Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Survival isn’t a skill you learn for fun.
It seeps into your bones, becomes a part of your breathing, the calculator behind every move you make.
It’s instinct, whispering constantly in the back of your mind.
A perpetual undercurrent of hunger, of need, and knowing exactly how much space you need to take up in a world that doesn’t want you there.
Mrs. Carson moves between the stacks with her cart, reshelving books. She doesn’t hover or ask questions. She just nods when our eyes meet, and sometimes leaves hot tea near my elbow when she passes. Yesterday it was Earl Gray. A small thing that costs her nothing but means everything.
All she sees is a student who reads, and not a kid who has nowhere else to go. She smiles when I check out books. Sometimes, she recommends titles. Last week it was Kerouac. Before that, Vonnegut. I’ll find them on the table with a sticky note saying ‘You might like this one.’
My notebook stays hidden beneath the cover of ‘Cannery Row.’ Inside are my real notes. Page after page of survival data. Times. Locations. Risk assessments. Everything calculated down to the smallest detail because one mistake could mean not eating for days.
Page thirty-seven has a detailed sketch of the loading dock behind Feldman’s store—the angle of the security camera, the blind spot near the dumpster, the schedule of when they throw out day-old bread.
Page forty-two maps a route from school to the factory that avoids Main Street, where people from school might recognize me, and ask questions.
Page eighteen lists which vending machines sometimes malfunction, spitting out extra change or an extra bag of chips if you hit them at the right angle.
I’ve memorized all of it, but I still write it down. Seeing it on paper makes it real.
Lunch is another careful calculation. A science of not taking too much, of being invisible when you’re stealing. One apple when the lunch lady turns to refill the salad bar. Half a roll taken from an abandoned tray. The right balance of need and discretion.
It took weeks to learn the rhythm of the school. When shifts change. Which teachers don’t notice. Who leaves food behind.
I watch. I wait. And I take only what won’t be missed.
Sometimes I catch myself doing the math—calculating calorie intake versus energy expended, weighing whether the risk of taking two pieces of fruit instead of one is worth the extra nutrition.
And then there’s her.
I catch her watching me sometimes, when she thinks I’m too absorbed in reading to notice. I can’t quite figure out why. Curiosity, maybe. It’s almost as though she’s trying to figure me out, because I don’t fit in the neat categories she’s used to.
Her eyes are a particular shade of brown that catch light differently depending on where she’s standing.
Warmer here in the library than in the cafeteria’s fluorescent glare.
She doesn’t look away when I notice her noticing me.
Most people do. They can’t hold eye contact with someone like me.
But she just tilts her head slightly, and gives me a half-smile.
It should make me nervous, and trip every alarm system I’ve built inside myself. Instead, it makes my chest feel tight in a way that has nothing to do with hunger.
Her note is still in my pocket. I didn’t know who left it at first, but she gave herself away with the way she looked at me.
Her eyes kept going to my pocket, and she smiled when she saw me in the library.
I’ve folded and refolded the note so many times the creases are starting to wear thin.
It’s a quiet invitation I haven’t answered, but I can’t bring myself to throw it away.
The paper feels alive, a constant reminder that someone actually noticed me.
The rest of the week passes without any more notes, and I tell myself it doesn’t matter.
I should forget about it, about her, and anything that isn’t directly related to survival.
But when the next note appears, slipped onto my desk before history class starts on Monday morning, my fingers move before I can stop them.
I glance around at the almost empty classroom, my heart kicking against my ribs.
No one is paying attention to me as I unfold it carefully.
The paper isn’t from a notebook, it’s thicker.
The kind used for art projects. Her handwriting is neat, but not perfect, like she took care with each letter, but couldn’t write her thoughts down fast enough.
The book you were reading in the library last week. Cannery Row. Interesting choice. Most people go for the obvious Steinbeck. Of Mice and Men or Grapes of Wrath. But Cannery Row? That’s different. That’s about people who live between the cracks, isn’t it?
