Page 27 of The Last to Let Go
In my dream I would have been arriving at my shiny new school and checking in at the office, not bouncing up and down over potholes in the road on a smelly bus with sticky seats and no shocks whatsoever. In my dream I would not have been crouched down in my seat at the back of the bus, discreetly peeling the wrapper off a half-smashed granola bar, taking small bites so the driver wouldn’t catch me eating on the bus.
In my dream I would’ve been the first person to arrive—my spot claimed, front and center—fresh notebook ready, the top of the first page already labeled with the date andAP Psychology. I would have introduced myself to my new teacher—Dr. Robinson—properly before class began.I’m going to be your new star student.I would have wanted her to know that up front. First impressions. They’re everything. And you get only one shot at them.
But in real life that’s not what’s happening. What happens is I get off the bus at my stop twenty-two minutes late. What happens is I have to run—literallyrun—from one end of campus to the other while trying to read the map I printed out on Jackie’s printer last week. I get lost trying to find the main office, even though I had the whole thing planned, even though I had everything figured out. When I finally find the office, get myself signed in, and secure a late pass, I am informed I’ve missed homeroom altogether, so I race down the unfamiliar halls, peering in through each door’s small, rectangular window as I pass classroom after classroom, none of which seems to be mine.
“Two fourteen, two fourteen,” I hear myself breathe, my eyes frantically scanning the room numbers. I feel my chest wanting to collapse, my lungs not used to me running like this, my mind not used to having the things I’ve planned fall apart. That’s the whole point of planning.
I reach the end of the hall and I still can’t find it. I’ve passed 212, 213, 215, 216, but not 214. I go up and down the hall two more times, so sure it should be here—so sure my mind is playing tricks on me. I stand still for a moment in the center of the hall, close my eyes, and take two deep breaths. When I open my eyes, the classroom is right there; it’s been right in front of me the whole time: 214, reads the placard next to the door. So relieved to have finally found it, I jump into action and bust through the door, but in my single-minded hurry I’ve forgotten about the rules—the ones about first impressions. The ones about acting normal.
I can almost hear the echo of the teacher’s last words still hanging in the air before the door slams against the wall with this horrible screeching, clanging, metal-on-metal wail. Everyone falls utterly silent as I face an entire room full of strangers.
The door finishes slamming closed with a final hollowclang.
Dr. Robinson, according to the name listed on my schedule, spins around with this look on her face—I can’t tell whether she’s pissed or amused. Or worse, both. A sudden deep splinter chisels its way across my skull, throwing the whole room off-balance.
“Glad you could join us”—she raises her arm in the air, bending it at the elbow and squinting at the watch on her wrist—“twenty minutes late. We were just going over a bit of housekeeping. Please.” She takes the late pass I’m stupidly holding out to her and waves her arm in the direction of one of the few empty seats left in the entire room. “Brooke Winters,” she reads from the pass as I step forward.
If this were a dream, it would be the one where you show up naked to the really important thing and you realize you’ve shown up naked only when everyone starts pointing and laughing. Except this isn’t a dream. It’s a nightmare, only worse. Because it’s real.
So I do end up with that front-and-center seat anyway. And I’m definitely making a first impression as I squeeze my way through the narrow aisle with my enormous backpack and my heavy breathing and my hair a wreck and my not-new clothes sticking to my skin because I’m sweating my ass off from running all the way across campus. I slide into the vacant spot. The girl next to me has all her supplies neatly organized in front of her. Textbook, binder, notebook—I glance at the top of her page, and sure enough, it is clearly labeled with the date andAP Psychology—she is me, just twenty minutes earlier. She is me, coming to this class from another life, a better life.
“Oh-em-gee,” I hear someone whisper behind me as I take my seat, followed by snickering.
The girl next to me throws a“Shh”over her shoulder.
“As a general rule,” the teacher begins, loud enough to block out all the whispers and the pounding of hammers in my head, “I do not repeat myself. But I will say,oncemore”—good God, her eyes burn me—“I do not tolerate lateness of any kind for any reason. If I can manage to make it here on time, I expect the same of each of you. And if for whatever reason you can’t make it here on time, you will not be allowed to stay—after today, that is—and you will be counted as absent, and you will have detention.” She finally breaks her gaze away from me to look at her watch again. “I have seven fifty-two. I suggest synchronization.”
Then she lets out this maniacal chuckle.
“But seriously,” she continues. “Unless you enjoy public humiliation”—her eyes fix on me once again—“you need to be in your seat, ready to go, by the time that bell rings. Another serious note: There will be no phone rings, beeps, or buzzes of any sort. And finally, I highly encourage you to find a study partner. This is a college-level course, remember. We will be covering everything from how your brain stores memories to how you fall in love. I will not slow down. This class is a well-oiled machine. I’ve been teaching it longer than some of you have beenalive.”
