Underneath the Sycamore Tree

Shrugging, I readjust my bag strap over my shoulder. “It isn’t like I have any exciting plans. Did I do something wrong?”

He straightens. “Not at all. I’m sorry if I worried you. I actually wanted to talk to you about the paper you turned in.”

On the second day of class, he assigned a short paper for us to write about our favorite novels. It made most people groan to have an assignment so soon in the semester, but I didn’t mind. During my worst days, I’d stay in bed with a book by my side. There’s always two on my nightstand waiting to be loved.

When he told us that we had to explain why we chose the specific book, it seemed like an easy assignment. It was informal and we got to talk about literature in a way that’s personal to us. Yet, I learned based on the muttered complaints and protests that reading isn’t a common hobby among my peers. Another reason why I have yet to make any friends here.

He rests his hands on his desk. “I noticed that you didn’t just choose one book. You like reading, don’t you? The ones you talked about said as much.”

Wetting my lips, I manage a nervous head nod. Maybe I should have just chosen one, but he never said we couldn’t write on more than that.

“The ones you chose,” he says, “they all seem to have a common theme. I’m curious as to why you selected them.”

He knows about my condition. School policy states that teachers must be made aware of all students with chronic illnesses that can impact their attendance and performance in school. Personally, I think it’s an invasion of privacy. Dad and Cam think it’s a good idea though.

You’ll have people in your corner, Dad told me in comfort.

I wanted to say, Like you?

Hostility gets us nowhere though.

“You told us to pick our favorite,” is my reply. It’s quiet and unsure, like I’m not sure what he wants me to say.

“And those are?”

Another nod.

He studies me for a long moment. “They all seem to question mortality. I wonder if it’s a reflection on personal matters. We tend to hold onto stories when we relate to them.”

I shift on my aching feet. “If you’re going to suggest I see a counselor, I already turned down the idea when Principal Richman insisted.”

Despite Dad telling me I had no choice, I never made an appointment with either the counselor or nurse. When I told him that setting aside a free period just to tell the counselor that school is fine is a waste of time, he saw my point. The nurse…not so much. He’s insistent that Ms. Gilly will be a handy ally here.

I told him I didn’t need an ally.

Nichols’ smile widens, making him look even more boyish. “I was actually going to suggest joining Book Club.”

Taken by surprise, my lips part. I didn’t even know there was a book club here. It’s not on the school’s list of activities students can join. Cam convinced Dad I should consider looking into different options to make friends faster. I only looked to get them off my back.

He takes my silence as consideration of his suggestion. “We meet every Thursday after school, usually around three thirty. It’s held in the library, although sometimes it’s moved to the classroom.”

“We?”

“I’m the faculty supervisor.”

Oh.

He feels the need to explain when I make no move to say I’ll come. “The last English teacher was responsible for it, so I agreed to take over for her when I met with her before the year started. It seemed like a passion project of hers that she wanted to see remain. It’s small, the list is only about ten people long. You should consider joining if you love to discuss books. They’re seeing if it’ll last past this semester, and if it does—” He shrugs. “—then great.”

Pressing my lips together, I glance down at my shoes. Another pair of Toms, except these are light purple cloth with a big brown button off to the side. They look handmade according to Cam. Maybe that’s why I like them so much, they’re unique like me.

Mr. Nichols brings my attention back to him. “Just think about it, okay? Your paper was very well written, and I think you’d make a great addition to the club.”

I give him a timid smile and start to turn to the door. He calls my name before I make it, causing me to glance at him once more.

His head tilts. “Which of the ones you spoke of is your favorite? I couldn’t tell.”

“My Sister’s Keeper.” He doesn’t ask why, yet I find myself explaining anyway. “I find that the books with the saddest endings are the best because it makes us feel. We don’t always get a happily ever after no matter how hard we work for it.”