Left on Read

Chapter One

OfficialEndeavourHigh: Welcome back, Eagles!

I wish we had senior parking spaces. As I squeeze my little white Honda into the last available spot on the first level of the parking garage, I add that to the list of Traditional High School Things I’ve missed out on because of this place.

I list them in my head: sports; electives that are even remotely fun; a campus full of teenagers and not adults; and now, senior parking spaces. Not that I’m mad or anything. I love my early college program with all of my academic heart, and I’ve been dying to get back here. I’m just kind of petty.

Across the parking lot, I see Esha’s blue Jeep, already parked.

(We’d agreed to arrive at the same time, but she drives like she has no fear of death or speeding tickets.) Her parents bought it for her when she got her license.

They thought it would be the safest option, but it literally doesn’t even have a hard top.

And it’s super impractical for the postage-stamp-size parking places on this university campus.

I lock up my car, exit, and take off toward the stairs.

My burgundy plaid skirt swishes in the scorching Southern wind.

I slip my mass market paperback copy of The Abridged Works of Edgar Allan Poe under my arm and tuck a strand of hair back into place.

My ponytail sits high on my head, like always, but those messy flyaways right at my ears never behave in the humidity.

Below, the chunky-heeled black loafers that match my fitted black tee hit the pavement so hard that gravel flies.

I chuckle, thinking of a similar walk up these very stairs, on my first day at this school. I was fourteen and starting college, which not even my parents had been to.

Sort-of college, anyway. An early college program is hosted on a university campus, and you take a mix of high school and college courses, graduating with an AA.

These programs are supposed to be for the best students—or at least the students most willing to grind themselves to death.

We pack six years of education into four and try to survive, basically.

Anyway. I had to stop halfway up the stairs because I thought I was going to puke my guts out.

My mom drove away while I was frozen there.

I remember that. And I remember that I had to bend over, pretending to fix a shoelace that was never untied, until I finally got my nerves under control. I doubt those shoes even had laces.

Today, I drove myself.

Today, I reach the top of the stairs without ever stopping, my head held high.

Today, I’m officially a senior, and everything I can see from the top of this hill is mine.

What can I see? Hickory, North Carolina, for one, and Hickory’s state university campus for the other.

Hickory’s not really a small town, but it’s not a city, either—just comfortably midsize.

It’s got a stereotypically North Carolina kind of name, and it used to be known for furniture and tobacco.

Now it’s known for the college and the airport (which they turned into an aviation museum).

The college has a few thousand students, a couple hundred of which belong to Endeavour High, its early college program.

There are people everywhere on campus, many of them filing through the familiar double doors I’m heading toward at the end of the crosswalk. These are the Endeavor doors. I fall in line with the traffic. Everyone is very loud, and very tall. Even with my platform shoes, I’m very not.

Gently, and carefully, because I don’t want to damage myself, I push my way inside through the throng.

Inside—to the place I’ve pretty much called home for the past three years.

Shortcomings, sacrifices, stress, and all, this place is mine.

I wonder again, for, like, the twelfth time today, how I ever survived another whole summer without school.

Everyone but me goes left, toward the office and the auditorium and the cafeteria.

Everything they’re here for is that way.

I go right, toward my spot. I round the corner, and there it is: an uncomfortable wooden bench in front of floor-to-ceiling windows that look out at the highway.

I missed it so much I feel the strangest urge to cry.

I live in a world of constant chaos and in a state of perpetual overwhelm.

This spot is the closest thing I have to peace.

Unlike my crowded house, it is still and quiet; unlike the classroom, it is without pressure; unlike the mall, there’s no stimulation.

It just is. It’s my safe space. No one ever sits here but me.

I sit, take a deep breath, and relax, crossing my legs underneath me.

(Not a ladylike way to sit in a skirt, but I’m wearing bike shorts underneath.

It’s not my first rodeo with the dress code.) One more breath, and I feel it.

When that peace falls over me, it’s not gentle, like a spring rain or an ocean wave.

It’s sudden and heavy, an impact like a one-two punch.

It doesn’t wash over me. It slams into me.

