Chapter 9 #2
“Geez, are you kidding me?!” Mrs. Rivers randomly remarked as she placed her book down for a second. She stared out with the blankest of stares. Grumbled some. Then grumbled some more before picking up the book again.
That was how I knew a book was amazing—when it pissed you off so much, but you couldn’t help but want to know what happened next.
That afternoon, Mrs. Rivers was more animated about her novel than ever before.
At one point within the span of five minutes, she went from slamming the book down, to picking it back up, to laughing, to having tears streaming down her face.
That was enough to make me curious. Anything that could move a person to that many emotions within the span of five minutes deserved to be read by all of humankind.
“That good?” I asked as I stared at my teary-eyed teacher.
She closed the book and held it to her chest. “That good.” She smiled.
“What’s even crazier is this is my fifth time reading it.
I read it every few years to see how much I have changed.
That’s the wild thing about books. They hold different meanings to a person based solely on the individual’s current state of affairs.
When I read this in my thirties, it didn’t mean as much to me as it does now in my sixties.
Words are powerful that way. It’s my favorite book.
It’s been my favorite book for decades, and each decade it has become my favorite for different reasons. ”
I gave her a half-smile.
I’d never read a book more than once, but I’d wished before that I could read certain books for the first time again.
Mrs. Rivers glanced down at the book, then up toward me. She stood from her desk, walked over to me, and then placed the book on my desk. “Here you go, Karla.”
I arched an eyebrow. “What? But you aren’t done reading it yet.”
“Yeah, but I already know how it ends, and I have two other copies at my house that I can finish reading. I think you should know how it ends, too. Then we can talk about it later on during our lunchtimes. My gut is just telling me that you should read it.”
I picked up the cover and stared at it, reading the title. “The Upside to You,” I said out loud. I narrowed my eyes. “It’s a romance novel?”
“No,” she corrected. “It’s a love story.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“No,” she disagreed with a shake to her head. “You see, both types of books have love in them, but a romance novel always has a happily ever after. But a love story? Well, not every love story ends with a happily ever after—no matter how much you wish they would.”
I was confused. “You mean to tell me that your favorite book ever doesn’t even end with a happily ever after?”
“Nope. Not one in sight for the couple.”
“And it’s still your favorite?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
What was the point of love if it didn’t come with happily ever afters?
“Maybe there wasn’t a happy ending . . .
” Mrs. Rivers looked down at the diamond on her ring finger and spun it around with her other hand.
“But oh, how the middle of the story was filled with so much love.” She kept staring at the ring on her finger as if she’d lost herself in a memory that felt too private for me to ask about.
She shook herself from her thoughts and then pressed out a smile toward me. “Anyway, if you hate it, you hate it. But if you love it . . . well . . . join the club.”
“I’ve never read a romance book. I’m more into scary or horror books.”
“Oh, trust me, Karla. Romance can be horrifyingly scary.”
Before I could reply, the bell rang, bringing an end to our conversation and lunch period.
I gathered my things, thanked Mrs. Rivers, and headed out of the classroom to my next class.
Having a safe place to go during the day for lunch was something I really needed.
Even though I couldn’t escape school anymore to go spend time with Mom, at least once a day I didn’t worry about being bullied by other students or feeling as if I was being judged and stared at for the way I looked.
Mrs. Rivers gave me a break from being me.
Also, Mrs. Rivers didn’t treat me like I was different, which I liked. She treated me like she treated all her students—as if she cared. I had no doubt in my mind that she’d allow any student into her classroom for lunch if they needed her.
That meant more to me than she’d ever know. It meant so much that I was actually considering reading a romance—er, a love story.
As I walked into the hallway, I kept my head down to avoid making eye contact with anyone.
Instead, I studied their shoes and how fast they moved around me as I took my time limping through the hallways.
When the accident first happened, I thought I’d be pretty quick to recover.
I’d watched a lot of videos of people who were in car crashes and had even worse injuries, and they recovered in remarkable time.
I thought my journey would be like that. I thought I’d heal.
Instead, I just stayed . . . broken. Sure, physical therapy exercises helped, but the constant pain seemed to be my new normal. That was a hard pill to swallow.
Speaking of pills, I forgot my pain medicine in my locker.
Crap.
I paused my footsteps and looked down the hallway in the opposite direction that I’d come from. The bell was going to ring any second for me to be in my biology class, but I knew I couldn’t go the next hour without my pain meds. It would throw off my whole day.
I glanced at the classroom I’d been standing next to. Room 210. My locker was downstairs and around two corners.
It would take the average student probably 60 steps if they dashed to their locker from my current location.
It would take me at least 205.
I grumbled to myself as I turned around and started toward the staircase.
I held a few of my schoolbooks tightly against my chest as I walked, because I liked to have things in my hands to fidget with.
It kept my anxiety at bay sometimes. Maybe Ash was the same way, with whatever he fidgeted with in his pocket.
The more I watched him, the more I wondered what it was that he had in his sweatshirt.
I didn’t have enough nerve to ask yet. It didn’t seem like any of my business.
As I stepped onto the first step of the stairs, three students came rushing past me, pushing me against the railing and making my books fly out of my grip, landing on the bottom step of the stairs.
The students didn’t even glance back to look at me or offer to help pick up my books. Instead, they hit me as if I were invisible and then continued on their way.
For a split second, I didn’t know if I should’ve laughed, or cried, or screamed.
For another split second, I considered doing all three at once. A hollering cry soaked in chuckles. That certainly would’ve been a great topic for my next therapy session with Raye—my emotions going haywire.
Instead, I let out a heavy huff and started to descend the steps, one at a time, hating the fact that once I reached the bottom step, I’d have to bend over to pick up my books. Bending over had been hurting a lot more lately.
Not only did I limp from the accident, but there were also chronic pains that shot throughout my body every day since.
There were lingering pains and forms of suffering that were always apparent to me.
Some days it was worse than others. Like that afternoon.
My back felt as if it were in flames, and my knees ached as if I were a ninety-year-old with arthritis.
What a normal person my age experienced going down a staircase was completely different than what I’d experienced. Each step felt like a jolt of lightning being shot through my spine and traveling up to my neck.
Some days, I debated what was worse—the visible pain or the internalized issues.
Either way, I was slow-moving.
I had to pause halfway down the staircase to catch my breath.
It felt like fire was shooting down my back as I held on to the railing.
I hated this. I hated the fact that I was already thinking about how I not only had to make it down the staircase but would have to go back up again, too, to get to biology class.
A big part of me wanted to head downstairs, out the door, and find my way to the cemetery to sit with Mom. Everything hurt a little less when I sat with her. I missed sitting with her. I missed giving her notes. I missed telling her how much life sucked without her here. I missed her.
After my pause, I continued down the steps in time to see someone picking up my books. I was about to yell at them for touching my stuff, until I realized who it was.
“Hey, Karla,” Brian said with a tiny smile on his face. The school bell rang, and the hallway emptied quickly.
I felt my face flush, but it wasn’t from pain or exhaustion. It was from seeing Brian’s eyes fixated on me. A wave of dizziness hit me as I held on to the railing and stepped down to meet him at the bottom of the steps.
“Thanks,” I murmured as my heart rate increased. I took the books into my grip and pressed them against my chest, hoping that Brian couldn’t hear how wildly my heart was pounding against my rib cage.