Where You End by Anna Pellicioli

Author:Anna Pellicioli
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ya, ya fiction, ya novel, young adult, young adult fiction, young adult novel, teen, teen lit, romance, elliott, anna pellicoli, anna pellicholi
Publisher: Llewellyn Worldwide, LTD.
Published: 2015-04-15T04:00:00+00:00

eighteen

what do u love?

nineteen

The car smells like wet paper cups. I switch the radio on. It’s playing a sleepy song Elliot might have liked. The voice is high but not whiny, and there’s a super synthesized choir that makes it all sound like it’s lifting, a little like that night at the show. I watch my parents walk back to the car. Mom motions for Dad to drive.

“I have to go back to work for a while. Do you want to get some food before we go home?” he says.

“I can make pasta … ” she says.

“I thought maybe it would be easier to get some food.”

“Whatever you want.”

No word on Mr. Green or the giggling fit in Ms. K’s room. No word on the skipping.

“What do you want to eat, Miriam?” Mom asks.

“Whatever.”

She sighs.

“Look, I shouldn’t have laughed like that, right in front of your teacher.”

“Not my teacher … ”

“Fine. Your counselor, Ms. K. I don’t know what happened. It was so tense in there, and you weren’t talking, and Dad was sweating like crazy, and when she told us about the assignment, it all seemed so … ”

“Ridiculous?” I offer.

“Absurd.”

My chest tightens at how appropriate the word is, for everything from the sculpture to Eva’s photo request to the meetings with Ms. K. We just spent half an hour with a woman who is trained to rescue people with real problems, and all we did was fidget about missing class. Then we scheduled another meeting.

At the next intersection, a crossing guard stops us with her palm and keeps her hand there while she greets the kids and parents by their names, telling them she’ll see them tomorrow, inquiring after their collapsing art projects, praising their choice of glittery shoes. The spires of the Cathedral show themselves behind the hilltop. I remember the organ.

“Actually,” I say, with unexpected purpose, “could you drop me off at the library on Wisconsin? I want to check out some books for another project.”

My parents look at each other for consensus, which I have always found comforting. Mom’s hair spills through the headrest as she looks over to give me the green light.

“Be home for dinner, all right?” she says.

“No more lies, Miriam,” Dad adds. “No more skipping class.”

I nod. “Thank you, guys. Thanks for coming today.”

They beam at my nugget of appreciation, and I feel dirty but relieved. Sure, bean. No problem, love. Any time. Of course. We’re here for you. We’ll get through this. This is good, it’s all right. No big deal. And on and on until a delivery truck honks at us and I’m pushing the heavy doors into the land of carpet and germs and ideas protected by shiny, plastic coats.

REAL MEN READ, a poster behind the library desk announces. Except it’s all women peering at me from behind their glasses, taking a pause from inputting the latest bar code, casting a side-glance from behind their carts. I remember that librarians don’t speak unless spoken to.

“Excuse me,” I say, “where’s the art section?”

“Past the computers, in the back left corner.

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