Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“Very good. Now . . . right there.” He pointed to the floor next to a desk. “Kneel, keep your eyes down, and read the essay to me aloud.”
Again, she almost questioned him—why did she have to kneel? But his face was stern, and he was waiting, so instead, she swallowed her words. After all, she’d come here. She wanted his help and had agreed to write this thing. So she couldn’t back out now.
The hard laminate floor was cool against her knees. She cleared her throat, traced the first printed words with her eyes. Was she really going to do this?
“‘My first memory of my mother . . .’” she began. And suddenly, she was reading. Remembering each moment she’d written into this essay, how alone she’d felt. All the nights she’d cried herself to sleep, wondering if when she woke, her mother would be home. And if she was home, if she’d still be alive, or if she’d have killed herself with alcohol and drugs. Before she knew what was happening, Jocelyn was sobbing through her words, hot trails of tears streaking down her cheeks, no doubt marring the eyeliner she’d put on just for Mr. Sawyer.
Eventually, Jocelyn got through all six pages. She read the last line, the last words, and stifled back a last sob, embarrassed at herself—how weak she was, how she couldn’t even read the paper she’d written aloud without turning into a baby.
Mr. Sawyer remained at his desk, unmoving. Watching her. There was a gleam in his eyes, something that made her think he liked the essay—but then his jaw hardened.
“Where are you supposed to be looking, Miss Burton?”
She instantly bowed her head again, looking back at the floor, at her inked pages covered in splotchy tears.
“That was very good,” he said. And her pulse quickened. He thought her writing was very good. “But,” he bit out, “you need more discipline. Stay on your knees. Eyes down.”
She waited for further instructions, but there were none. She didn’t dare look up, but she could hear him, moving about the classroom, jostling things at his desk. Five minutes passed, then ten. Fifteen, twenty. Her knees ached, her palms were sweaty, and her throat felt swollen. More than anything, she wanted to stretch her legs out, just for a moment of relief. But still, she stayed there.
She wanted to please Mr. Sawyer.
Eventually, shoes came into view. Shiny, leather, expensive-looking ones. So much nicer than her grubby sneakers.
“Jocelyn, stand up.”
She wobbled as she rose, a steady hand on her elbow keeping her from toppling over. Mr. Sawyer gently touched her cheek, and she nearly flinched in surprise. But when he stroked her skin with his thumb, she leaned into his palm. It felt so good, like he cherished her.
“You are beautiful, Jocelyn. Do you know that?”
She didn’t believe him, but she didn’t want to challenge his words, either.
“You did very well today. I’m very happy with your efforts.”
“Th-thank you,” she managed. Inside, she felt like she was trembling. Or was she trembling on the outside, too? Shit, she didn’t want him to see. But still, his hand on her remained steady. Whatever he saw, he liked. And she wanted him to like her.
“I look forward to next time.” His words were soft. She waited, hoping he’d say more, hoping he’d say when “next time” might be. Instead, he reached into his pocket and took out something small, something shiny. “I have a gift for you.”
“For me?”
His warm voice cooled, turned clipped. “Don’t be an echo. Be a voice, Jocelyn.”
She wasn’t even sure what that meant, but she didn’t want to ask and sound stupid. “Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Okay . . . sir.”
Mr. Sawyer placed a small pendant in the palm of her hand and closed her fingers around it. “Good girl. You may go.” He went to the door, unlocked it, and opened it for her. But as she approached, he put his arm out, stopping her from passing. “Next time, you will not question my instructions. Do you understand?”
Jocelyn nodded. “Yes.” Mr. Sawyer continued to stare at her until she realized what he was waiting for. “Yes, sir,” she added.
He removed his arm, allowing her passage, but caught her eyes one last time. “Good. Because in the future, Miss Burton, failing to obey will have consequences.”
CHAPTER
7
Ishould go home. Or go for a run, or to the gym at least. Instead, I stare out at my empty classroom, folding and unfolding the piece of paper I’ve had for two days. I fold it one way, and the details disappear—no name, no email. I fold it the other, and they’re cut in half, the four in Ivy’s phone number becoming two little lines. I give it a spin, a flick, let it float to the ground, where I’ll inevitably pick it up, because what else can I do?