Exaltation

Chapter 3

"Sophie," Ms. Adams says. Her face is close to my own as she holds my poem in her hands. She reads aloud a line.

"Her bones don't fit / together anymore. Her skin is spread / too thin, arteries almost on the surface of / her body, a root stretched to a / sapling." Hearing her read my first deeply personal poem makes me almost nauseous.

"This sounds like something from that teen writing site— Wattpad, I think it's called. This isn't real writing. If you're serious about this writing thing, you have to stop with all these silly cliches and teenage musings. Talk about something real, for once," she demands. Her voice is loud. I can feel the eyes of the rest of the students in the class boring holes into my back. I wish, just for this moment, that I could shrink into or out of myself, become either bigger or smaller, be anyone but the iteration of Sophie I currently am.

"How?" I can only muster one word. I imagine all the things I wish I would say but can't. Such as: I didn't realize writing about my grandmother's alcoholism classified as a teenage musing. Or, better yet, I am writing only for you at this point. Please understand that.

"I'm honestly not sure where to begin. I just need you to stop being so frivolous when you write. I can't respect you when you're constantly giving me poems like this one."

I feel the tears build, press, and compress behind my eyes. I blink several times, pushing them back. I won't let Ms. Adams see me cry. But, still, I wish she could know how she makes me feel. I really, really wish she could. The way my heart swells and explodes everyone she speaks to me. How her voice sits at the small of my back, always waiting to be heard. I want to say- I hear you. I keep my mouth firmly closed.

"Yes, ma'am, of course."

"I first suggest you start over with a completely new draft—"

My eyes fly open, my breathing heavy. Luckily, it had all been a dream. I sit up in bed and run my fingers through my hair, wishing I could forget about it. I'm tired of still having to deal with the memories of Ms. Adams and my writing and my past. The more I think about it, the more I dream, and the more I dream, the tighter my heart feels in my chest, the heavier my shoulders feel when I try to do things like be happy.

All of a sudden, my mom's at my door.

"Sweetie," she calls, her voice soft. "Are you up?"

"Yeah, you can come in," I reply, grateful for the distraction. My door swings open and my mother steps inside.

"Good morning," she says, smiling. "Sleep well?"

"Yeah, I did. What's up?"

"Nothing, just checking to see if you need help with any last-minute packing. Oh, and also if you want me to make you breakfast," she asks. I push aside my covers and stand up, my eyes scanning my bedroom. Boxes litter the floor, each filled with things I'll be taking to school with me. Clothes, books, posters, my viola, tchotchkes.... At this point, the only things left to pack are my winter jackets and some snacks for the road.

"I think I'm good on both fronts. Thanks, though."

"Okay. Let me know if you need anything." She turns to exit, then pauses.

"Honey, I know a lot happened over the last four years, and if you need to talk about anything, get anything off your chest—"

"I'm fine, Mom. Really. I'd talk to you if anything were wrong," I assure her, my stomach churning slightly at the blatant lie I'm telling her. However, she doesn't seem to catch on. She bites her lip, nodding.

"Okay. I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything."

Then she goes, leaving me alone in my room. I take in the sight of it, now a shell of what it had been when I was in high school. My pale blue walls used to be covered in posters of all my favorite bands and movies, complete with my dad's original Rocky Horror poster and his 70s protest signs. I had nail polishes, perfumes, lighters, corkscrews, hand creams, mini stuffed animals, and ticket stubs covering every available square inch of desk and wall space. It had been a home. It had been my home.

Now, all of my favorite things have been packed away. But this is what I need to do. I need to move on. I can't be haunted by high school forever.