The Heartbroken - S01 E88

Story 2 years ago

The Heartbroken - S01 E88

Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 88

When the bell rang, I

quickly scrambled to

gather my things and

make my way out. I

was looking forward to

lunch.

Seth had picked me up

earlier, saying it’s a

typical boyfriend thing

to do. In the car, I

expected him to bring

up the conversation last

night, but he didn’t. I

went along. He was

unusually quiet on the

ride over and I figured

he was still worried

about his dad. Not that

I asked him. If he

wanted to talk about it,

he would have brought

it up.

He didn’t seem like

himself during the quick

kisses in between

classes. Not that they

weren’t good (no use

denying it now). But

there was something

that seemed off, like

there was something

distracting him.

I was thinking that

maybe I should have

asked him about it

earlier this morning, and

through three periods, I

decided to just get it

over with and ask him

during lunch. Not that I

was worried about him.

I was just curious. I

was a little freaked out

at most.

When Literature finally

ended, I was ready bolt

out the classroom.

“Miss Evans? May I talk

to you for a sec?”

I was halfway out the

door when Ms. Adams

suddenly called me out.

It was so out of the

blue that I found

myself questioning my

own hearing, wondering

if I’d imagined the

question. I

contemplated going out

of the classroom but

decided to look back.

Upon meeting her

expectant gaze, I

realized it wasn’t just

my imagination.

“Um, sure.” I walked

slowly to her desk.

As far as I knew, I was

pretty sure I hadn’t

been failing this class. In

fact, it was one of my

favorite classes. I didn’t

recite much in any of

my classes, unless I

was called by the

teacher, but I was

pretty sure a few

points from recitation

wouldn’t quite affect

my grade that much.

“I’ve printed a few of

your works out.” She

walked from behind her

desk with a bunch of

papers. We submit

some of our

assignments online on

her email. She casually

jumped onto her desk (I

was pretty sure that

wasn’t allowed) and I

momentarily panicked,

wondering what was

wrong. Was she going

to accuse me of

plagiarism? Before I

could figure out how

react, she said, “These

are really good.”

I blinked, too surprised

to feel relieved. “Um,

thank you?”

“No. Really. Are you a

part of any of the

writing clubs of the

school?”

I shook my head no.

“No?” she blurted out in

surprise. “You should be.

They’re really good. I

especially like the

second poem.”

Knowing which one that

was, I dropped my gaze

to the ground. I wasn’t

sure how to react to

this. I didn’t think they

were anything

exceptional. I loved

reading and I guess I

grew comfortable with

letters and words over

time.

“Thank you. I didn’t

think it was good. And I

thought it was

bordering on being

grammatically

incorrect.”

“Poetic license,” she

said simply, reaching for

her bag and started to

rummage through it.

“And you put it to good

use. How often do you

write?”

“I don’t really,” I said

sheepishly. “Write that

much, I mean.”

“You should.” After a

few more moments,

she finally fished some

sort of flyer from her

bag. “There’s this

writing seminar I go to

every so often. I was

informed there was

this contest for

teenage writers. Your

poems are lovely and I

was wondering how

well you write in prose.”

She handed me the

flyer.

I took it from her

reluctantly, more than

just a little stunned.

“You have a lot of

potential,” she said.

“Are you interested in

joining?”