“Ohhhhh yes. Aw, yeah, that was not great. But maybe time to let it go?”
First semester of freshman year, Mac and I were among a handful of students to apply for a student ambassador role on a spring trip to Washington, D.C. They were choosing three ambassadors, but the top student would have the trip paid for. Mac and I were both chosen along with a third student, but Mac won the top spot, which meant the third person and I had to pay our own way. My school scholarship wouldn’t cover the trip, and I certainly couldn’t afford it, so I had to back out.
But Mac could have paid for the trip on his own. He could have told the program directors that he was able to pay his own way and didn’t need the school to sponsor him. So why did he take that top spot from someone who wasn’t able to pay? Another student ended up taking my place, and I had to see photos of the trip in the school newspaper.
Until that moment, I thought Mac and I were friendly school rivals, having a laugh about being top students and competing in the kind of way you compete with your friends when the stakes aren’t high and the fire of the competition fuels you. But I knew when I found out who the top spot went to that Mac was out for blood, and I swore I’d never forgive him. That I would beat him ruthlessly and without mercy at everything we ever competed for again. So far I’ve kept my promise to myself. But the Walden Senior Scholarship is taking me back to freshman year all over again, and this new friendship thing with Mac is muddying the waters for me.
I’ve always kept my grudges the way a knight keeps an oath, death before deserting. But what would happen if I abandoned my post? Would the world as I know it crack and crumble? Or would I—like I caught a glimpse of tonight—find my irritation is as soluble as sugar when I loosen my grip on those grudges?
Maybe I’ll never get an apology or acknowledgment from Mac, but I can get a little peace for myself.
CHAPTERTEN
JESSIE
I am not a rule-breaker. I am not the kind of person who does things she isn’t supposed to do. I don’t defy authority on any kind of regular basis. So when I check the status of my federal student loan application again, knowing my mom has explicitly refused to cosign for a loan, knowing she’d wildly disapprove, I shove all my discomfort deep down inside, because I don’t have time for guilt. I’m losing sleep over this financial aid situation. My mind is a tornado of circling thoughts: what if I don’t get any scholarships? What if I have to drop out? How will I finish my degree? Neither of my parents finished college because neither of them went to college. I know I’d be letting them down by not finishing. I’d be letting myself down.
And I’d be letting down an entire future generation of kids who need access to mental health resources. Who need more Miss Julies and Mr. Greens. What would my own life have looked like without them—without a counselor to help me?
I’ve learned the art of not wanting. Through middle school, when all my friends were wearing the trendiest outfits and newest accessories? Didn’t matter, I didn’t want it. Everyone in my orchestra class had a shiny new instrument and mine was thrifted and somehow always out of tune? Wanting a new one wouldn’t buy one, so why bother? It was easier to convince myself I didn’t want these things than to let myself hope.
But this dream of being a therapist for kids? It’s one of the few things I’ve let myself long for. I can’t let it slip by just because my mom won’t cosign for a loan. She tells me all the time “Debt is a burden you don’t want, chicken,” but it’s my life, and I’ll take on a couple thousand dollars of loans if it means I can achieve my dream.
Which is why I submitted my application for a loan earlier this week.
I just need her to cosign for it. But that’s a problem for another day.
Stiff and achy, I finally stand for a stretch break. It’s almost five o’clock, and I’ve been at the library since after my eight o’clock class this morning. Which isn’t what normal students do on Fridays, but I needed to finish scholarship applications, get this loan application filled out, and start studying for exams, because those are in two weeks, right after Thanksgiving.
Mid-November until after my exams, a time I fondly call “Exam Season,” is the stretch of time that I basically live at the library, but especially now I’ve got the extra burden of my financial aid situation and I’m in a statistics class. Math isn’t my strong suit, and even though I spent most of the morning doing practice worksheets and reviewing every assignment from the semester, I’m still not sure I understand any of it. I took a break for applications, and now I need to get started on my psychology paper.
Sighing, I slump, leaning against the table for support. I allow myself thirty seconds to be tired and box breathe my way through it.
Inhale…1, 2, 3, 4… Hold…1, 2, 3, 4… Exhale…1, 2, 3, 4…
And then I pocket my phone and head upstairs to the stacks.
I’ve always loved the library. I didn’t own a lot of books growing up, so nearly all my reading material came from the library. Until I could drive, Mom would take me to the library like clockwork every three weeks to return a stack and find a new stack of books. Even when I started driving, she’d go with me when she could because she liked being surrounded by books too. She’d check out big coffee table books full of art and stare at the pictures while she ate dinner between work shifts.
I still find the most peace in the instant silence of walking into a library. It’s just you and hundreds of stories. Lives lived and never lived, spines waiting to be cracked, and words ready to be consumed. Even a school library is a sanctuary, a place of reverence. What some people find in a church I’ve found in the library. This is holy ground.
I climb the stairs to the third floor and stroll through the aisles of books, taking my time to get to where I need to go. While the first floor has a few rows of shelves, it’s mostly tables, cubbies, and study rooms. The second, third, and fourth floors are just shelves of books. And, of course, the odd couple making out, but even they can find better places on campus. Less dusty places, anyway. My throat is already dry.
I finally end up in the aisle I need to be in. I take out my phone and pull up the email I sent myself in class the other day with a list of titles I thought would be helpful for the psych paper due at the end of the semester. I should have started earlier, but a month will be just enough time.
Of course the book I need is on the highest shelf, so I have to find a stool, which takes way more time than it should because no one puts them back at the end of the aisle when they’re done like they’re supposed to, so I have to weave in and out of a few aisles of shelves before I find one. I’m so frustrated that, as I finally reach for the book I want, I don’t notice there’s a person behind me—until their arm stretches up next to mine for the exact same book. It startles me, and I lose my balance.
I yelp and try to lean forward to catch myself, but I’ve already started to fall.
Strong arms come around me, and the fall is over no sooner than it started.
“This again, huh? You’re a hazard to yourself, Matthews.”
Irked as I am to be called by my last name, relief sweeps through me at being caught. And of course the person who caught me is none other than the only person at this school who occasionally calls me by my last name.
“Thank you,” I manage to say through gritted teeth. He just saved my ass—no need to correct him on the name.
Mac holds onto me as I step off the stool, a steady hand on my back and the gentle brush of fingers against my arm. His hands are gone the second I’m steady. My gaze lingers on them, though. He reaches for the book I never grabbed, and I watch it in slow motion. The library is dimly lit, but I can still make out the veins climbing the back of his hands up his forearms, the ridges of muscle that appear with the extension of his arm, the size of his hand—large against the thin book he holds. Like a fire across a forest, heat rolls through me, a slow, uncontrolled burn I fear I’m not going to be able to contain.