Most people would ask why I spend every day in the library, or make some smartass comment about being a loner, or not having friends.
But not her. She sees the book, not the fact that I’m alone.
She’s curious about what I’m reading, not why I’m reading it by myself.
It’s such a small distinction, but it feels huge.
I read the note three more times before class starts, memorizing every loop and curve of her handwriting. The way she underlines interesting but not obvious. The slight smudge of pen ink near the question mark, like she hesitated before adding it.
I should ignore it. I shouldn’t let this become a thing. I can’t afford attachments … but my fingers are already pulling out a pen, already forming words before I can stop them.
Some stories understand what it means to survive. I don’t mean to just exist, but actually survive. Steinbeck got that. He knew the difference between living and staying alive.
I fold it up during the passing period between classes, and wait until the hallway is crowded enough that I can slip it into her locker without being obvious. My palms sweat against the paper. This is stupid. It’s dangerous. And everything I tell myself not to do.
But I do it anyway.
Her response comes the next day, tucked into the gap between the door and side of my locker. The paper is different this time, lined, and she’s added a little sketch in the corner. A lighthouse, standing against dark waves that crash against its base.
There is a difference between surviving and living. But his characters didn’t just survive. They found ways to live despite everything. They built communities in the cracks, and found joy in small things. What do you know about it? About the difference?
The words burn. They’re not an accusation or filled with pity. She’s asking a question as though she really wants to know my thoughts on it.
I stare at the note for longer than I should, tracing the lighthouse with my finger. The drawing is simple. The lighthouse isn’t perfect. Its lines are slightly uneven, its base wider than it should be, but it stands despite the waves crashing against it.
During study hall, I write my reply.
Survival isn’t a choice. It’s what happens when the world gives you nothing else. When every moment is about working out what you can afford to lose. Communities are luxuries. Joy is a distraction.
Distractions get you hurt.
I almost don’t give it to her. The words expose more than I mean to. But she asked, and something in me can’t deny her the truth.
Her reply is waiting for me when I go to my locker at the end of the day. This time, the lighthouse is larger, more detailed.
Sometimes survival looks like hope. Even when everything else looks like darkness. The characters in Cannery Row didn’t just survive because they had to. They survived because they found reasons to. They found people worth surviving for.
I don’t know what to do with that. With her.
With this odd dance of words we’re playing.
Her notes make me think about things I can’t afford to consider.
She’s asking me to imagine more. To want more.
But wanting more is how you get broken in the first place.
It gives you something to lose, and I’ve built my entire existence around having nothing anyone can take away from me.
But her words stay with me.
They found people worth surviving for.
I slip the note into my pocket with the others. Three now, all folded together. A small weight I’m aware of through every class, every hour of the day.
I’m still thinking about her words when everything shifts.
The hair on the back of my neck rises, survival instincts kicking in before I consciously register what’s wrong.
The hallway feels different. The noise has dropped slightly, not enough for most people to notice, but enough to trigger every inner alarm I’ve learned to trust. Bodies shift, creating space where there shouldn’t be any.
Eyes cut sideways, watching for something they know is coming.
My ribs ache from last night’s sleep on concrete. My stomach has been empty since yesterday’s stolen apple. The lights overhead are too bright, making my head throb. So, of course, today will be the day Dan Hartman decides to target me.
Dan Hartman is the kind of guy who smells blood in the water. A stereotypical jock, captain of the football team, popular, loud, good looking. And a bully. He’s clever about it though.
I’ve watched him work over the past few weeks. The way he picks his targets—always someone alone, who won’t fight back. The casual shoulder check in the hallway. The books knocked off a desk. The cruel laughter disguised as a joke. He knows exactly how far he can push before a teacher notices.
I recognize the look in his eyes. The need to prove something by breaking something else. I’ve seen that look before. On different faces, but always the same hunger underneath.
The hallway turns into a minefield. Whispers ricochet off lockers. Stares burn against my skin. Students wait for something to happen.