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)
As she entered room 206 and walked to the desk where she normally sat, she immediately noticed Mr. Sawyer’s desk had been moved. It wasn’t smack in the middle at the front anymore, but relocated to the far left corner. She plopped her backpack down on the floor and slid into the plastic chair.
“You moved your desk?”
Mr. Sawyer ignored her question, strolled to the back of the room, and shut the door. The sch-lenk sound of the lock clanking closed made Jocelyn feel like her insides were vibrating. She loved being alone with him, loved having all his attention. Yet . . . there went her palms, sweating already. It was only a matter of time before her throat grew tight.
“Is your essay for today ready?”
Mr. Sawyer always made her write about her screwed-up life. But this week’s assignment had been more difficult than others because it really hit home. She’d been tasked to write about her loneliness.
Jocelyn wiped her palms on her jeans and straightened her spine. “Yes.”
“Very well, then.” He walked back behind his desk and pointed to the floor right next to him. “Here. On your knees. Eyes down.”
It was the first time Jocelyn wouldn’t be sitting ten feet away, and the thought of being so close to Mr. Sawyer both thrilled her and freaked her out. Though by now she knew better than to hesitate when he instructed her to do something. So Jocelyn pulled her yellow spiral notebook with the butterfly from her backpack and scurried to the front. She felt Mr. Sawyer’s eyes on her as she walked, yet she didn’t dare lift her gaze.
Jocelyn knelt, shifted her weight from side to side trying to get comfortable, though her knobby knees were too bony for that. She took a deep breath, preparing to start, but her inhale brought a smell that gave her pause. Masculinity. Woodsy—maybe cedar, mixed with leather and something else she wasn’t familiar with. There was also the slightest hint of coffee in the concoction. She’d never really noticed a man’s cologne before, but she liked the way it made her feel. Though it made her wonder what Mr. Sawyer might be smelling this close to her. The washing machine at home was broken again, so Jocelyn hadn’t washed her jeans after her shift at McDonald’s yesterday. Chances were pretty good that she smelled like three-day-old burnt oil and french fries. Or worse, considering it was hot today and the near-empty stick she’d rubbed under her armpits after gym class had more plastic than deodorant.
“Is there a problem, Miss Burton?”
Jocelyn shook her head. Her eyes traced the first line of her paper, but when she took another deep breath to begin reading, that smell hit her again. “You smell really good,” she whispered.
There was a long pause. As she waited for a response—something . . . anything—Jocelyn worried the compliment might have upset Mr. Sawyer. But when he eventually spoke, she heard the smile in his voice, even if she didn’t look up to see it. “I’m pleased that you noticed. You may begin.”
She cleared her throat. “‘Loneliness isn’t the absence of company. It’s a haunting void you feel inside, even in a crowded room . . .’” Over the next ten minutes, Jocelyn read eight pages—describing a night her mother was at work and she was home alone. She reminisced about a stormy night, how the wind had moaned a low pitch that rose and fell in unpredictable patterns, making her shake with uncertainty. She’d taken the gun her mom kept in her nightstand and tucked it under her pillow, she was so afraid. Tears streamed down her face as she read about the time she’d visited the beach with her friend’s family, how she’d snuck out when they were all sleeping and stood on the rocks at the edge of the jetty, wondering if anyone would notice if she fell in and the giant waves swallowed her. It was gut-wrenching to say the words aloud, but reading what she’d written was never the worst part. The worst was the time after she finished, the hour she had to look down. Because all of the feelings that had bubbled to the surface got stuck. Jocelyn wished she could look out the window, watch a finch or a blue jay, let her mind wander and find some peace. But she didn’t want to disappoint Mr. Sawyer. Plus, at some point, when he was ready, Mr. Sawyer would praise her—and that would make her feel better.
So she waited. And waited. Until eventually the shuffling of papers, the sound of the pen’s tip scratching along the pages of the notebook he wrote in, came to a stop, and Mr. Sawyer reached out. He cupped Jocelyn’s chin and lifted until their eyes met.
“Are you enjoying our sessions, Miss Burton?”