Business The Sea Of Tranquility By Katja Millay Pdf


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Author: Millay Katja Professionalization Recollected in Tranquility. Read more · Farewell Stress. Welcome Tranquility · Read more · Heart Of The Sea. The Sea of Tranquility - Katja Millay. so. I hate my left hand. I hate to look at it. I hate it when it stutters and trembles and reminds me that my identity is gone. Read "The Sea of Tranquility A Novel" by Katja Millay available from Rakuten Kobo. Sign up today and get $5 off your first purchase. A School Library Journal.

The Sea Of Tranquility By Katja Millay Pdf

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The Sea of Tranquility: A Novel eBook: Katja Millay: The Sea of Tranquility is a rich, intense, and brilliantly imagined story about a lonely boy, an emotionally. Read The Sea of Tranquility online free from your iPhone, iPad, android, Pc, Mobile. The Sea of Tranquility is a Young Adult novel by Katja Millay. The Fault in Our Stars by John Green Easy by Tammara Webber The Sea of Tranquility by Katja Millay Anna and the French Kiss by Stephanie Perkins Me.

His eyes widen just slightly as he looks closer, and I catch the glimmer of recognition in them. He remembers me. If I had gotten farther away, this might not even be necessary.

The face would mean even less. Nothing like last minute. Though this, at least, is not my fault. My parents fought the move until the end, but they finally relented. I may have Margot to thank for some of that. And, probably, they were all just tired. The diploma on the wall is from the University of Michigan. His first name is Alvis. What kind of crap name is Alvis? Lots of them.

As he looks over the paperwork, my eyes are drawn to the old-school metal hand-crank pencil sharpener on his desk. It strikes me as odd. The desk is a rich, fancy cherry number, nothing like the crap industrial ones teachers get. Why anyone would mount such an ancient pencil sharpener on it is beyond me. I wish I could ask about it. Instead, I focus on the ring of adjustable pencil holes and wonder idly if my pinky finger would fit into any of them. Has she filled in a class request form?

Margot hands him the form and he peruses it quickly. Most classes are already full at this point. Go, Margot. I do get the feeling he genuinely wants to help. Plus, I think I make him uncomfortable, which means he probably hopes to see as little of me as possible.

Then, just as quickly, he looks away. He follows us back into the chaos of the front office and asks us to wait a moment while he heads down a hallway to the guidance office with my paperwork. I look around and see that several of the same people I saw earlier are still waiting in line.

I thank whatever god still believes in me for appointments. We stand against the wall as far out of the way as we can get. There are no empty chairs now. I glance to the front of the line where a dirty-blond Ken doll is tossing his most panty-dropping smile in the direction of Ms.

Unpleasant on the other side of the counter. I struggle to separate out their conversation. Something about an office aide position. Aahh, lazy bastard. He cocks his head to the side and says something that makes Ms.

Unpleasant laugh and shake her head in resignation. I watch the slight shift in his eyes. He knows it too. She seems oblivious to the attention. Come on! He seems mildly amused by her displeasure.

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Must be his girlfriend. A matching set, I think. Panty-Combusting Ken comes complete with Piqued Princess Barbie: unachievable measurements, designer purse, and annoyed scowl included! I smirk at the thought and glance up to see him smirking right back at me, his eyes alight with mischief.

Behind him, Ms. Unpleasant quickly scrawls something on his form and signs the bottom. I point to her and raise my eyebrows at him. He turns and takes the form from her hands, thanks her, and winks. He winks at the menopausal office lady. She shakes her head again and shoos him toward the door. Well played, Ken, well played. Drew, who I desperately want to keep calling Ken, is still standing near the door, talking to a couple other guys who are waiting at the back of the line.

It seems easily done. Everyone in line turns in unison, watching the woman hold up a file folder in my direction. When we reach the car, she lets out a sigh and her demeanor noticeably shifts back to the Margot I know.

Then she smiles her dazzling, all-American-girl smile. I head to the laundry room and yank some clothes out of the still-running dryer. I grab a coffee mug out of the cabinet and attempt to fill it without spilling it all over the counter and burning myself in the process. I put it on the kitchen table, next to a shoe box full of prescription bottles, in time to see my grandfather coming out of his room.

His white hair is so disheveled that he momentarily reminds me of a mad scientist. He walks alarmingly slow, but I know better than to offer to help him. He hates that. I try not to smile. Pissed is good. It makes things seem a little bit normal. When I finally make it onto campus, Drew is out front with his usual followers, regaling them with any number of BS stories about his summer.

Apart from the time he spent disappearing with whatever girl he was hooking up with, he was on my couch. He nods in my direction as I pass, and I return the gesture. No one else acknowledges me, and I pass through the rest of the crowd into the main courtyard, just as the first bell rings. My first three classes could all be the same.

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All I do is listen to rules, pick up syllabi, and try to stay awake. My grandfather was up five times last night, which means I was up five times last night, too. I really have to start getting more sleep. First lunch. Eating this early sucks.

Now I just have to wait out the next thirty minutes, which will probably be the longest of the day. Nastya Surviving. Except for Drew, the Ken doll. I did run into him this morning, but mostly it was a nonevent. He talked.

I walked. He gave up. Avoidance seems the best option at first, but I have to face the looks and the comments at some point. I left my hair down so it falls past my shoulders and covers the scar on my forehead. My eyes are rimmed with thick black eyeliner. I smile to myself as I recall him looking me up and down in the hallway this morning.

