Another, bigger man came out of the garage, his face twisted in alarm. “No joke?”
“No joke,” said the first man. He handed the note to Harry, and then knelt in front of the kid. He wanted to hug him and tell him it was going to be all right, but that was a lie. He laid his heavy, thick hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You ever seen a real firehouse, kid?”
“No,” the boy said, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.
“Well, come on. I’ll show you. Grand tour. Get you warmed up too and maybe something to eat?”
The boy nodded and took his hand, squeezing hard.
The man held on tight, waited until he could speak again. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Evan.”
My chest constricted and my mouth opened, ready to suck in a lungful of water. I pushed to the surface, gasping. By the time I was done wiping the water off my face, the memory retreated. The deep, hollow pain remained.
I drew in more air, my lungs greedy. That was a good sign, at least. That had to be longer than three minutes. Had to be.
I had no way of timing myself. My cell phone was old and I was paranoid of bringing it near the edge of the pool. If it got ruined, I’d have to buy another, and I needed every dime I had to get the hell out of Planerville.
I sucked in air, treaded water, and let the memory of the firehouse fade out. I couldn’t look back, only forward.
Only a few more weeks and I’d escape this town and everyone who knew me. I’d go somewhere and live by a lake or an ocean or a river, alone, and never feel like this again. No one would know me. I’d start over. No freakshow reputation, no stints at the local mental institutions, no accusing or suspicious or hateful eyes. I’d start over. I’d be new, somewhere else.
I’d be free.
I dropped off my poems with Ms. Politano in the morning and then came to her room just before lunch to hear the verdict. She looked up at me as I entered and smiled in a way that freaked me out. I could handle—and expected—teachers to focus on the content of the poems, not so much my actual talent, or if I had any in the first place. Teachers are required by law to report child abuse when it’s suspected. I always had to explain it was five years ago and the key players were all dead and gone.
Ms. P had me pull up a chair to her desk at the front of the class, my poems fanned out before her. Some pages were wrinkled and stained with age and tears. Some were newer. “The Guillotine”—an ode to my scar—was front and center.
“Jo,” she said in a quiet voice, “I’ve read your poems and I’m impressed. Very impressed. Survivors are worthy of tremendous admiration and you have mine.”
I started to sit back, to sigh, to roll my eyes, but she held up a hand.
“You have my admiration because your poems are exquisite windows into the incidents of your past. The ferocity of them, the…” She fought for the right words. “The tenacity of your spirit. It’s all here. I felt everything you sought to make a reader feel with your words, and that is the hallmark—in my estimation—of great poetry.”
I tucked my hair behind my right ear. “Uh, okay. Thanks. Does this mean I can graduate?”
I needed a diploma more than I needed compliments. But I had to admit, it was kind of nice to hear my poems didn’t suck.
Ms. P sat back and folded her hands on the desk. “It means I think I’ve come up with a project that will satisfy the academic holes in your file. Earlier this year we studied romantic poetry. Keats, Browning.”
“Yeah, you told me that already,” I said, probably bitchier than I was aiming for.
Ms. P only smiled. “I’m going to assign you some reading, but your primary assignment is to write your own take on a love letter or poem.”
“A love letter? To whom?”
“Anyone you choose.” Ms. P leaned over the desk. “You have revealed a very personal pain here, Josephine. These poems are raw, honest, and frankly, hard to read. But they are also very similar in theme. I can see your facility with this subject matter, difficult though it is. What I’d like to see is something different.”
“Different,” I stated.
“Yes, I think it would be good for you to stretch your abilities. Venture into new territory.”
“I don’t love anyone, Ms. P,” I said flatly. “Not anymore. What I need is to graduate. So if you want a love letter, I’ll write one. I’ll write a hundred if that’s what it takes. I can fake it. Because if you’re trying to steer me toward better times or sunnier days in my life, forget it.”
A short silence passed.
“Am I right to assume you’ve seen your share of counselors over this material?” She tapped “The Guillotine” with her fingers.
“You could say that.”
“And was anyone able to offer you some relief?”
“A little,” I admitted. “But I always move before anything earth-shattering happens.”
“And you aren’t seeing anyone now?”