Teach Me (There's Something About Marysburg, #1)

by Olivia Dade

“Falling is what caused this whole problem, by the way. I tripped over an exposed root while I was hiking yesterday.” He grimaced. “Rookie mistake. Should have been paying attention to my feet. I thought I was fine afterwards, but I woke up with back spasms.” Her face pinched in a wince. “That’s terrible. Remind me not to appreciate the wonders of nature anytime soon.” His laugh wrenched his back. “Will do.”

Her hands fluttered in agitated movements. They picked up the remaining half of her sandwich. Put it back down. Plucked at the hem of her silky-looking shirt. Played with the ends of her braid. Rose was not a fidgeter. He was watching her fight every instinct she had. Fuck, he wished he could make this easier for her. His heart hurt at the sight of such a smart, caring woman struggling so hard to share herself. All of herself, not just the bits she didn’t mind others seeing.

“People judge you all the time when you’re poor, especially if you’re on welfare. They think it’s their right. That you must be dumb or lazy or dishonest.” Blotches appeared on her bare cheeks, pink splashes of rage. “When my mom went back to school to become a nurse, the people at the welfare office didn’t believe her GPA. The woman in charge of our case kept saying, ‘This can’t be right. You’re not that smart.’” Her long, elegant hands had formed fists on the table. “Mom and I finally figured it out. The system is meant to keep you alive, but also to punish you. To humiliate you. To make sure you would never, ever be part of it if you had a choice.”

“Then there were the people behind us in line at the grocery store, who’d sigh and roll their eyes and make comments about what we bought with our food stamps. Who’d inform us when we’d chosen something they considered too expensive, since they didn’t want their valuable tax dollars paying for anything more than the bare essentials. And all the other people who looked at us and said we obviously didn’t need help, obviously shouldn’t get money, because we dressed too nicely. Didn’t look poor enough. Had a decent TV.”

All that flinty pride. All that fuck-you defiance and refusal to show weakness. No wonder. No wonder. She glared in his direction, but he didn’t think she saw him. “We scoured thrift stores for decent clothing, because Mom didn’t want to stand out in her classes, and she didn’t want other kids to mock me at school. Our hair always looked nice because we knew a good stylist, and Mom cleaned her studio sometimes in exchange for a cut and color. And we scrimped for years—years—to get a decent TV and cable, because God knew we weren’t going to movies, weren’t attending concerts, weren’t eating at restaurants or visiting amusement parks. We needed some sort of amusement other than library books, much as I loved reading.”