That’s how tense I usually am. Relaxation has to force its way into me.

For a second, or a minute, or who knows how long, I stare out the window. I don’t sit still very often, but here, I do. I can. I watch the cars go by, and I let my mind wander.

“I thought I might find you here,” Esha says, sneaking up on me. (She might not have been actually sneaking up; I may have just turned off the senses that were feeling overwhelmed, which was all of them. Something about this forgotten, out-of-the-way bench makes me able to do that.)

“Hey!” I stand, throwing my arms around her.

I just saw her last week when we went shopping for school stuff, my favorite thing to do in the whole world.

We’ve talked every day in between too. But still, this is a big deal.

It’s orientation day for senior year, the start of a whole new world, and this moment deserves a hug.

(I cut the assembly; I’m just here for the books and schedules.) She’s warm and smells like too-strong perfume, probably because she’s trying to cover up the fresh-cat-litter smell that always follows her home from the animal shelter where she spends so much of her time.

“Are there more freshman this year?” I ask, thinking about all the people I had to fight my way through.

“I don’t know, maybe? Why?” she asks. A dark brown eyebrow quirks up. “How can you tell they’re freshmen?”

“Their spirits didn’t seem broken yet.”

Esha rolls her doe eyes. “Let’s go get our books,” she says, changing the subject and my entire train of thought. “The assembly must be about over.”

I’m so excited about the books.

Esha steps back, and I see she didn’t dress up for the occasion the way I did. She’s wearing cropped jean shorts and a gray Endeavour High T-shirt, her shiny brown hair thrown up in a messy bun. Does this mean I’m accidentally Too Much again, like always?

“Let’s go,” Esha says, pushing me toward the office. Her worn sneakers somehow still squeak. How did I not hear her squeak up on me? “You haven’t shut up about this class for years. You’re about to get it, and now you’re dragging your feet.”

Oh, yeah. That, I care about.

English 231: American Literature.

It’s my first shot at a real college literature class, one focused on some of my favorite writers—Poe, Hawthorne, Thoreau—and others I’ve been dying to read, like Cooper and Alcott.

My purpose in life is to be an English professor.

I’ve known I wanted to teach literature since …

forever. That’s why I’m here, at Endeavor, busting my butt to get the best education and the best grades possible, and this is the next step.

It’s a major, major deal to me. I’ve passed all the high school college English prereqs.

I just need the administrative scheduling to have worked out, and I’ll be on my way to everything I’ve ever wanted.

This is my passion. I want to excel in this class. I need to excel in this class. It’s the beginning of the rest of my life.

In the office, I’m prepared to rattle off the standard “Nova Carter” punctuated with a smile, but I don’t even have to say my name at the table where we pick up our schedules.

The two teachers sitting behind it barely stop talking, they just sift through a few folders until they find mine.

Perks of being a senior at a tiny school, I guess.

“Open it, open it!” Esha says, as she leads us to a quiet corner of the Nest (so called because we’re the Endeavour High Eagles.

It’s our cafeteria, rec room, and gym all in one, and it’s one of the only places on this campus that’s entirely ours.

Upperclassmen can roam free, but freshman and sophomores have to spend all their free time in here so they don’t get kidnapped or run across the highway to McDonald’s.

I don’t like being in the Nest; it feels too much like freshman year.

It takes away freedom I worked too hard to earn.

“I … um …” I’m nervously, unproductively shuffling around the papers in the manila folder, not even trying to find my schedule.

“Let me do it,” Esha finally says, swatting at me until I release my death-grip on the folder.

She finds my schedule … and her face falls.

Oh, no. She has super-expressive eyes.

I didn’t get into the course.

I can see it in her gaze. She’s trying to decide how to tell me.

The rest of her face stays frozen, completely neutral.

You’d have to know her to see it, but I do know her, so I do see it.

My mind races: what was I given instead of the class I wanted?

The class I needed? Something awful, probably.

Like a history class that’s entirely about soft rock.

Maybe an extra math credit. Some casual physics, just for fun.

“You got it,” she says quietly.

I barely hear her over the multitude of conversations happening around us. Her face is the same, still, eyes downcast and everything.