Page 8 of Left on Read

“No,” I managed to say, choking back a sob.

“Will you be?” she asked again.

“Yes,” I whispered.

She moved out of my way.

Now, three years later, she doesn’t have to ask. All she does is nod. All I do is nod back. If I need anything, if I need to talk, all I have to do is come into her room.

“… and we’ll be going to the North Carolina State Beta Club convention this year,” she’s saying. “Well, next year. Technically. But thisschoolyear. So, start thinking about what events you’d like to compete in and things like that.”

That sounds like so far away, next year and graduation and moving on from this place, but it’s closer than I’d like to admit. Much closer than I’m ready for.

“Of course, we’ll also need a new president before then.” Her eyes find mine, and then drift over to Hayes, who’s still standing too close to me. She keeps talking, about vice president and treasurer and the other officers who also matter,I guess,but I can’t think about anything other than that president role. What it could mean for me. My future. It’s one more shiny accolade for college applications, not to mention the world of scholarship opportunities it opens up.

“But.” Mrs. Jacobs’s voice is sharp, making the word a full sentence of its own. “I don’t want anyone thinking or worrying about that now. Elections won’t be until the end of this semester, so no campaigning yet, okay? This election goes by holiday-decoration rules: nothing before Thanksgiving.”

She stares down Hayes and me as she says that.

She ends the meeting and dismisses everyone, smiling at each person as they file out of the room.

I heard the words she didn’t say.Did you hear me? No worrying.

But worrying is what I do.

OfficialEndeavourHigh:If whoever stole the traffic cones from the upper-level parking lot could please return them, there’ll be no questions asked.

Isit down cross-legged on a concrete floor, and Esha hands me a kitten. My hands gently wrap around the wriggling mass of fluff, and I hold him out in front of my face. He looks like a sentient cotton ball.

“That one’s Tuba,” she says as she picks up another two kittens in each hand. “We named the litter after brass instruments. These two are Cornet and Euphonium.”

Tuba squeaks in a way that suggests he’s not a fan of me, and I let him down onto my lap. All around me, similar noises echo, the kittens communicating with one another and us. Esha seems to understand their language, even if I don’t.

“How can you even tell?” I ask her. The room at the shelter is overflowing with pure white kittens just like him. I scratch between Tuba’s ears with one finger, and he digs his tiny claws into the knee of my jeans over and over.

“His personality. He’s chaotic.” She lets her kittens go, and they start chasing one another around her legs.

“I thought the orange ones were the chaotic cats,” I joke. I lean back on my palms as Tuba continues his exploration of my lap.

“Tuba’sspirituallyorange.” As if to illustrate her point, Tuba launches himself off my knee, attempting to swat at a little calico who’s just passing by, minding her own business. He misses her entirely and lands on his feet. His ears flare back, his tail puffs up. He does a complete 360 spin in confusion, like he doesn’t know how he ended up on the floor. Then he looks at me, as if I have some explanation.

I don’t know either, dude.

“You’re upset,” Esha says, picking up Tuba and smoothing out the fur he’d frazzled. “I thought Tuba could help.”

“I’mnotupset,” I tell her, looking around at the tiny room stuffed full of kittens. “I don’t know what I am, but I don’t think upset is it.”

Tuba squawks at her and kicks his tiny arms and legs. Esha puts him down and reaches around her back to grab a gray kitten climbing up her hair. The little calico girl Tuba was trying to jump on ambles her way over to me. She has a poof-ball toy in her mouth, like one you’d find on the end of a Santa hat. She drops it right at my hand, and then she just stands there, waiting for praise.

“Who’s this?” I ask as I reach for the calico. She butts her head against my fingers, and I pick her up.

“That’s July. Different litter. We named them all after months of the year.”

“There were twelve of them?” I hold July to my chest, and despite being nearly microscopic, she has a strong voice. Her grumbly purr echoes through my ribs.

“No. We skipped a few months.” Esha stands up with Tuba, taking him toward the little, round hammock part of the cat tree in the corner where a few other kittens are sitting in a cuddle puddle. Esha calls those soup bowls. Practically every day, I get a text with a picture of a cat or two curled up in one of those, and all it ever says is:Look, they’re being soup.

“Is this for me?” I try to hand July back her beloved toy. “That’s so nice of you.” I scratch under her chin with my thumb.