitch. Morning person I am not.
“What’s up?” Chatham asks, ignoring my crossed arms and clenched jaw as he slides into the seat next to me in English class.
I can’t deal with Chatham’s enthusiasm today. The bags under my eyes prove it. I spent most of the night tossing and turning and second-guessing myself about when and how to confront Mom. “Why are you so happy?” I shoot back.
“Well, let’s see. The sun’s shining.” He looks around the room. “And you should be happy too. You get to sit beside the hottest guy in class.”
“Oh, where is he?” I glance around the room, fighting back the smile already pulling at my lips. Chatham’s currently the only boy in the room. Most of Ms. Ringgold’s students will come sliding in seconds before her and the tardy bell. Since I don’t have any distractions, aka friends, in the hallway, I’m usually the first person here.
When I peek out from behind my hair, Chatham’s beaming.
“Okay. Maybe not the hottest but . . . the funniest?”
I raise a skeptical brow without meeting his eyes. Seated, I’m eye level with his chest and snug T-shirt. I try not to stare.
“You like it?” He pulls the prewashed cotton away from his chest.
My cheeks burn. “Yeah, ha-ha.” I smile, pointing at the water glass on the front of his shirt and the handwritten notes out to the side labeling the water at the halfway mark and the air at the full mark. The inscription under the glass reads Technically, the glass is always full.
From what I’ve seen of Chatham, that could be his motto. Some people see the liquid and think half full. Others see only the air and think half empty. Sometimes I get the sense Chatham sees it all, which is kind of terrifying. I don’t know if I want him to see me—the real me.
“I’ve been studying the notes you gave me on those American authors.” He wags his pencil at me. “I’m going to blow your mind this afternoon.”
My stomach drops like a deep-sea anchor. I forgot I told him I’d tutor him again today. I open my mouth, but before I can formulate an excuse, Ms. Ringgold breezes into the room carrying a lopsided pot overflowing with purple violets. She adds the flowers to the row of healthy plants already crammed on the windowsill as the rest of the class scurries in behind her. The cheery plants match the spring in her step.
Maddie and a friend sashay past my desk, whispering behind cupped hands. I fiddle with my ring binder, turning pages, pretending I’ve misplaced my notes.
Ms. Ringgold walks to the back of the room to shut the door as Ayla darts in. Even with blue paint splattered on her white eyelet tank and a smudge on her forehead, Ayla looks confident. She’s comfortable under the spotlight or blending in with the scenery. In fact, I can’t imagine her being awkward anywhere. And I’m starting to think she’s super talented too. I saw a self-portrait of her displayed beside the counseling office. From a distance, it looks like a charcoal sketch. When you get closer, you realize it’s a collage. The whole thing is made out of symbolic words clipped from newspapers and magazines. I can’t even imagine how she thought of something so original. It belongs in the North Carolina Museum of Art, not North Ridge High School.
Ms. Ringgold clears her throat. “Since I’ve been out, we have lots of catching up to do for the test on Monday.”
The guys sitting in the back row grumble.
“We missed you, Ms. Ringgold.” Maddie flashes her syrupy smile.
“I missed you guys too.” Ms. Ringgold walks toward the group of boys in the back, patting Chatham on the shoulder as she passes.
“Even me?” Derek, the football player I was supposed to be partners with, asks. Several people laugh.
He is obnoxious in the history class we have together. He questions the teacher on everything. I’m pretty sure the boy could argue with a stop sign. With Ms. Ringgold, it’s different. He jokes around with her but never messes with her in a disrespectful way.
“But you know my motto: family first.” She flashes Derek a smile but ignores his question. Instead, she closes the Sports Illustrated on his desk without giving him a hard time or threatening to assign detention and heads back toward the front of the room. “Sean needed me yesterday.” She points to a picture on her desk of a smiling boy with almond-shaped eyes and a round, flattish face. “He was running a fever and wanted his mommy.”
I swallow hard, looking down at my hands. Ms. Ringgold’s son obviously has Down syndrome. That has to be tough—way tougher than epilepsy. At least no one can look at me and see my disability. But she tells us how much fun they had watching old cartoons like it’s no big deal and paraphrases Katharine Hepburn—something about “if you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun.”
“Let’s forget about the test and focus on the fun,” Derek jokes, tossing her words back at her.
“No can do.” She smiles, passing study guides to the kids seated at the front of each row.
The next forty-five minutes fly faster than the pages on Ms. Ringgold’s slideshow. The only sound in the room when she stops talking is the psychotic scribbling of thirty-something pens as we finish filling in a graphic organizer with the characteristics of every American period of literature from colonialism to modernism.
When the bell rings, Chatham reminds me to meet him in the media center after school for tutoring. I should object, but I don’t. How much harm could one more study session cause? Plus, if I kill some time with him after school, that’s less awkwardness at home with Mom. I still need to talk to her at some point, but last night was kind of . . . fun. Kind of like the old days.
And I dread squashing our tender shoot of new growth.
Weaving my way toward the door, I squeeze by Ms. Ringgold’s desk. She and Maddie are deep in conversation. I try to ignore them, but Maddie talks so loudly that I’m pretty sure she wants me to hear her announcement. She even pauses to make eye contact with me before continuing what she was saying to Ms. Ringgold. “I knew you’d want to know I was selected for the Yale Law School Camp.”
“Oh, Maddie. That’s great. You’ll be perfect for that.” Ms. Ringgold pulls her in for a hug.
I don’t know Maddie that well, but it’s pretty obvious Ms. Ringgold is right. The girl has strong opinions, she’s not afraid to share them, and she seems pretty determined to get her way. I can totally see her swaying juries, maybe even judges.
When I finally make it to the noisy hall, Ayla and Jules stand outside the door talking. They pause when I join them.
“Hey, Emilie. I hear you’re thinking of joining lit mag.” Under the double rows of fluorescent lights, smiling at me, Jules practically glows with her purple hair and pale skin.
“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it.” Which is not a lie. I have been thinking about it. I’m just not ready to make any more commitments or connections right now.
Ayla glances at the time on her phone. The bell will ring in a minute or two. “Jules, don’t forget to find out how many cans we’ve collected for the canned-food drive.”
“On it.” Jules squints like she’s making a mental note, taps her temple with a shiny black fingernail, and scurries off toward the main rotunda.
Ayla tugs me in the opposite direction. Our next classes are beside each other at the far end of the hall. “And don’t you forget, Miss Renaissance Girl—who is a wealth of knowledge in all things literary, arts and entertainment, and history and politics—that you promised to help me with my writing this weekend.”
“On it.” I squint and tap my temple, copying Jules and wondering what’s happening to me. In some ways it feels like the most natural thing in the world to hang out with Ayla and Jules and Chatham. In other ways I feel like the biggest imposter on the face of the planet. Take the whole Miss Renaissance Girl thing, for example. Ayla, Katsu, and Chatham think I’m some kind of genius, as if I’ve made a life of some scholarly pursuits. The truth of the matter is I know all this stuff because I’ve spent so many hours holed up with the TV and hiding with my nose in a book.
Ayla and I part ways at my next class. I take a deep breath. As I enter the room, questions swirl in my head. I slide into my seat wondering—am I Renaissance Girl? Or Imposter Girl? Or someone else completely? Do I want to fit in or fade out?
Who am I?