Page 22 of Left on Read

“Where have you been?” Mom asks, instead of saying hello.

“The library,” I sigh.

“You’ve been in the libraryall night?” Mom asks. She sounds exasperated. Frustrated. I wonder if that’s the usual Nova-is-too-much exasperation, or if she’s even more exasperated than usual. “It’s almost eleven!”

I place my phone in the cup holder and put her on speaker, then throw the car in drive.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m really sorry. I just … I just …” My voice breaks at the end, and suddenly I’m crying at a red light.

“It’s okay, sweetie.” Mom’s voice has turned gentle. “I was just worried. Iamworried. I know that you get lost in things sometimes, and you care about school and grades and the future so much. But you have to remember that you’re still human. And that there’s still a present.”

I hiccup, tears flowing freely now.

“You’re still a kid, Nova.” Her voice is a whisper.

Things are near silent for a while. The hum of what sounds like the TV is on in the background, and that and her slow breathing are the only noise besides the air conditioning in the car. As I continue, I hit every green light, and that feels like a small miracle.

“I’m almost home,” I say, swiping furiously at my eyes. “I’m pulling into the neighborhood now.”

“Okay,” she mumbles, and I realize she’s half asleep. Waiting up for me has exhausted her, and she has to work tomorrow. I feel a pang of guilt.

“I can open the door myself,” I say quietly. “Love you.”

Once I park my car, I stand in the driveway for a moment, just breathing in the crisp black air of an early fall night. I tuck the sticky note into the front pocket of my backpack, making it officially tomorrow’s problem.

Mom is waiting for me right inside the door in her slippers and floral print fuzzy bathrobe. Raven stands beside her feet, as if they’re both here to lecture me.

But Mom pulls me into a wordless hug, her chin resting on the top of my head. Her cold fingers stroke my hair.

You said the Poe stuff would be interesting. You didn’t say it would be so violent.

Which death was your favorite?

You scare me.

Good.

Notes exchanged on the pages of “Annabel Lee” by Edgar Allan Poe

She finally mentions the midterm assignment at the end of that week. On a Friday. And she drops the bomb on us—a bomb that wasnotin the syllabus.

We have to work with a partner. We will pick a thesis together, write our own papers, and collaborate on apresentation.

O, the horror!

The unimaginable, depressing horror!

Having a partner for an assignment this huge will absolutely compromise my academic integrity. I don’t know how, exactly, but it will. To say nothing of my grade! I am so screwed! Everything about this class has felt like the death of my fucking dream, and this moment is no different. Even worse, though? I know exactlywhat I have to do to ameliorate the damage. I have to pick the one person whose head is at least partially screwed on.

I look at Hayes.

Hayes looks at me.

The unspoken conclusion hangs between us in the air.

“What are you thinking, Novella?” he asks, leaning over. The full force of his attention is almost too much. I’ve never met anyone with eyes as intenselyfocusedas his, and I’m not sure I’m comfortable being the object of that penetrating gaze.

“I’m not thinking at all,” I say, waving a dismissive hand.