Page 57 of Left on Read

Mrs. Jacobs watches the votes roll in on the screen.

I stop breathing as she finally announces the freshman, sophomore, and junior reps. She congratulates Hayes on his victory over no one, and I feel him nod behind me.

Then she looks at me, and I know what she’s going to say. It’sin that glint in her eyes. She can’t pick favorites, but I know I’m her favorite. Her mouth turns up in the corner, and it’s like she braces for impact. Hayes’s fingers tighten on my shoulders. Esha grabs one of my hands.

And I win.

The room goes wild again, and I kind of tune it all out. I truly can’t process anything my senses are detecting right now. I won, and that’s all that matters. People say congrats, and everyone seems to get closer to me. I’m still holding my phone, from voting, and to lessen the sensory impact my brain focuses on a notification.Ping.

The email is so short that I can read the whole thing in the notification thumbnail.

“What’s the matter?” Hayes asks. He’s turned me to face him, away from the chaos. “Your face went all white.”

I shake my head, trying to dispel the thoughts flying around faster than I can keep up. It doesn’t work. Moments pass in our circle of silence in the loud classroom.

“It’s Lowry,” I manage to say at some point. “She wants to meet with me in her office.”

Hayes:Repeat after me: I don’t care what she thinks.

Nova:I don’t care what she thinks.

Hayes:Okay, now say it out loud.

Nova:No

Nova:Thanks, though.

The sight of that open door roots my feet to the floor.

It’s always been closed. I’ve never even seen the light on. She still has a faded Easter wreath on the door, and I would bet money it isn’t even from this year.

I’d convinced Hayes I didn’t need backup for this. I told him she just wanted to talk to me. Even made it seem like a positive thing. Like she wanted to congratulate me on my stellar midterm grade. Somehow, whether it’s the churning feeling in my gut or the way dizziness is making my vision blur, I know that’s not how this is going to go.

I think maybe I do need backup for this, but if she’s going to tear me apart for some reason (what reason?!), I can’t let him watch. I like him too much to let him be the witness to my devastation.

“Come in, Ms. Carter,” I hear her say. She must sense me lurking in the hall. Maybe she sees my shadow. Or maybe my anxious heartbeat is loud enough that she can hear it too.

She published a literary analysis of “The Tell-Tale Heart” once, and I feel like I’m living in that story right now. I feel like she’s going to chop me to pieces, and I’ll live under her office floorboards until someone comes looking for me. It would be Hayes. He’d come looking for me first. And I don’t want him to see me dismembered under the ground, so I step forward.

This office is fucking creepy. I’m a dark-enough person that my life’s dream is to pursue a PhD in Literature with a Poe specialty, but this is really too macabre even for me. There are no windows, and there isnothingpersonal, not anywhere I look. Pretty grim office for a department head. But she never spends time here anyway, so I guess it doesn’t really matter.

I slink down into an old chair that actually creaks. If there evenisan overhead light, she’s left it off. The office is lit only by an old Tiffany lamp. It casts the walls in a yellowed glow. Professor Lowry’s face looks severe in the half-light.

“You wanted to see me, Professor?” I ask. In my lap, my hands tremble.

“I did.” She leans forward.

I will myself to find some subatomic strength, some tiny aspect of myself that has the power to not crumble under that intense stare.

She looks strangely professional today. Maybe that’s because Ican only see her purple button-down. She could be wearing clown shoes and I wouldn’t know.

“I wanted to speak with you.” She leans back in her office chair that, of course, also creaks. With the low light, I feel like I’m in an interrogation scene from a crappy procedural. “I wanted to know where you got the nerve to attempt to take over my entire class right under my nose.”

If we were in that TV cop drama, this is where I would either confess to my crimes or wise up and ask for a lawyer. Instead, I couldn’t form words if my life depended on it. Exercising my right to remain silent, I sit there.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” she asks. I assume the question is rhetorical, seeing as she doesn’t care about my answer. “You can’t reserve a weekly space for a study group full of my students without my knowledge. The librarians are good friends of mine; imagine my surprise when they told me how often I was spoken of by you all—sneeringly, nastily, disrespectfully. You wereencouragingcriticism of my teaching, my person, my dress, everything. Are you hoping the class will turn in enough negative evaluations for action to be taken against me? If so, you are delusional. This class has had a full semester of reading and film. I absolutely do not deserve the sort ofhatredyou have incited amongst your classmates. And there are rules in the university code of conduct against that sort of behavior.” She sneers. “This is very serious. I may have to involve the dean. And the Endeavor administration. Do you understand, Nova?”

My name is a hiss in her voice, a hiss that’s broken with anger. I feel its sharp edges scratch over my skin like barbed wire.