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)
She nodded. “I don’t feel lonely when I’m with you.”
Mr. Sawyer’s lips curved to a smile. “Excellent. And have you spent time lately with the boy I sometimes see you with in the hall?”
“Lucas?”
The smile on her teacher’s face wilted. “Yes, him.”
She shook her head. “No, I haven’t seen Lucas.”
Mr. Sawyer’s eyes narrowed, and his lips tightened. No words were necessary. He wasn’t sure he believed her.
“I haven’t.” Jocelyn swallowed. “I swear.”
Mr. Sawyer searched her eyes, but there was nothing to find because she wasn’t hiding anything. She’d blown Lucas off recently. They used to spend time together after school, sometimes make out behind the chicken coop on the side of his parents’ house, but now she mostly spent her free time with Mr. Sawyer or working on one of his assignments.
He tilted his head. “Has a boy ever touched you, Jocelyn?”
The crimson bloom of her cheeks answered for her.
“Point,” Mr. Sawyer said sternly. “Show me where you’ve been touched.”
Jocelyn thought about lying, but the way his eyes were searing into her, she was certain he’d be able to tell. She took a deep breath, held it, and pointed to her breasts.
“Anywhere else?” he asked.
She shook her head.
Mr. Sawyer’s eyes darkened. “Are you ready for more discipline?”
There was no hesitation on Jocelyn’s part this time. She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. I’m ready.”
“You realize that if anyone was ever to find out about our sessions, I wouldn’t be able to help you anymore and you would lose your chance at a scholarship, right?”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
Mr. Sawyer’s thumb rubbed his bottom lip for a long time. Eventually, he picked up his pen and scribbled an address on his notepad. Tearing the strip of paper away, he held it out to Jocelyn.
“Thursday. Six p.m.”
She went to take it, but he didn’t let go. Their eyes met.
“Boys will use you. They won’t ever really want you because they won’t see the potential in you like I do. All they’ll see is a poor girl with dirty, used clothes, and a loser for a mother.” He stroked her hair softly, then fingered the split ends at the bottom. “A girl who doesn’t even cut her hair. You’re lucky I’m helping you.”
CHAPTER
21
Ihaven’t slept more than three hours a night in the five days since I returned from Louisiana. I sit in the subway seat, face dropped into my hands, and consider my options: yoga, meditation, massive amounts of wine? None of it has worked yet. It’s like this warped reality I can’t escape. Exhaustion, pulling at me from one moment to the next, distracting my every attempt at getting back to living my life, but as soon as I crawl beneath the covers, I’m awake.
Wide awake. Staring at the ceiling, my chest tight, breaths coming short and fast. I start to think about the chapters . . . and what comes at the end of the story. Hannah didn’t take my bait and add a friend named Lizzie, but we both know she’ll appear on the page sooner or later, don’t we?
As I raise my head, checking to see which stop we’re at, I catch a man’s gaze lingering on me. He’s tall with a beard. He looks away, caught. I reach for my bag, hands shaking like I’m withdrawing from something. Withdrawing from sleep, from my body’s inability to shut off, even for a few hours. I stand and move swiftly through the car, tucking myself into a different seat, behind a group of teenagers. I peer around them, trying to catch sight of the man, but he’s gone.
I exhale.
Not following me, then.
I take a long look at every other person near me, but they’re all busy—staring at phones, reading books, listening to music. No one’s paying me any mind, yet I’m on high alert, and I can’t be any other way.
As soon as I reach campus—glancing behind me, watching for the man, for anyone else who seems to be trailing me—I head straight for the health clinic. Since I’m a professor, they put me ahead of the half dozen students waiting to be seen, and I’m in a room in ten minutes.
“Ms. Davis?” A young woman enters, glancing up from a clipboard. She looks like another student, but her ID badge reads Kendra Young, Nurse Practitioner.
I open my mouth—almost correct her to Professor Davis—then purse it shut. It doesn’t matter what she calls me. What matters is that Kendra Young likes me enough to write a prescription for something that will let me sleep, let me silence these swirling thoughts, even if only briefly. So I forget the honorific and smile back at her, summoning all my inner strength to seem normal, like a well-adjusted woman who just needs a little help during a difficult time in her life.
“Yes, that’s me,” I manage.
“How can I help you today?” Kendra pulls up a rolling stool, crosses her legs, looks at me with an open gaze, a warm smile.