Traveler (Traveler #1)(9)
My project consists of seeds, sprigs, and charts all mounted to a poster board. It won’t fit in my messenger bag. And I can’t roll it up—it’s attached to cardboard so it could hold the weight of the seeds and plant cuttings. I really, really don’t have room in my locker for this thing, so guess what? I get to carry a poster around to all the rest of my classes.
Perfect.
Ben walks with me toward creative writing, because his next class is in the same hall. He lets out a little snicker as I try to juggle the poster and readjust the strap on my messenger bag, since it’s slipping off my shoulder. I shoot him a glare.
“You could give me a little help here,” I point out.
“I’m not going to be seen carrying that thing,” he says. “You could just throw it away, you know. It’s made out of cardboard, paper, and dead plants. It’s not like you broke the bank building it.”
“I spent almost three hours on it, getting it right,” I complain.
He rolls his eyes. “Where are you going to use this again? You just can’t stand to throw it away. You’re a pack rat.”
“Am not.”
“Yes, you are. You couldn’t even put it in your locker if it fit, because your last six school projects are in there.”
I don’t answer him because it makes me mad that he’s right. I just hate getting rid of stuff I worked so hard on. It doesn’t seem fair somehow, even though it’s all getting crushed and probably broken in my locker and I’m going to throw out the smashed mess at the end of the year anyway.
“Give it to me,” Ben says, holding out his hands.
“Ben…”
“Come on. We’re fixing to walk right past those big garbage cans outside the cafeteria. I can toss it on the way and you won’t have to carry it around all day long.”
“I don’t know…”
“All. Day. Long.” He raises his brows and stands there waiting. I finally put it in his hands with a disgusted look.
“Go ahead.” I roll my eyes. “Just do it now before I change my mind.”
He takes it, and I wince as he folds and crushes it into a ball. Then he jogs ahead a few paces, lobs the crumpled mass like a basketball, and sinks it perfectly on the top of the cafeteria trash, right by the door. Early lunch has already been dismissed, so it sits perched on top of the pile, resting against some tater tots. I keep walking, though I can’t help but glance over at it guiltily as I pass.
“There,” he says. “Taken care of. And I’ll be checking the Dumpsters after school, so don’t get any ideas about digging it out.”
“Whatever.”
He reaches out and holds me gently by the upper arms. “You’ll get through this, Jessa,” he says dramatically. “You’re the strongest person I know.”
“Have you ever taken a messenger bag to the face?”
He chucks me under the chin and trots off toward his class, calling out, “You’re an inspiration!”
I’m still shaking my head at him as I walk into creative writing class, where I find my seat, pull out my journal, and thumb through it until I find a blank page. Ms. Eversor is busy at the whiteboard putting up the day’s theme assignment as I take my seat.
“All right, everyone,” she calls out in her lilting French accent. “Quiet, please. We’ve got one more class until the publishing cutoff for this month’s issue of The Articulator. As you know, we try to put a little bit of everything into each issue of the newspaper, and the flash fiction theme for November is usually something like ‘Thankful’ or ‘Thanksgiving,’ but I think we need a change, yes?”
The class mumbles its agreement, and some of the students start calling out alternative topics—everything from “Feast” to “Death on the Dinner Table.” Ms. Eversor shakes her head, laughing.
“No, no, no. In my mother’s country, we have Tabaski. It is like Thanksgiving and Christmas all together in C?te d’Ivoire. But it is too easy to write about a holiday,” she says. “Let’s go entirely away from the Thanksgiving theme and choose something a bit more mysterious. How about autumn? You can explore the aging process, the colors, the coming winter.… There are a lot of elements there, you see? It can be lovely, and it can be a warning of bleak things to come. So … autumn!”
Ms. Eversor waits a moment as we pull out our notebooks, laptops, and iPads. A few of the students move to the PCs at the back of the room. I remain seated, preferring the old-fashioned feel of paper and pen.
“Very well, everyone,” Ms. Eversor calls out. “Five hundred words. Begin.”
I look at the paper, letting my mind wander through the remnants of a dream I once had with leafy memories and the smell of pinecones and fireplaces. I set the pen to the paper and begin.
His hand was warm in hers as they walked through the park with feet that felt lighter due to the mere touching of their palms. The trees screamed their colors, competing with the distraction of the geese as they flew overhead. She looked up, realizing that the flock pointed in a perfect V.
“Can you believe it?” she asked. “It’s almost as if they want us to find the place.”
“We probably need to hurry,” he urged. “But I don’t want to rush you.”