Barbie would be pissed. But people are going to stare at me for the wrong reasons anyway, and if they are going to stare at me for the wrong reasons, then at least I should get to pick them. Plus, a little unwelcome staring is a small price to pay for scaring everyone off. And so what? Three years ago, my mother would have had a fit, cried, lamented her shortcomings as a parent, or possibly just locked me in my room if she saw me at school like this.

My mother loves her face. She should be. The kind people write songs and poems and suicide notes about. That kind of beauty. I grew up wanting to look just like her. If you scrape off the makeup and dress me to look like a girl as opposed to what I look like now—a profanity-spewing guttersnipe being dragged out of a crack house on Cops.

I was a lost cause a long time ago. Maybe I was the one who took it away. Which brings me back to the courtyard where I am still waiting on the outskirts like a guest on an episode of Extreme Avoidance: High School Edition. Dark hair.

Dark eyes. Like me. We could be brother and sister or one of those really creepy couples who look like they should be brother and sister.

Now, when I turn and ignore him to make my way across the battlefield, I can be certain that his eyes—as well as every other set of eyes on that bench with him—are going to be trained on my back.

And when I say my back, I mean my ass. I recontemplate the unstable surface of the pavers. No pressure or anything. There go my hopes for our bourgeoning sibling kinship. I step off the ledge and start walking, keeping my eyes trained straight ahead as if I have some purpose outside of simply surviving this walk. I still have four of the seven classes left on the schedule that shit gave birth to.

It was crazy in there again, but Ms. Marsh, the guidance counselor, had given instructions for me to go to her office and pick up my schedule from her personally—just another one of the many perks of being me. It was definitely unnatural.

Half of them are as miserable as I am. She motioned for me to sit. She handed me a map of campus and my schedule. I scanned it, mostly looking for the electives, because I knew what all the required courses were going to be. For a minute I was convinced that she must have handed me the wrong schedule, so I checked the top of the paper. You know the one, where the universe decides to put its steel-toed boot up your ass yet again. Crying was out of the question and a screaming hissy-fit laced with maniacal laughter and profanity was, most definitely, off the table, which left me with my only other option: stunned silence.

It would take more than a few shitty classes to break me. I took my schedule, my map, and my abject horror and made my way to class, reading it again and again as I went. Unfortunately, it stayed the same every time.

My English teacher, Ms.

I like her. Plus, I still have to navigate the trail of tears that is this courtyard. I take in everything I can with my peripheral vision. And loud. So unbearably loud. I try to let all of the separate conversations and voices melt together into what I imagine is one continuous hum. There are small groups around all of the benches, piled on top of them and standing next to them. Some students sit on the outer edges of the garden boxes that are placed incrementally throughout.

Then there are the smart ones who sit on the ground in the shade of the walkway that runs around the perimeter. My old high school was the same way, but I never had to deal with the lunch period madness or any of the decisions that came along with it, like where to sit and who to sit with.

I spent every lunch period practicing in the music room and that was the only place I wanted to be. It might not seem strange except for the fact that every other bench in this place—in truth every other place where a person could justifiably put their ass—is filled.

Yet there is no one sitting on that bench, except him. Curiosity claims me, and I momentarily forget my purpose. His light brown hair hangs tousled over his forehead, and his eyes are cast downward at his hands. Until he is.

I was at a dead stop, in the middle of the courtyard, full-on staring. And I repeat, crap. Why would they lock the doors from the outside?

No shit. I look down. Smart kid. She looks up at me briefly before turning her attention back to her camera. I glance across to the swarm of girls hovering around the courtyard restroom door. No thanks. I nod my head in thanks to him and turn to see if I can find somewhere else to go. Before I can walk away, two girls come barreling out of the door, almost running me down and knocking me off my awesome shoes. I wander into the cool, empty reprieve of the English building and remember how to breathe.

When I walk in, I immediately feel at home, even though the space looks entirely different than it did in June. No carpet of sawdust covering the floor. No machines running.

The first couple weeks are a rehash of rules for equipment usage and safety procedures that I could recite verbatim if anybody asked. Nobody asks. Everybody knows I know them. I could teach this class if I wanted to. Before I can pull the stool out from under the table, Mr.

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Turner calls me over. I like Mr. He wants my respect and he has that, too. What he tells me to do, I do. Turner as I did from my dad. He runs it like a business wrapped around a master class in craftsmanship. In the advanced classes, our work raises the money for the materials and the equipment. We take orders and fill them, and that money gets filtered back into the program. Turner only takes the students who live up to his expectations in terms of work ethic and ability.

When I get to his desk, he asks about my summer. He knows my shit and he knows me. All I really want to do is build stuff and be left alone and he allows me both. Can you head over there, take the measurements, plan it out, and make a list of what we need?

The Sea of Tranquility

He just wants to build, too. You can probably have it finished up in a week or so. I get to build, even if it is just shelves. Katja Millay. Young Adult , Romance. The Sea of Tranquility. Top novels. Sins of Sevin. Penelope Ward. Stepbrother Dearest.

To Kill a Mockingbird. Never Never. Tarryn Fisher. Dark Matter. Prince of Wolves. Sarah Rees Brennan. Diana Gabaldon.Until he is.

Crying was out of the question and a screaming hissy-fit laced with maniacal laughter and profanity was, most definitely, off the table, which left me with my only other option: stunned silence. She handed me a map of campus and my schedule. No thanks. My eyes are rimmed with thick black eyeliner.

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