Page 149 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

Our mission is to open pages and open futures.

Every sentence on the screen feels like it slides right through me, refusing to stick.

I picture the van: bright and welcoming, shelves lined with every color and shape of book. I imagine kids stepping up, eyes wide at the choices. Pages flipping under sticky fingers, stories hugged to small chests like treasure.

As I do so, the words start to flow more freely:

Our van isn’t just about borrowing books, it’s about giving them. Every child who steps up to the shelves gets to choose a book to take home for good. To keep under their pillow, trade with a friend, or read a thousand times until the pages curl. Because literacy shouldn’t come with strings attached.

But even as the words take shape, my mind drifts. I wrap my hands around my mug, staring out the window, watching the morning sunlight play across the grass.

The thought of the test tugs at me, constant and relentless.

It would be so easy to get up, walk down the hallway, pick up the test.

But another day of not knowing feels safer. Another day where nothing has to change.

Not yet.

I take another sip, open a new email draft, and let myself have just one more day.

The soft sound of footsteps draws my attention from the screen. I look up to see Jackson standing in the doorway, his hair damp from a quick shower, a fresh wrap visible under the sleeve of his shirt.

He leans against the doorframe, watching me with those piercing but gentle eyes, searching in that quiet way of his.

“You’ve been at it for a while,” he says.

I close my laptop, pushing it slightly aside. “Just trying to get some words down for the van project.”

“How’s it coming?” he asks, stepping into the kitchen.

I hesitate. “Good... I think.” I force a small smile. “It helps to think about the kids, about what it might mean to them.”

His gaze lingers on me, longer this time.

“I’m proud of you,” he says quietly.

I blink. “For what?”

“For everything,” he answers. His voice is rough, a hint of something else lurking beneath it.

I open my mouth to deflect, to say it’s nothing, but the words catch. My throat feels tight.

He takes a step closer.

“Ava,” he says, softer now. “Is there something you want to talk about?”

I freeze, gripping the edge of the table. I want to look away, but I can’t.

His eyes don’t waver. “I saw it,” he says gently.

At first I’m confused.

Then he says, “The test.”

The air feels like it leaves my lungs all at once. My stomach twists, deep and sudden.

I swallow hard. “You did?”