Love Yourself and the Wrong Kind of Towels
The Fish School flooded again. The classrooms were at the bottom of the hill. Love Yourself lived farther up, where the water did not reach her cupboards. “Why don’t you get a school somewhere else?” she asked the teacher. The teacher handed her a box of wet books.
Love Yourself set the box down so she could take a picture through her pink heart frame. “No photographs,” the teacher said. “We need towels.” Love Yourself had plenty of towels. She went home and chose the ones that looked best together.
Hobart pressed one against a muddy shelf. “Not that one,” Love Yourself said. “It’s decorative.” Hobart stopped. “Everything here is muddy,” he replied. “You could have asked,” Love Yourself said. “The teacher did,” Hobart replied.
Love Yourself felt her face get hot. “You’re very particular for somebody who lives in a trash can,” she said. Hobart put down the towel. He picked up another box and carried it outside. He did not answer her. That annoyed her more than answering would have.
She went home again and brought ordinary towels. By then, Hobart was working at the other end of the room. Love Yourself handed the teacher a stack. “These can get dirty,” she said. The teacher took them and kept working. Love Yourself had expected the teacher to say something else.
That evening, Love Yourself posted a picture of the towels beside her dry front door. Hobart did not appear in it. Neither did the classroom. She kept checking whether anyone had liked the picture. Down the hill, the school was still wet.
