front desk.” We stood and Joseph’s hand shot back. He shoved a folded-up piece of paper into my hand and walked out, without turning around. I quickly stuck it in my waistband and followed. We had twenty-five minutes before we were to report to our Class rooms. I took this opportunity to walk to the gardens.
I stepped through the gate and was immediately enveloped in greenery. It was cold but my cheeks felt warm. My heart was beating so fast as I raced to find a place I could sit and read. I was hoping it was an apology or maybe even a confession. That he wasn’t going to ditch me in this place. That he was still my friend. I should have left it to my imagination.
The first part was crossed out. I thought I could read the words ‘your father asked’. But then the rest was illegible. The part that I could read was an apology. But it was not the apology I was hoping for. Joseph said that he was very sorry. That he had used me for comfort, as a distraction while he was in the waiting period and upset about leaving his family. He said he never should have let it go on as long as it did and that he felt terrible. He said he did care for me, but now that he was going to the Uppers and I was going to the Lowers, it was better for both of us that we spent time with people from our own Class. He asked me not to talk to him and asked forgiveness for his behavior.
I f elt my insides turning to stone, my heart slowing, my breath taking longer and longer to go into my lungs and out.
If I didn ’t know how I felt about him before the letter, then I certainly knew my feelings now. Now, when it was too late. So this is what it felt like to have your heart broken , I thought. I hadn’t even noticed that I was crying until the words on the page started to blur as the ink ran together. I knew I wouldn’t come back from this.
I stood up and scrunched the letter into a tight ball in my fist. I let the stone turn inside me, feeling the exquisite pain of love lost—before I even had a chance to hold it. I walked to my Class, feeling heavy but empty with tears still streaming down my face.
I burst into the Class on the first day. Bleary-eyed, wiping my nose with my sleeve, smearing snot across my face. I was the last one in, of course, and they all stared at me in surprise. Their wide eyes tracked me for two reasons: one, because of my disheveled and unsettling appearance, and two, because I was the only girl in the Class. I was about a foot shorter than everyone and tiny by comparison. These boys were big and burly, like Joseph, except for one. There, standing on the end of the line, was Rash. He looked concerned and motioned for me to pull my hair out of my face and wipe my eyes. I allowed myself a small measure of relief at the familiar face and stood next to him.
Our teacher slammed through the doors about two minutes after me, scanner in hand. The big, heavy doors nearly hit him in the back of the head as they hit the wall and rebounded towards him. He scanned our wrists and told us not to be late. It was so hard not to point out his hypocrisy but somehow I managed to bite my tongue. He introduced himself as Thiago Gomez. He was a strong-looking man himself, with no hair and a grimacing face. Short and stocky, I was the only person he didn’t have to look up at to make eye contact with. He hid his surprise well, but he scanned my name twice before beginning the first lesson.
Mister Gomez held a two by four in his hand, clapping it into his palm as he spoke for emphasis. “In this Class you—thwack—will learn every skill required for building—thwack—fitting out and also repairing a Woodland home—thwack.”
It sounded dreadfully boring and I was sure I would be terrible at it. Creating things, building things, was not my forte. I always thought I would be much better at destroying.
“ This will range from concrete pouring to cabinetry. This is important and I expect you to pay attention and work
I stepped through the gate and was immediately enveloped in greenery. It was cold but my cheeks felt warm. My heart was beating so fast as I raced to find a place I could sit and read. I was hoping it was an apology or maybe even a confession. That he wasn’t going to ditch me in this place. That he was still my friend. I should have left it to my imagination.
The first part was crossed out. I thought I could read the words ‘your father asked’. But then the rest was illegible. The part that I could read was an apology. But it was not the apology I was hoping for. Joseph said that he was very sorry. That he had used me for comfort, as a distraction while he was in the waiting period and upset about leaving his family. He said he never should have let it go on as long as it did and that he felt terrible. He said he did care for me, but now that he was going to the Uppers and I was going to the Lowers, it was better for both of us that we spent time with people from our own Class. He asked me not to talk to him and asked forgiveness for his behavior.
I f elt my insides turning to stone, my heart slowing, my breath taking longer and longer to go into my lungs and out.
If I didn ’t know how I felt about him before the letter, then I certainly knew my feelings now. Now, when it was too late. So this is what it felt like to have your heart broken , I thought. I hadn’t even noticed that I was crying until the words on the page started to blur as the ink ran together. I knew I wouldn’t come back from this.
I stood up and scrunched the letter into a tight ball in my fist. I let the stone turn inside me, feeling the exquisite pain of love lost—before I even had a chance to hold it. I walked to my Class, feeling heavy but empty with tears still streaming down my face.
I burst into the Class on the first day. Bleary-eyed, wiping my nose with my sleeve, smearing snot across my face. I was the last one in, of course, and they all stared at me in surprise. Their wide eyes tracked me for two reasons: one, because of my disheveled and unsettling appearance, and two, because I was the only girl in the Class. I was about a foot shorter than everyone and tiny by comparison. These boys were big and burly, like Joseph, except for one. There, standing on the end of the line, was Rash. He looked concerned and motioned for me to pull my hair out of my face and wipe my eyes. I allowed myself a small measure of relief at the familiar face and stood next to him.
Our teacher slammed through the doors about two minutes after me, scanner in hand. The big, heavy doors nearly hit him in the back of the head as they hit the wall and rebounded towards him. He scanned our wrists and told us not to be late. It was so hard not to point out his hypocrisy but somehow I managed to bite my tongue. He introduced himself as Thiago Gomez. He was a strong-looking man himself, with no hair and a grimacing face. Short and stocky, I was the only person he didn’t have to look up at to make eye contact with. He hid his surprise well, but he scanned my name twice before beginning the first lesson.
Mister Gomez held a two by four in his hand, clapping it into his palm as he spoke for emphasis. “In this Class you—thwack—will learn every skill required for building—thwack—fitting out and also repairing a Woodland home—thwack.”
It sounded dreadfully boring and I was sure I would be terrible at it. Creating things, building things, was not my forte. I always thought I would be much better at destroying.
“ This will range from concrete pouring to cabinetry. This is important and I expect you to pay attention and work
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