Underneath the Sycamore Tree(54)

Denial doesn’t make the fear go away.

It expands it.

Feeds it.

Makes it impossible to fight.

Annabel pulls out her book choice, Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, and wiggles until she’s settled comfortably in her chair.

I give her a small smile. “The others don’t like living in a world that’s beyond creepy vampires that watch women sleep and kids that get put in an arena to slaughter each other. They’ll get over it.”

She giggles. “We’re doing them a favor, if you think about. Hitting them with reality before reality can.”

I grin back at her.

Mr. Nichols walks in and smiles at us. We’re the only two in here so far, but a couple girls are lingering at the computers across the room. They’re giggling and joking and probably looking up something they shouldn’t be online. I see people do it all the time, hacking through the firewall the school places on social media sites.

“Ready for another group read?” he asks, setting his messenger bag down on the table in front of his chair.

Annabel rolls her eyes. “Do you mean argue with the girls about tasteful literature? Yes. I’m prepared.”

Amusement flickers across Nichols face, but he doesn’t buy into the remark. “I’ve considered adding this book to the curriculum for next year. I’d like to see what discussion we come up with based on first opinions.”

Annabel makes a face. “It’s the kind of book you’d need students to do research on. It isn’t like Emery’s book last month. Atwood uses political influence in this.”

Nichols sits down, taking out his own copy that has multicolored tabs marking the pages. Something tells me he’s already done extensive research on the book, especially if he’s interested in teaching it.

Annabel must realize the same thing, because she looks apologetic. “Why would you want to teach this anyway? It gets a lot of backlash and most students will just watch the television show instead of reading it.”

He chuckles softly over her disbelief in his reasoning. “Emery made a good point. Literature isn’t always going to give us the content we desire. It’s important to change up what’s expected of the student’s, including how political and personal experiences impact people in everyday life.”

I can’t help but notice how he looks at me while he delivers the last part.

When it’s time to start, only a few of the girls join us. It seems like Book Club won’t exist past Christmas break at the rate it’s deteriorating. I know it was going to be tested through the semester, but I’d hoped more people would join.

Halfway through our conversation on first thoughts of what we were assigned to read, my vision grows fuzzy. Blinking past the blurriness as I stare at the girl whose name I can never seem to remember, I take a few deep breaths and sway slightly in my chair. From the not so far distance of my conscience, a headache forms heavy and unforgiving.

It’s been a couple weeks since one settled into my temples. I thought I was finally getting relief, but maybe Cam’s suggestion on seeing a neurologist will give me answers. She’s on medicine for chronic migraines, so she’s willing to set up a new patient appointment for me.

Rubbing at my eyes, I try to focus on what Mr. Nichols is responding with. He’s talking about feminism and the main character’s forced submission to her commander.

Survival mode.

I know it well.

Why am I so nauseous all of a sudden?

I try to distract myself, thinking about how to add my commentary in. I could talk about how the women pitted themselves against each other as a new form of feminism. Survival of the fittest and all that.

The idea of opening my mouth right now doesn’t seem like the best idea, so I swallow the temptation to throw up and start collecting my belongings with shaky hands.

Nichols mentions the color theme.

Red for the Handmaids.

Blue for the Wives.

Green for the Marthas.

I’m turning green right now.

Annabel stares.

Mr. Nichols says my name.

I bolt out of the library on unsteady legs. Dizziness greets my every step as I run towards the nearest trash can I see in the hall.

My name is being called.

It’s getting louder.

I’m getting sicker.

I vomit as my hair is pulled back.

Not by Annabel.

By Mr. Nichols.

I’d swear if I could.

Instead, I empty my stomach and pray that I pass out to avoid further humiliation.

Be careful what you wish for.





Chapter Twenty-Seven





I shoot Dad daggers with my eyes from the backseat of the car while Mama tries collecting herself in the phone pressed to my ear. Despite insisting I was fine, Dad and Cam dragged me to the hospital for a second opinion where he called Mama as a grouchy old nurse checked my vitals.

The doctor on call looked at my records, checked my temperature, gave me pain and nausea medicine, and referred me to the hospital’s neurology department like I told Dad he would. I’ve spent a lot of time in hospitals, so I know the visit wasn’t worth the two hundred and fifty dollar copay my father was charged with for his overreaction.

He told me I didn’t understand.

It’s a parent thing.