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CHAPTER NINETEEN! ( HOPE IS A THING WITH FEATHERS. )
THE ADMINISTRATION KNEW about the club. They knew names, they knew details, and they wanted more. They wanted all the club members to come speak to Mr. Nolan with their families.
Violet was chewing at her nails, staring nervously at the wooden door. Joan stared at the ceiling. She was nervous, but anger overtook that. At this point she couldn't find it in herself to care what her parents thought about the club, and she certainly didn't care what Nolan thought of her. He was desperately trying to pin Neil's death on Keating, and that made Jo mad.
They had been sitting in the dorm room for what felt like days. The air smelled stale, the bedsheets felt cold and rough. The walls looked more beige than ever, and Jo found herself hating the stupid wooden furniture that leaned against the walls.
"I hate this place," she stated. Not really to Violet, not to herself. Just to the stuffy, grey air. "I hate it."
Violet didn't say a word. She was preoccupied with her own thoughts. Jo looked over to see Violet glancing between the clock and the door. Her usually sparkling eyes looked dull and anxious.
"You okay?" Jo asked.
"It just feels so hopeless. I mean, it wasn't Keating's fault, and now he's gonna have to take the fall for something so terrible. I just wish I could change things but I can't. I'm gonna have to go in there and face my parents and Nolan. I can't stop thinking about what my parents will think. I know I shouldn't worry about that but I can't help it," Violet said softly.
Jo sighed and stood up. She stepped over to her desk and pulled a purple book out of a stack of textbooks. She leaned against the wall and flipped open to a bookmarked page, one that she had read several times.
"Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land, And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me."
Jo looked up at Violet to see her with a small smile. It was the first time Jo had seen anyone smile since Neil's death. She missed the warmth in people's eyes. "It's gonna be okay," Jo said. She tried to smile, but it didn't work, it was more like a tight lipped line than a smile.
Jo glanced back down at the book. Hope is a Thing With Feathers. The words stood out against the white paper. She ran her fingers along the page before slowly tearing it out of the binding. She placed the book back down on her desk, the gold title looking shinier than ever, The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson.
