All These Lives by Sarah Wylie Read Free Book Online Page B

salivary yellow pencil?
    “I can’t believe you’d do that.”
    Withholding a groan, I throw the pencil into my backpack. Hurt is so not sexy on a nerd.
    “Sweetie,” I coo, “relax, she didn’t say anything about expelling either one of us.”
    Jack stands with me now and, leaving his stuff on the table, follows me out of the library. Mr. Halbrook is talking to Mrs. Uri. With her luck, he’s the one hitting on her—not resident hot P.E. teacher, Mr. Thomas. I bet she’s playing the “I’m married” card. Either way, Jack and I get out unnoticed.
    “But you tried to make it look like I was the one eating them.”
    I wait till we’re safely through the library doors before I tiredly face Jack. “A bag of chips? Really? Of all the things to come between us.”
    Jack starts to say something else, but I cut him off. “Look, she saw me inhaling the pack beforehand. She saw me slide it over to you. She knew it was me.”
    “Then why did you do it?”
    Feeling frustrated at Jack’s complete fixation and psychological inertia, I turn and walk down the length of the hall. It’s barely the start of the day, but the thought of another two periods of pointless conversations before lunch, not to mention my chemistry teacher lecturing in monotone, seems unbearable. I figure a little break won’t hurt.
    Backpack in hand, I slip out the heavy iron doors leading to the front of the school. If we were some New York City school, we might have security guards traipsing the halls or X-ray machines that beep when we have something forbidden. Or swipe cards that ensure that we are doing what we should be doing when we should be doing it. But we are not some New York City school, and if we skip out during school hours, we will only have Our Consciences to answer to and Our Parents’ Voicemails to delete and Our Bad Grades to be ashamed of. I’m surprised I don’t run into the entire student body outside the school doors.
    Well, let them sit inside in the warmth with their flattened Dorito chip bags hidden between their textbooks, and their bags of candy in opened backpacks where they can slip their fingers in and get their sugar fix. Me? I prefer the cold.
    I head to the football field behind the school building. In the distance, a group of freshmen (led by the other P.E. teacher and non-hottie, Mr. Kelton) alternate between jogging halfheartedly around the field, navigating clumped pockets of unmelted snow, and making out with asthma puffers. Today is warmer than it’s been in weeks, but it’s still early February. I’m pretty sure forcing kids to run laps qualifies as cruel and unusual punishment. I find a nook of the building where I can watch them, but they can’t see me. Then I drop my backpack on the ground and sit on top of it.
    Mr. Kelton blows a shrill whistle and the class assembles in the middle of the field. My eyes skim over them, to the soccer goalpost way over at the end of the field.
    It’s been forever since I watched a soccer game.
    I hate soccer. The fact that it’s outdoors. The excessive celebration after a goal. The head-butting. The fact that an entire near-two-hours of match time can go by without a single goal.
    I don’t miss it.
    But it reminds me of hearing about which boy came to watch which game they were playing. Of Jena’s obnoxious cleat stomp-dance, of tripping over gym bags and balls in our hallway at home. Of a time when I was allowed to openly hate soccer, because you can hate things you’re sure of, things that aren’t going away.
    A scrawny freshman is doubled over, red-faced and clutching his side, but a tuft of vapor drifts out of his mouth, assuring me that he is alive. His friend stops jogging to walk alongside him, and little clouds sail out of his mouth too as he speaks. The whole freshman class is breathing, all of them releasing malformed air letters to rub it in that they are alive.
    I am, too. I breathe through my mouth. Staring over at the deserted soccer post,