Shallow Imitations

chapter twenty

Three months after my parents passed away, I had to endure an entire year of schooling filled with students giving me pitiful looks and teachers giving me free passes even when I don't ask for it. It feels like I have a get-out-of-jail-free card stamped on my forehead. Even when I walk around the city, it feels like everyone is tentative around me. My friends are tiptoeing around, walking on eggshells and changing the subject whenever I show up. They don't wanna seem too happy. Olive tells me that her math test was "okay" when she actually aced it just because I got a D. It's not that uncommon for me to get a bad grade on a math exam. My parents dying had nothing to do with it. Wren avoids mentioning her new boyfriend because she knows this is the last thing on my mind right now. It's sophomore year of high school, and I can't have a real conversation with my friends because I know they'll pause every time someone mentions their parent.

Yesterday, the history teacher was late to class, so I turned my seat and started chatting with the other girls around me. This girl, who could be Sarah or Maria (something biblical), was snacking on the lunch her dad had packed. He drew a small illustration on top of the plastic that held a cheese sandwich. "My dad is so quirky," she said, "I just love him."

Instantly, they glanced up at me. The smile on my face turned into a straight line when I realized what everyone had in mind. It's the girl with the dead parents. I wasn't even reminded of it until they acknowledged that something is wrong with me.

You'd think they'd stop acting weird after three months. I had a whole summer to digest it. I'm still not done grieving them (nor will I ever get over the fact that my parents left us too soon), but I'm ready to move on and start getting back to a routine. The sooner people stop telling me I'm broken around me, the sooner I'll stop thinking it too. Eleonora is lucky. She's in college where people don't know her well enough. The people surrounding her are always changing and no one cares enough to spread the news.

She can walk into a room and be whoever she wanted for the day.

But I'll always be the same person.

Things are better at times, and I think I can get over this. On the good days, it doesn't seem so far-fetched. I set senior year as a good timeline. I'll graduate high school and I'll be okay. It's such a long time from now, and there's that proverb about time and wounds. All I need to do now is finish this year.

One day at a time, Eleonora says.

That's what I'm trying to do. Today, she has an art class at ten while I have to endure insolent teenagers giving me weird looks. Because if they don't pity me, then they watch like I'm a zoo animal. I can just imagine the dialogue in their heads, cold and casual.

Look at her. Such pity.

My friends are nowhere in sight when I walk in Monday morning. I find myself avoiding them nowadays. It's much easier to pretend I'm busy during the summer, or simply say that I have plans with my sister (or that she won't let me go out with them). There's also that one time where I played the dead parents card and told them I couldn't go to a party because we're working out some things with a lawyer.

We weren't completely unprepared. My parents had set up college trust funds for us at eighteen. The money covered up a pretty good amount of schooling for the both of us, but we're still planning on using the remaining money as it's not enough. Some of it was written for our grandparents whom we've never met and some are donated to charity. I didn't even know my parents had a will until now, but I guess they had things planned since we're so isolated from the rest of the family.

The one thing I'm glad for is Eleonora. Sure, we've been fighting nonstop since we both have different ways of handling things and now we're left on our accord, but she has my back. It's easier to deal with things when you don't have to handle all the details. She took charge when I couldn't, and I'll always be grateful for that.

The first period is math, of course.

I have zero energy left to deal with the teacher. She always calls out on me even when she knows I'm not focused. She thinks this is her way of getting me to participate in class and learn things better, but the only thing she's doing is humiliating me. Somehow, it seems like everyone's caught up but me. We're barely into the school year, and everyone seems to know the syllabus while I can't get through a single equation. It's like everyone else has teamed up over the summer and practiced behind my back.

I walk down the hall, my steps quickening and my heart racing as I pass the class. This may not be my first time skipping class, but I've only ever done it before when I was truly incapable of attending.

I march down the halls with no clear destination. My legs have a mind of their own. It feels like I'm about to commit a crime. When my legs stop, I'm standing in front of our library. Our librarian is an old woman who doesn't hear very well, so sneaking inside wouldn't be as much of a problem. As long as I don't get caught, I'll be fine.

I slip inside, hiding by the rows of bookshelves until I find a spot far enough from the librarian that I won't get caught. It sits between two other bookshelves, giving me three walls to hide inside. Coincidentally, I'm the in the Fiction section.

As I go to pull out a book, I hear footsteps approaching. I'm thinking up a million excuses when I see a boy walk up to me. He halts the instant he gets a sight of me. He's holding three books against his chest, a backpack slung over his shoulder. I think I recognize him. He has light brown hair that's kept short and neat and eyes that are an identical shade of brown.

He peeks around the corner and then takes a step forward.

"Hey," I say. "Are you cutting math too?"

He nods. "Um . . . ."

"Is everything okay?"

He looks at his feet, scratching the back of his neck. "It's just that . . . this is my spot."

I turn to look at the angle between the wall and the bookshelf, a perfect area to read. My mind is telling me to move a few rows down. I can have a place to myself. But I don't want to. "Is it okay if we share?"

He nods again, then clears his throat. "Sure," he says as if he'd just remembered that he could speak. I watch as he takes his books and sits down, carefully inspecting each book to decide which one to choose first.

"It's Atlas, right?"

He looks up as if surprised that I knew his name. "Yeah. I think I've seen you around," he says. "Did you move in recently?"

I shake my head. "Been here my whole life. You just never noticed." I smile. "It's Luna, by the way."

That's when he smiles for the first time. It's a subtle, toothless smile. "Nice to meet you, Luna."

This doesn't happen to me. Whenever I'm attracted to a guy, it's mostly physical. The type where you just wanna look at his face, but not actually carry out a conversation. But now, I have this urge to talk to him. I'm thinking of something to say, but nothing conveys how interesting or decent I am as a person. Nothing stands out about me. I'm suddenly thinking of my interests and evaluating myself as a person.

And then it hits me. I'm in a library. We both like books. Duh!

"I'm looking for something to read," I say. "Do you have any suggestions?"

I figure if he has his own spot in the library, then he must read a lot of books. He probably spends a lot of time here. I read a lot too, but I prefer my books more pristine. My parents loved that I read so much, and so buying books was always encouraged. They had quite the collection themselves.

"There's this one I like. It's called Everything I Never Told You." Without looking up, he says, "Blue cover. Third row."

I pick it up and sit next to him, not bothering to check what it's about. The first sentence is enough for me to get into it: Lydia is dead. I'm already intrigued.

Next, to me, Atlas picks up The Elements of Style, an unusual choice. It's small enough to fit in his pocket. This book has become my bible ever since I decided to be a writer. He glances at me, smiling before looking down at his book. Atlas cracks the spine before beginning to read.