The Weight of Ordinary Days
The classroom smelled like dry-erase markers and the particular staleness of a radiator that had been running since October, even though it was only the first week of the month and not yet cold enough to need it. Lynn sat in the third row, second seat from the window, in the spot she'd chosen back in September because it was far enough from the front that Mr. Averill wouldn't call on her much, but not so far back that it looked like she was hiding. She had learned, over the years, exactly how much space a person could take up in a room without being noticed. Third row, second seat. It was a science.
Mr. Averill moved down the aisles with the stack of tests pressed against his chest like he was protecting them from something, or maybe protecting the class from what was written on them. He was a heavy man who breathed audibly through his nose when he concentrated, and when he leaned over desks to set papers down, the smell of his coffee arrived a half-second before he did. Lynn watched him work his way closer — Danny Reyes, then Priya Anand, then the empty desk where Marcus used to sit before he transferred — and she felt her stomach fold in on itself like paper.
She had studied.…