“Just think of it like this, Styles. You’re like that kid from the Sixth Sense! How freaking cool is that?” Maggie had said. She, of course, grew more ecstatic after every new Josephine sighting. I, however, did not.
I glanced at the paper, my eyes slow to focus. It was my latest history essay about the Great Depression and FDR’s New Deal. But the grade circled in red ink at the top right corner was foreign to me. C+. I double-checked the name to make sure I had the correct paper. My stomach flip-flopped at the sight of my name written in my own, curling script. I’d never gotten a C before. Not even close.
I eyed the book sitting on the corner of my desk. Supermoons: Warnings from Beyond the Grave? Several pages of notes stuck out from the corners.
It had been an easy transition for me—throwing myself into the research—and I didn’t realize how much my focus had shifted until now. My Ivy League dreams sputtered to life in my mind, but that red “C” glared at me from the corner of the page.
“Damn you, Josephine,” I muttered under my breath, fighting the urge the crumple the paper. A lump was forming in my throat, but I swallowed a few times to dislodge it.
It’s one paper. Don’t panic, the voice inside my head reasoned as I shoved the paper into my binder, the lump growing bigger. Just one paper.
“Yeah, but scientists don’t get Cs,” I muttered, silencing the voice.
When the shrill bell rang signaling the end of class, I stood quickly, eager to escape.
“Lainey?” Mr. Reinhard, my history teacher, called out. He was staring at me over the rim of his reading glasses. “Can you stay for a few moments, please? I’d like to speak with you.”
“Yes, sir?”
Mr. Reinhard trained his eyes on me, his forehead furrowed. “Lainey, about your latest essay. I—”
“I know what you’re going to say,” I interrupted, “but please. I know it wasn’t my best. It’s been a weird few days. I haven’t been sleeping well, and I—” I broke off, not sure how to explain it further. “I’m just off my game right now, Mr. R.”
Mr. Reinhard nodded. “We all have off days, Lainey, but I’m concerned. This week, you’ve seemed really distracted. I’ve never known you to get anything less than an A.”
His voice was kind, but that only made the lump in my throat triple in size. “I know. I’ll try harder.”
Mr. Reinhard raised an eyebrow. “Is everything okay at home, Lainey? I heard about what happened in your English class when you—well, have you considered speaking with someone? Our counselor, Mrs. Fox—”
I shook my head. “It was just a nightmare. Stupid, really. I’m fine. I’ll do much better on the next essay, I promise.”
The lines around Mr. Reinhard’s eyes softened and he sighed. “Just go home tonight and get some rest. Okay? I think you need it.”
When he dismissed me, I practically ran toward the exit. I needed some fresh air.
Hissing through gritted teeth, I waited until I was safely out of the building before I let out a frustrated yell. A few people walking by stared at me, but I didn’t care.
There was a small grove of trees up ahead and a courtyard with benches and tables designated for students. It was mostly empty; a couple was making out on one of the benches, and one of the art kids was stretched out on the grass, sketching in a notebook. There was also someone else, a guy, propped up against one of the trees, his face hidden behind a book.
Plopping down on a patch of shaded grass, I closed my eyes and let out a long huff.
“Bad day?” a voice called out.
You have got to be kidding me. I opened my eyes and sure enough, a familiar pair of blue eyes were looking straight at me. Ty was leaning around his open book, the usual smirk on his lips.
“How do you keep doing that?” I demanded.
He raised an eyebrow at me.
“Popping up out of nowhere.” I waved my hand as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “And always when I’m at my worst.” Ty chuckled and moved to sit across from me, ignoring my question. He pulled a brown paper sack from his backpack and handed me something wrapped in plastic wrap.
“A sandwich?”
“It might not be the answer to your problems,” Ty said, unwrapping his own sandwich. “But I personally believe that life is a whole lot more manageable on a full stomach.” He took a bite of his sandwich and nodded at me as if he were the authority on such matters.
I looked down at the sandwich in my hand. It was peanut butter and grape jelly—my favorite. My stomach rumbled at the sight of it.
I rolled my eyes, feeling ridiculous, and took a bite. It was actually quite satisfying, and I took another bite without any hesitation.
“You wanna talk about it?”
I swallowed. “Not really.”
Ty nodded and took another bite, chewing slowly.
We sat there without speaking, both of us focusing on our food.
Maybe it was because he didn’t push me, didn’t ask me questions I couldn’t answer, but as I sat there, the tension in my shoulders eased, and with each bite of the sandwich, the lump in my throat slowly dissolved. There were no expectations to meet, no obstacles to overcome. It was just easy. Sitting next to Ty, eating PB&J was the most normal thing I’d done in a while.
The calm was unfortunately short-lived, however. Something tugged at me; the last remnants of the handprint on my arm—now almost completely faded—tingled. I looked up, nearly choking on my next bite of sandwich. Josephine stood a few feet away. She stared at me as usual, but it wasn’t the normal look of intensity I’d become accustomed to. It was something much deeper. It took me a minute to place it, but when I did, it nearly took my breath away. The look on her face was sadness—the kind you feel deep within your soul. It made my chest ache.
Lainey. Josephine reached out a hand to me. Her eyes pleaded with mine. Lainey.
“Hey.” Ty nudged his shoulder against mine.
I tore my eyes away from Josephine’s face.
“You okay?”
I nodded. “Fine. Just a lot on my mind.” When I looked back, Josephine was gone. I sighed and turned my attention back to my sandwich. I have to figure all this out. I just have to.
As I swallowed my last bite, my eyes fell upon the book in Ty’s lap, the one he’d been reading before I showed up. It was a worn paperback, several of the pages loose and sticking out of the top. The cover was half missing, but I knew it well.
“The Great Gatsby?” I asked, pointing at the book.
Ty smiled, somewhat sheepishly, and picked up the book in his hands. “Fitzgerald is a favorite of mine.”
I smiled back. “Mine too.”
Ty had also finished his sandwich and was busy placing our empty plastic wrap back in the brown bag. When he had shoved the trash back into his backpack, he picked up the book and looked at me. He smiled at me, opening to the page he had dog-eared, and then began reading aloud.
I couldn’t help but stare. How was it possible that this mysterious boy who picked fights for fun understood the simple satisfaction of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and the peaceful calm that came from reading beautiful prose?