Everywhere else is too loud. In the place where it is supposed to be the quietest, the students are the most disrespectful: eating, yelling, gossiping.

“Did you hear that they hooked up last weekend? It’s on his snapchat story”
“Oh my God. what is she wearing?”
“Alright, you 12 are invited to my lakehouse this weekend, but only six of you can come to my farm next weekend.”

Tension thick enough to cut with a steak knife is suppressed—hatred behind narrow lip gloss smiles. Absolute chaos. The freshman and sophomores are on the bottom floor; the juniors and seniors, the top; me, in the very back. The back is the one place the anarchy doesn’t extend. The librarian smiles and greets me as I stroll up to the chair in the furthermost back corner. Posters of graduated seniors holding their favorite books stare back down, but their presence here is no more than a hazy memory and a name in the hallways. Holy crap. That’s going to be me next year here. No more significance than a poster on a wall. 

Sinking down—red patterned fabric dips with the sudden weight collected—I cancel everything else out, curling up into the smallest ball possible, trying to be more invisible than I already am. My “Stripes” playlist comes on as I outstretch my legs over the arm of the chair as if in the arms of Dave Franco taking me to the Bloomer’s Chocolate Factory. Laughter echoes in the background to a joke I was not a part of. Possible scenarios fill my head of what I would have contributed if part of the conversation.

“Why didn’t you come to that party last weekend?” And I would clap back with “Jello shot? Nah I’m good,” attached with a video of my mom and I jamming out in the Portillo’s drive-thru. The aroma of books and “Endless Weekend” Bath and Body Works spray protrudes through the fortress of young adult novels. Harsh lights prevent the nap I desperately need.

Sitting still has never come easily to me. My foot falling asleep, I readjust, knowing I’ll repeat the action in five minutes.  Propped against the armrest, I can count about 20 books that I've read. Once, I finished a 500-page book in a four-hour sitting. Books were where I could lose myself: alternate universes, twists with each page, heroines I could only dream to be. I used to always carry a little piece of hope that everything would get better within a few hundred pages. No one was there to label me. Maybe I stopped reading because I was convinced reading wasn't cool anymore. Paperbacks replaced with Netflix; human interaction, well…

Snapchat: my best friend (five red hearts).

I jolt from my half-awake state with the buzz of my phone tucked into a beat-up pink Speck case. Ironic that one of the people who I’m the closest with is a million miles away. Literally, she lives in Hong Kong. They say the uglier the snapchat the closer the friend.

iMessage: Mom (purple heart): “Do you have your keys? I am at work, can you get yourself home and feed the dog? (string of random emojis)” 

Rummaging through my distressed, distressful disorganised  Lululemon backpack, I fish out a broken sliver of a Ventra Card. Completely useless: the half with the swipe strip is MIA. Great. I’m walking home again.

Digital numbers on my screen transition to 12:35 p.m. Swinging my backpack over my shoulder, I give the chair one last longing look, the same look I give my bed in the morning when I have to get up for school. The library doors open with a creek, closing with a click and me on the other side.