I could always count on her early morning hostility. She grunted, turning her eyes back to her computer screen. “Morning, Miss Copper,” I called when I got to class, throwing my teacher a friendly wave. I just despised the way people stared, like arriving after the bell rings makes it open season for dirty looks or something. Not because I was a Goody Two-shoes or anything. I pushed past all of them, winding my way to English class. Meanwhile the seniors rested lazily against lockers, like the laws of time didn’t apply to them. The freshmen ran like their lives literally depended on it. I shoved my things into my school bag before trudging down the hill, across the field, and into the blue-lockered halls that were now alive with students rushing to make it to first period on time. The book fell off my leg and I picked it up quickly before the grass stained the pages green.
No one wants to keep reading long enough to see the happily ever after turn into an unhappily ever after. I mean, there’s a reason all books end right after the couple gets together. It was like, if love couldn’t exist in reality, at least it was alive in fiction. I’d thought my love for romance novels would have died with my parents’ divorce. Plus, it wasn’t any stranger than getting up early to read in peace. Getting out of bed early just to watch football practice? It took dedication. It was nothing more than a little peek, but it was enough to notice the groups of students that were lined up on the sides of the field. Peering up from my book, I quickly snuck a glance at the team. Apparently showing off one’s abs trumped potential frostbite. Although I’m certain they’d still be shirtless even if the weather dropped below zero. That was enough to indicate that fall was nowhere to be found here in sunny Georgia. I could still see morning practice and the members of the football team who were running around with their shirts off. Tucked away behind the football field, it was far enough away for privacy, but not totally isolated. It was my favorite reading spot on campus. I was sitting with my back against the last standing oak tree at Eastwood High, a book resting on my knees. Today was on a one-way ticket to being forgotten. I had gotten into the habit of ending every day with the same question: Was it worth remembering or forgetting? Then there were the days that made up most of my life, the ones that were completely unnoteworthy, blending into one another. There were days I would give anything to forget.
But remembering wasn’t always a good thing. Or when I was ten and learned how to ride my bike without training wheels. The summer morning when my mom finally learned how to bake, which, coincidentally, was also the day our apartment stopped smelling like a smokehouse. THERE WERE CERTAIN DAYS I could remember like they were yesterday.
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