Underneath the Sycamore Tree(19)

I’m eager to write down mine but can tell the others aren’t as interested. A brown-haired girl with pretty caramel highlights raises her hand and calls Nichols over, asking him questions about how to choose a book. He’s nice in his reply, as any teacher should be, but I can tell even he is exasperated by their lack of understanding of something simple.

I stifle a giggle when I see him shake his head on the way back to his own seat. My eyes widen when he looks up knowingly at me, giving me a soft smile as if he gets my humor.

Maybe he’s not oblivious after all.

It takes the girls fifteen minutes to write a title down, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Twilight pops up more than once. I saw the blonde with huge eyes glancing at the shelf next to her like she was just going to write down the first title she saw. Then again, half the books are ones I haven’t read yet so I wouldn’t mind.

Mr. Nichols mixes up the folded papers before passing me the bowl. “Choose one, Emery.”

I reach in and pluck one out, reading it off so he can jot down the title and author into his notebook. Admittingly, I’ve never heard of the book before.

As we go around the room, I struggle to keep quiet when Twilight pops up twice. Mr. Nichols suggests us choosing a different book in replace of one of them, but nobody speaks up.

Until Nichols calls on me. “Emery, why don’t you think of something? I know you’ve got an arsenal of ideas.”

Little Mermaid glances at me with a scrunched nose before turning to Nichols. “How come she gets to choose?”

“Nobody else spoke up, Aria.”

Aria. Ariel. Same difference.

Clearing my throat, I shift until I’m angled toward the girls. “If you want something similar to Twilight, we can read a John Green book. He writes young adult literature.”

The blonde tilts her head. “Isn’t he the one who wrote about the dying chick? I think I saw the movie with my ex-boyfriend.”

I wonder if she threw in the ex for Mr. Nichols as if he’s supposed to care. “Um, sort of. He has other books that aren’t as well-known as that one.”

“Who wants to read about dying kids?” The brunette scoffs. “That sounds depressing.”

“She finds love,” the blonde defends.

Nichols intervenes. “It can be a group decision for next time. Until then, we’ve got the title to our first book, which we’ll discuss starting next week. Be sure to have a copy before then.”

After he dismisses us, I gather my things and get ready to go before Nichols calls my name. A few girls glance back at us, whispering amongst themselves, before turning around and heading out of the library.

“You were quiet,” he notes, packing up his own belongings. “Those girls aren’t exactly here to have deep conversations about literature. I have a feeling you’ll pull a bulk of the load.”

My lips twitch. “You don’t say?”

He chuckles, zipping his messenger bag and draping it over his shoulder. “This club has the potential if we have the right people in it.”

“And you think that’s me?”

“And Annabel.”

Annabel…

“She was the other quiet one,” he muses.

Oh. There was a black-haired girl he called Anna. I vaguely remember her from one of my classes—Global Studies, not English. I think she suggested we read Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale. Someone mentioned how morbid that was, and Anna didn’t say a word. I should have told her I was excited to read it.

He gestures toward the doors, so I follow him out of the library. “I’ve always been interested in literature. I love reading it, talking about it, everything. You remind me of me.”

My brows raise as we walk side by side toward the spiral staircase that leads toward the front doors of the school. “Because we like books?”

He lets me go down the staircase first because of the narrow structure. “Because we like them more than reality. It’s easier to lose yourself in fiction, right?”

We stop at the end of the stairs. There’s noise coming from the high school gym down the hall—practice for some sport maybe. It helps lessen the awkwardness of standing here next to my English teacher while he waits for my response.

He smiles at me. “We all have something we want to escape from. That doesn’t mean some of us aren’t still in tune with reality even when it’s…”

“Shitty,” I murmur. My eyes widen over what I said, shooting up at his amused features. I’ve never sworn in front of a teacher. “I’m sorry, Mr. Nichols—”

He laughs. “School is over, Emery. I can’t hold you accountable for what you say. I also can’t say I agree with you.” Readjusting the strap of his bag, he tips his head and begins walking away. “Can’t say I disagree with you either.”

Waving goodbye, he tells me he’ll see me tomorrow and then leaves. I stand there for a minute before genuinely smiling. Gripping my bag and slipping it on my back, I turn to head to the side exit.

Kaiden told me he wouldn’t wait for me. I didn’t want to complain, so I just nodded. There’s a late bus that boards by the loading dock off the middle school wing at five. I can wait another thirty minutes.

After fifteen, I go outside and sit on the brick half wall. My legs dangle over and the sun hits my face mixed with a gentle breeze. There’s a book in my backpack I want to read, and I’m about to pull it out when a car pulls up.