Chapter Eleven
Do you think we’ll ever read anything interesting … or …?
Yes. Poe.
Wow you don’t have to be so snippy.
Oh sorry, let me try again.
Yes, Hayes. We’re going to read several works by the great Edgar Allan Poe, which will be infinitely more interesting than anything else in the world.
Okay, gross. You can go back to being snippy.
Written on the printout of “Where I Lived, and What I Lived For” by Henry David Thoreau
It’s time to admit defeat.
I hate this class.
Everyone hates this class.
Even the dust particles in the air hate this class.
And after two months of wasting three grueling, boring, uncomfortable hours per week in this room, everyone has completely given up paying attention except for me and Hayes.
“Do you think anyone here even wants to learn anything? Not like she makes that possible,” he whispers in my direction.
He’s trying to be discreet—one shouldn’t disparage the teacher in the middle of her class and all—but he really doesn’t have to.
She’s sitting in front of us scrolling through an iPad.
I’ve been watching, following the cadence at which her stylus moves, and I think she’s reading.
At least someone is.
“I do,” I huff, leaning back in my chair.
Hayes gives me A Look. It’s actually kind of rude, the facial equivalent of a sarcastic duh.
I turn away and look around the room. We’re supposed to be discussing the reading with our tablemates.
Everyone is either talking about something else or scrolling on their phones.
I’m not above discussing the reading. I would be thrilled to do so.
Some involvement from the person at the front of this room who actually knows what they’re talking about would be really great.
“Do you have a plan yet?” Hayes asks, turning in his chair so his entire body is facing me. His sneakers slide underneath my chair, and, up this close, I can see a fraying seam on his jeans.
“A plan for what?” I spend a fleeting thought wondering how I got here, in this horrible class up close and personal with Hayes Collins.
I spend another wondering why only one of those things bothers me today.
“For how to fix this.” He chucks his chin in the direction of Dr. Lowry. “She very, very, very obviously does not care about our education.”
“Look around, Hayes. This is a perfect experience. Nothing needs to be fixed. It’s flawless.” Three rows behind me, two girls are filming something for social media.
I run my fingers over the tattered Norton anthology. The pages are so thin you can practically see right through them. Mine’s the only book open. Hayes’s copy is at least out on the table in front of him.
“In all honesty, I’ve thought about what you said the other day.
I have. But I just don’t have a plan,” I say, crossing my arms and looking up at the fluorescent lights instead of at him.
He doesn’t respond, not even a huff or a grunt, and the harsh white lights burn my eyes.
“Wait, I do. I’m gonna sit here until this is all over. Like everyone else.”
My own words make me think of Piper. Until this is all over.
I didn’t really know what she meant. I don’t even know what I meant.
This class period? This week? This semester?
The rest of my high school life? When I heard her say that, I had to do something.
She just sounded so hopeless, and I knew there was an answer.
It wasn’t going to be easy, and it wasn’t going to be simple.
But there was a better alternative to mentally and emotionally rotting until something changes.
Is there, here, too?
Someone at the table next to me abruptly stands, jostling my chair.
People have realized that Dr. Lowry doesn’t dismiss us, so they’ve started dismissing themselves.
The rustling of backpacks being pulled from the floor and the drag of chairs being pushed is enough to yank Dr. Lowry’s attention from whatever she’s doing.
She nods her head at those evacuating the room like it’s on fire, then follows them—at speed.
“Why’s it my job to fix this, anyway?” I ask Hayes after she’s gone, even though I know he doesn’t have an answer. We haven’t moved from our seats.
“It’s not.” He smiles, and it’s … devastating.
He should not be allowed to possess such a high level of intelligence and a face like that.
“It’s not mine, either. But I’m pretty sure we’re gonna do it anyway.
So let’s get serious, Novella. We have universities to get into.
You know your acceptance can be rescinded by some schools if your GPA drops? ”
“No,” I say firmly, gritting my teeth. “We just have to get through it. And get our A’s. I’m going to stay focused on the work and that’s it. There’s nothing we can do.”
But do I really want that to be true?