Instead, it’s merely a bad sprain, necessitating ice, ibuprofen, and crutches. If Rosie was something of a klutz before (and she was), she’s now an actual menace to herself, to others, and to the Sheetrocked walls as she navigates the narrow, dark stairways on crutches, sliding, jabbing holes in things, knocking her elbows and knees against banisters and walls. It is pathetic. She’s a wreck in so many ways she can’t even count them. Her hair now strays out of its long braid and frizzes around her face in the humidity. Her period is due, but it seems to have started and then stopped again. She’s had a headache for three days, and her foot is killing her, and she’s got a gazillion things she’s supposed to remember. The good-bye business is unexpectedly hideous. Well, what had she expected—that it would be easy to leave the place she’d always lived? Her students keep taking her out for lunches and dinners, wanting to thank her in front of their family members, as if they feel she needs a succession of public tributes.
What do You think about The Opposite Of Maybe: A Novel?