There’s something in the way she utters that last word, “alive,” that makes it sound like some kind of threat. She holds a packet of stapled-together papers high up over her head and takes a step forward. “This syllabus is your bible. Know it. Follow it. Do not lose it.”
I look around—everyone has one except for me. The girl next to me slides hers toward me in the space between us. I look up at her for the first time and suddenly realize how long it’s been since I’ve looked someone in the eye. I try to muster a smile back at her, taking note of her straight posture and perfectly smooth bronze skin, a streak of purple running through her shiny black hair. The sides of her head seem to have been recently shaved and are just growing back in, leaving a thick mane of wild hair on top, which she runs her hands through, flopping all that hair over to one side. But just as I’m trying to drag my eyes away from her, I feel this gust of wind blast by my face, like a sword cutting through the air—Dr. Robinson slaps the syllabus she was holding flat on my desk, making me jump back in my seat. And she stares me down with this expression on her face like she’s caught me cheating, and is really thrilled about it too.
I want to stand up and call a time-out and explain everything—how I, too, care deeply about punctuality, and how I did the math and all the calculations added up; I built in loads of extra time to account for all the mishaps, but somehow it still wasn’t enough. I want to tell her how hard I try. All the time, ateverything, and still it’s never good enough. A one-minute time-out is all I need, but she keeps going.
“Papers are worth fifty percent of your final grade. Midterm, fifteen percent. Final exam is twenty-five percent,” Dr. Robinson continues, my mind barely even able to catch up. “And for those of you doing the math, the final ten percent of your grade comprises all the miscellaneous punishments I will dispense at will—that means attendance, quizzes, participation, and punctuality, which I believe we’ve already discussed, though I’d be happy to reiterate that one more time if anyone is still fuzzy on my policy?”
No one makes a sound.
Promptly after class I find the nearest restroom. I lock myself in the closest stall, drop my backpack to the floor, lean up against the back of the door, and squeeze my eyes shut tight, focusing on breathing and not panicking and not regretting my decision to transfer here.
I hear the bathroom door screech open. Then somebody knocks fast three times on the back of my door, sending vibrations up my spine. I take a deep breath, clear my throat. “Just a minute.”
“No, I know,” a girl’s voice says. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I answer simply, unemotionally. I turn around, unlock the door, prepared to open it casually yet triumphantly, but all that ends the second I see who’s standing there. The girl from class, the girl with the hair, the up-close-and-personal firsthand witness to my public shaming.
I give her a polite nod and walk past her to the sink. I look up into the mirror—God, my hair is all frayed and coming loose from my ponytail—I can’t believe I showed my face in class looking like this. I pull the triple-wrapped elastic band out in one swift motion. I hear strands of hair snapping as it falls past my ears and onto my shoulders, down my back. My scalp sighs. I massage my head for a moment, trying to soothe the spots that have pounded all morning. I wish I’d had the time or the energy to get a haircut before school started.
“It really wasn’t that bad,” the girl says, appearing next to me.
I meet her eyes in the mirror and really look at her. I was able to give her only a sideways glance when I sat down, only long enough to notice her haircut, the shock of purple. Her flawless skin shimmering. But here, our reflections side by side, I can’tnotnotice the rest of her. Her eyes, for one thing. They’re this insane color—a sea of blues, greens, and browns—a pattern of sunbursts and halos that sparkle so brightly, especially against her rich terra-cotta-toned skin. I’m positive she has to be one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever seen in real life. She has this glow that emanates from her like a visible aura. Or maybe she’s just exaggerated in comparison to me. I turn my attention back to myself: my bloodless pale skin, my eyes dull and flat. I look completely worn out, used up, tired—the faint, shaded half-moons under my eyes have deepened since this morning.
“Well, it wasn’t that good, either,” I finally answer. I try to brush it off with a little dose of sarcasm, but damn, I don’t sound convincing at all. I start to pull my hair back into its familiar ponytail, wrapping the band once and pulling my hair through, twice, pulling my hair through again, then I stretch it, preparing for the third round—but it snaps like a flimsy rubber band, stinging my fingers and making my hair fall down. I toss the broken strand of fabric-covered elastic into the garbage, brace myself against the cold porcelain sink, and look down into the black hole of the drain.
“The woman’s a legendary hard-ass,” she continues. “She was just using you as an example. That was all for show. It didn’t mean anything, really. By next week she’ll have someone else she’s picking on.”
