Exaltation

Chapter 9

I wake up the next morning still in Stef's bed. He's got one leg thrown over my side, and my head is lying uncomfortably in the space between his arm and his shoulder. Despite our nakedness, the duvet that was on his bed last night is nowhere to be found. I squirm around a little bit, trying to get more comfortable.

"Good morning, princess," he says, his voice still coated in sleep. I turn around to face him and place a hand on his neck.

"I didn't mean to wake you. You can go back to sleep," I whisper in response. He opens his eyes and looks deep into my own.

"I'm okay being up," he replies with a small smirk. I smile and drop my hand from his neck to his chest, using my index finger to trace the lines of his muscles, the curvature of his body.

"I had a great time last night," I say, trying to start a conversation.

"So did I. You're... a lot of fun."

"Little old me?" I question, and he laughs.

"Yes, little old you. Hey, do you maybe want to head down to the dining hall and grab some breakfast?" He asks. I nod in agreement before pulling out of his embrace and attempting to locate my clothes. After finally finding them in a pile under his bed, I slip back on my jeans and bra.

"Do you want to borrow one of my shirts? I don't want you to have to wear last night's outfit to breakfast—"

"That would be great, thank you," I say, and he tosses me a big gray t-shirt with the name of some restaurant on the front pocket. As I slide it on, my thoughts turn to the memories of last night. Of how his body moved in unison with mine. Of how his voice felt as it slipped down my skin. Of how he touched me like he thought he knew me.

"You okay?" He asks. I zap myself out of my daydream and head over to his sink.

"Yeah. Is it okay if I rinse off before we go?"

"Definitely," he replies. As I splash the cold water against my face, I try to replace the weird feeling lying deep in the pit of my stomach with excitement over the fact that I'd slept with an incredibly hot guy, who's also incredibly nice, and also incredibly popular. But I can't. The feeling is still there. Biting my lip, I turn the water off and give Stef a thumbs-up. And before I know it, we're sitting together at a table in the hall eating breakfast.

"So, Sophie, tell me something I don't already know about you," he tries. I rack my brain for things to talk about that don't even go near any rabbit holes.

"Well... I took German as my foreign language in high school," I begin.

"Ah, Deutsch! Ich liebe Deutsch!" He exclaims. I giggle.

"Ja, ich auch! Und...Ich bin auch jüdisch," I say. He raises his eyebrows.

"A Jewish girl in German class? You don't hear that one everyday."

"Jesus Christ, Stef!" I cry. We laugh together for a moment before I look down at my plate of eggs and bacon. Even these most basic breakfast foods look unappetizing and wrongly-cooked.

"The food here's terrible," I complain, eventually forking some egg and sticking it into my mouth before forcing myself to swallow.

"Oh, it's the worst. But when you're an old guy such as myself, you can use your meal swipes in the Den. It's way better. Trust me," he replies. I sigh and take another bite. Then another. Suddenly desperate to fill the growing pit in my stomach with anything but the emptiness I remember all too well.

*

It's time for our yearly interviews. Everyone in the writing program has to meet one-on-one with the teachers, who will then decide if you get to stay in the program for the next school year. I, of course, am petrified. I had just been told by the fiction writing teacher that I would be having my interview with Ms. Adams. So I sit in my seat, my body tense and perfectly still, as I wait to be called.

All of a sudden, Ms. Adams come back into the classroom.

"Up next is....Sophie," she calls. Although my legs suddenly feel like jelly, I am somehow able to stand up and follow her outside. We make our way across the school and to her office space, where she gestures to a seat across from her desk. I sit down, my heart pounding hard in my chest.

"So, Sophie," she says, her voice sounding utterly disinterested. I take in a deep breath in a useless effort to try and calm my nerves. "You've had a hard year."

"Yes, I have. I— a lot was happening at home, and I tried to turn those negative experiences into writing; I tried to use them as fodder, I guess—"

"Well, it didn't work." Ms. Adams cuts me off. We sit in silence for a moment as she pulls out a manila folder. She opens it up, then begins reading.

"My father says that if he could, he would do the same thing / until his insides melted away, rotted / in the pit of his throat, the walls of his stomach. The boy, / in another world, says to me that I am a breaking point, / a tipping scale, and, yes, still beautiful / in a way that cannot be forgotten."

She sets the paper down. Trying not to let my emotions get the best of me, I find myself staring at her hands. At the way her skin tugs around the bone of her knuckles. At the freckle she has between her index and middle finger on her left hand.

"Sophie, you're almost sixteen years old, and you're still writing immature love poems," she says, her voice stern. Hard as concrete. I let it hit me with open arms.

"I...." I try refuting what she's saying, but realize I can't. She's right. I'm immature. Useless. Dumb.

"If you want to maintain your spot in this program, you're going to have to earn my respect. And you have a long road ahead of you if you want to do that," she commands. I look down at my feet and shuffle them around a little.

"I just want to be a writer," I say, my voice barely an octave above a whisper.

"Sophie, you know that's not a realistic career path for you," Ms. Adams replies, leaning forward on her desk. Our faces are closer now. I raise my eyes to meet hers.

"Yeah. I know that."

"Good. Well, anyways, let's move not your next workshopped piece—"

"Sophie!"

I wake up to the sound of Kris calling my name. I open my eyes, realizing that she's standing at the foot of my bed. A look of worry is splayed across her face.

"You.... I think you were having a nightmare," Kris says. I suck in my breath and sit up in bed. The clock shows that it's almost six o'clock. My two hour nap had gone on much longer than expected, which unfortunately gave me enough time to have yet another hyper-realistic dream about Ms. Adams.

"Oh. Um, I'm sorry about that," I reply, running my fingers through my hairs. She smiles softly.

"That's okay! We can... talk about it. If you want to, that is," she tries. I immediately shake my head.

"I would rather not. Thanks, though," I quickly retort. She nods slowly, retreating to her bed. She locks her eyes with mine for a few seconds, her lips pursed.

"If you change your mind, I'm here."

"Thanks, Kris. Anyway, are you coming out with us tonight?" I ask, suddenly desperate to change the topic. I just need something to distract me from my nightmare. A memory of who I once was, of who I wanted to be.

Not of who I am now. Now I'm going out again to meet up with a hot guy with whom I just had amazing sex with my beautiful, cool friends by my side. I pray to whatever force there is out there that it'll be enough to one day help me forget for good.