Page 5 of The Way I Used to Be
I dab at my eyes with my sleeve.
“You know, I think I have something for that.” She nods toward the green stains on the front of my shirt. “Why don’t you come in my office?”
She pushes open the half door at the side of the counter and leads me inside. “Have a seat,” she tells me as she closes the door behind us.
She rifles through one of her desk drawers, pulling out handfuls of pens and pencils and highlighters. Her office is bright and warm. There’s a whole table in the corner just filled with different plants. She has all these posters pinned to the wall about books and librarians, and one of those bigREADposters with the president smiling and holding a book in his hands. One of them says:A ROOM WITHOUT BOOKS IS LIKE A BODY WITHOUT A SOUL—CICERO.
“Ah-hah. Here it is!” She hands me one of those stain removal pens. “I always keep one of these nearby—I’m pretty klutzy, so I’m always spilling things on myself.” She smiles as she watches me pressing the spongy marker tip into the stains on my shirt.
“Please don’t make me go back there,” I plead, too desperate and exhausted to even attempt to make it seem like I’m not desperate and exhausted. “Do you think maybe I could volunteer during lunch from now on? Or something?”
“I wish I could tell you yes, Eden.” She pauses with a frown. “But unfortunately we already have the maximum number of volunteers for this period. However, I think you would be a great fit here, I really do. Is there another time you would be interested in, maybe during a study hall?”
“Are you really sure there isn’t any room because I really, really can’t be in lunch anymore.” I feel my eyes getting hot and watery again.
“May I ask why?”
“It’s... personal, I guess.” But the truth is that it’s humiliating. It’s too humiliating to be in lunch anymore, to have to hide and still get food thrown at you anyway, and not be able to do anything about it, and your friends are too afraid to stand up for you, or themselves. Especially when you just got attacked in your own house—in your own bed—and you can’t even stand up for yourself there, either, the one place you’re supposed to be safe. For all these reasons, it’s personal. And questions like “why” can’t truly be answered, not when this woman is looking at me so sweetly, expecting a response that leaves her with something she can do about any of it. But since there’s not, I clear my throat and repeat, “Just personal.”
“I understand.” She looks down at her fingernails and smiles sadly. I wonder if she really does understand or if that’s only something she says.
Just as I’m about to stand up and leave, something in her face changes. She looks at me like she’s considering letting me do it anyway, like she’s going to take pity on me.
“Well,” she begins. “I do have this idea I’ve been toying with, something you might be interested in?”
I inch closer, literally pushing myself to the edge of my seat.
“I’ve been thinking about trying to put together a student group, a book club that would meet during lunch. It would be open to anyone who’s interested in doing a little extracurricular reading. It would be like an informal discussion group, more or less. Does that sound like something you’d want to do?”
“Yes! Definitely, yes, yes. I love books!” Then, more calmly, I add, “I mean, I love to read, so I just think a book club, um, would be great.” I have to force my mouth to stop talking.
“Okay, well, that’s excellent. Now, according to school policy, any club must have at least six members to be official. So, first things first—do you know anyone else who you think might be interested?”
“Yeah, I think so, two people maybe—one for sure.”
“That’s a start—a good start. If you really want to do this, I’ll need you to do a little bit of the legwork, okay? Because basically my only role is to be a faculty adviser, a facilitator—the group itself is essentially student run, student organized—it’s your group, not mine. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah, yeah. So what would I need to do then, to make it happen?”
“You can start by making flyers, putting them up around school. Start by seeing if we can get enough people interested.”
“I can do that. I can do that right now!”
She laughs a little. “You don’t have to do it right now—although I do appreciate the enthusiasm. In fact, you don’t have to do it at all. You can take some time to think about it if you want.”
“I’m sure. I want to, really.”
“Okay. All right then. I’ll take care of the paperwork this afternoon, how does that sound?”
“Great!” I shout, my voice all high and trembling as I fight the urge to jump over the desk and throw my arms around her neck. “That sounds really great!”
I make the flyer right then and there and have the walls plastered by the end of the day.
SATURDAY MORNING, PROMPTLY AT TEN,the doorbell rings. I call from my bedroom, “I’ll get it,” but Mom beats me. I get to the living room just as she’s swinging the door open.
“Good morning, you must be Stephen! Come on in, please, out of the rain.”
“Thanks, Mrs. McCrorey,” Stephen says, walking through our front door cautiously, dripping puddles of water all over the floor, which I know is making Mom secretly hyperventilate.
