The Way I Used to Be Read Online Free Page A

library. No one even looks up at me.
    The door behind the circulation desk opens and Miss Sullivan walks through cradling a stack of books in her arms. She smiles at me so warmly. “Hello. What can I do for you?” she asks, setting the books down on the counter.
    Hide me, I want to tell her. Just hide me from the world. And never make me go back out through those doors again. But I don’t. I don’t say anything. I can’t.
    â€œCome on in,” she gestures me forward. “Here’s the sign-in sheet,” she tells me, centering a clipboard in front of me.
    I take the pen tied to a string tied to the top of the clipboard. It feels like a chopstick between my fingers, my hand shaking as I press the pen against the paper. You’re supposed to fill in the date, your name, the time, and where you’re coming from. We have to do this every time we come or go anywhere.
    Miss Sullivan looks at the scribble that’s supposed to be my name. “And what’s your name again?” she asks gently.
    â€œEden,” I answer, my voice low.
    â€œEden, okay. And where are you coming from?” I’ve left that box blank.
    I open my mouth but nothing comes out at first. She looks up at me with another smile.
    â€œLunch. I don’t have a pass to be here,” I admit, feeling like some kind of fugitive. I can feel my eyes well up with tears as I look across the desk at her.
    â€œThat’s okay, Eden,” she says softly.
    I dab at my eyes with my sleeve.
    â€œYou know, I think I have something for that.” She nods toward the green stains on the front of my shirt. “Why don’t you come in my office?”
    She pushes open the half door at the side of the counter and leads me inside. “Have a seat,” she tells me as she closes the door behind us.
    She rifles through one of her desk drawers, pulling out handfuls of pens and pencils and highlighters. Her office is bright and warm. There’s a whole table in the corner just filled with different plants. She has all these posters pinned to the wall about books and librarians, and one of those big READ posters with the president smiling and holding a book in his hands. One of them says: A ROOM WITHOUT BOOKS IS LIKE A BODY WITHOUT A SOUL—CICERO.
    â€œAh-hah. Here it is!” She hands me one of those stain removal pens. “I always keep one of these nearby—I’m pretty klutzy, so I’m always spilling things on myself.” She smiles as she watches me pressing the spongy marker tip into the stains on my shirt.
    â€œPlease don’t make me go back there,” I plead, too desperate and exhausted to even attempt to make it seem like I’m not desperate and exhausted. “Do you think maybe I could volunteer during lunch from now on? Or something?”
    â€œI wish I could tell you yes, Eden.” She pauses with a frown. “But unfortunately we already have the maximum number of volunteers for this period. However, I think you would be a great fit here, I really do. Is there another time you would be interested in, maybe during a study hall?”
    â€œAre you really sure there isn’t any room because I really, really can’t be in lunch anymore.” I feel my eyes getting hot and watery again.
    â€œMay I ask why?”
    â€œIt’s . . . personal, I guess.” But the truth is that it’s humiliating. It’s too humiliating to be in lunch anymore, to have to hide and still get food thrown at you anyway, and not be able to do anything about it, and your friends are too afraid to stand up for you, or themselves. Especially when you just got attacked in your own house—in your own bed—and you can’t even stand up for yourself there, either, the one place you’re supposed to be safe. For all these reasons, it’s personal. And questions like “why” can’t truly be answered, not when this woman is looking at me so