“Mina, the Grease & Grind doesn’t take reservations.”
The mom started her car and reversed out of the parking lot. “We have to go inside,” I hissed. “Now!”
“Mina, hold on. It’s too crowded in there. I’ll drive us to Espresso Yourself. They have a discount on the raspberry white mochas you like.”
The jogger rounded the corner, leaving the parking lot empty.
And I smelled it. The pungent odor of sewage and rot.
It was coming. Any second now, Alex’s eyes would turn a cold and hateful orange, and he would try to kill me.
Panic stole away my senses. I yanked out of Alex’s hold, nearly punching him in the process, and sprinted into the diner. Alex stood outside for ten minutes, waiting for me to come out and apologize, before shaking his head and storming away.
I haven’t tried a second time.
I sink lower in the seat, attention switching between the world’s slowest clock and my dog-eared copy ofJane Eyre.
English is my hardest hour of the day. Miss Diaz wears a feathered cap to talk aboutHamlet,hangs posters of Isabel Allende’s stories around the cramped classroom, reads Mahmoud Darwish poems every time it rains. Students who aren’t in her class seek her out for advice. The ones who are try twice as hard to put in the effort, even though it’s the last semester of senior year and they’ve spiritually exited the building.
If Canyon High has a heart, its name is Miss Diaz.
“Alright folks, one more weekend ofJane Eyrebefore we move on to our next unit! Look alive, look alive.” Miss Diaz rubs her hands together. Brown curls overpower the book-shaped clip in her hair and bounce around her round face. “We’ve talked a lot about tragedy inJane Eyre.I want to go over joy today. Joy is why we endure when all the obstacles are stacked against us. Where does our heroine find her joy?”
Definitely not anywhere in this book.
I run my thumb over the crinkled page of my school-issued copy. Dozens of seniors have held this copy ofJane Eyrein their hands. Their names litter the front page, joined by mine in tiny letters at the bottom.
I trace a drawing of a sunset etched in the corner of the page. Books are like clay, Baba always says. Every owner leaves an imprint behind. A little sadness, a little hope, soaked into the pages of an old story. Keeping it alive for the next person.
What imprint am I leaving behind?
“Mina!” Miss Diaz startles me, and I find her standing at the edge of my desk. There’s a mixture of frustration and concern in her gaze. “Hon, are you alright? I’ve been calling your name.”
“Sorry.” The word comes out hoarse. It’s the first time I’ve talked out loud to anyone other than the ants all day. I clear my throat. “Sorry. I was going over my notes on the reading.”
“Alright,” Miss Diaz says. I can tell she doesn’t believe me. “Come up with anything good?”
I flip the page. Pretend my notes aren’t doodles of prom dresses. “I don’t really see what could be joyful about her life. Her parents are dead, her aunt abuses her, her best friend dies, and then her love interest turns out to be married.” Frankly, it’s a miracle Jane didn’t flee into the woods earlier.
“Spoiler much?” someone calls.
“You should have read that last week, Tyler.” Miss Diaz tsks and pivots on her booted heel. “Mina’s right. Thereisa lot of hopelessness in Jane’s tale. But if that’s the case, why does she go back? Once she becomes a rich woman and finds a suitable match in St. John, what drives Jane to return to Thornfield?”
Miss Diaz is still looking at me. I blasted through the end of the book during fourth period. The only parts I retained are Mr. Rochester losing his vision and the other dude dying. “Because she hears his voice calling for her in the wind?”
“Not quite.” She flashes an encouraging smile. “But you’re on the right track. This weekend, I want you all to consider Jane Eyre’s journey in its entirety. From her aunt’s house to St. John’s, ask yourselves this: What parts of herself does Jane leave behind, and what ties them all together?” She raps her knuckles on the podium. “Answers in two double-spaced paragraphs, please.”
Backpack zippers cut through the groans. Conversation breaks out for the last minute of class. Miss Diaz crouches by my desk. “Can you hang back after the bell?” she asks quietly.
My chest tightens. Miss Diaz hasn’t quit trying to catch me for a one-on-one in weeks.
“I can’t today. My dad is picking me up.” A bald-faced lie. Baba teaches a seminar on Friday evenings, and he heads to the university library early to get work done. He is there so often that if he didn’t have the social skills of a six-hundred-year-old turtle, I would wonder if he was dating the librarian.
“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind waiting a few extra minutes. Please, Mina.”
I barely hear the bell over my burgeoning terror. The students start to filter out. The certainty of danger creeps over me, as persistent and pervasive as the weeds coiled around the quad. If they all leave, it’ll happen again. I know it will.
It’ll find me.
