Underneath the Sycamore Tree

He chuckles softly over her disbelief in his reasoning. “Emery made a good point. Literature isn’t always going to give us the content we desire. It’s important to change up what’s expected of the student’s, including how political and personal experiences impact people in everyday life.”

I can’t help but notice how he looks at me while he delivers the last part.

When it’s time to start, only a few of the girls join us. It seems like Book Club won’t exist past Christmas break at the rate it’s deteriorating. I know it was going to be tested through the semester, but I’d hoped more people would join.

Halfway through our conversation on first thoughts of what we were assigned to read, my vision grows fuzzy. Blinking past the blurriness as I stare at the girl whose name I can never seem to remember, I take a few deep breaths and sway slightly in my chair. From the not so far distance of my conscience, a headache forms heavy and unforgiving.

It’s been a couple weeks since one settled into my temples. I thought I was finally getting relief, but maybe Cam’s suggestion on seeing a neurologist will give me answers. She’s on medicine for chronic migraines, so she’s willing to set up a new patient appointment for me.

Rubbing at my eyes, I try to focus on what Mr. Nichols is responding with. He’s talking about feminism and the main character’s forced submission to her commander.

Survival mode.

I know it well.

Why am I so nauseous all of a sudden?

I try to distract myself, thinking about how to add my commentary in. I could talk about how the women pitted themselves against each other as a new form of feminism. Survival of the fittest and all that.

The idea of opening my mouth right now doesn’t seem like the best idea, so I swallow the temptation to throw up and start collecting my belongings with shaky hands.

Nichols mentions the color theme.

Red for the Handmaids.

Blue for the Wives.

Green for the Marthas.

I’m turning green right now.

Annabel stares.

Mr. Nichols says my name.

I bolt out of the library on unsteady legs. Dizziness greets my every step as I run towards the nearest trash can I see in the hall.

My name is being called.

It’s getting louder.

I’m getting sicker.

I vomit as my hair is pulled back.

Not by Annabel.

By Mr. Nichols.

I’d swear if I could.

Instead, I empty my stomach and pray that I pass out to avoid further humiliation.

Be careful what you wish for.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I shoot Dad daggers with my eyes from the backseat of the car while Mama tries collecting herself in the phone pressed to my ear. Despite insisting I was fine, Dad and Cam dragged me to the hospital for a second opinion where he called Mama as a grouchy old nurse checked my vitals.