A Certain Slant of Light (28 page)

Slowly I walked into the quad, looking for James, but I saw Mr.
Brown instead. Like a bride who misses her father, I followed him
at a distance, just happy to see that familiar color of hair, the
worn-out corduroy jacket that Mrs. Brown kept trying to throw
away, the scratched leather of his briefcase. I followed him right
into the administration building and was bold enough to pursue
him into the office. I hesitated at the door, waiting as he stood at
the counter to read a flyer from his mailbox. I stepped in and
stood beside him. Olivia was on the phone. She glanced at me, then away, then her gaze came back to me quickly. So quickly
that I felt uneasy, as if she knew I wasn't Jenny.

  
I turned to Mr. Brown but didn't dare look up at his face.
Instead I stared at his hands holding the paper, the scar where
he'd cut himself on the thumb while backpacking, the tiny line of
lighter skin where his tan disappeared at the edge of his wedding
band. Talk to him, a voice in me urged. But what would Jenny say
to him? He left the room without a word and without seeing me
at all. Olivia was still watching when I walked out.

  
I hunted for James in the sea of students but didn't find him.
Taped onto my locker was a note that unfolded to read: "Parking
Lot. 11:15."

  
As I arrived at my geology class, a girl smiling a full set of braces paused by me. "Half day tomorrow," she said. "So Bible
Study will be Thursday lunch."

  
I blinked at her. "Thank you." This seemed to be enough, for
she walked on, swinging a flowered purse.

  
Class was slow as ice melting. The clock moved by in two-
minute clicks, the second hand circling gracefully, but the minute
hand taking a tiny step backward and then jerking forward every
120 seconds in a nightmare dance. All I wanted was to be with
James. Not true. I wanted to speak with Mr. Brown, too. I had al
ways wanted to but not as Jenny. An idea came to me suddenly.

  
I turned the page of the notebook I had in front of me and
started to write. I didn't hear the bell when it rang. I noticed that
the class was over only because the students in front of me stood
and moved into the aisles. I knew that Mr. Brown had a free pe
riod, so I went to the tree outside his classroom and stood watch
ing the open door until I had the courage to approach. I was
supposed to be in government class, but there he was, Mr. Brown,
sitting at his desk, his head propped in one hand, reading a stack
of papers, holding his green pen at ready The box of his manu
script was not there. I studied his face, wanting to remember
every detail. I could recall the faces of the others down to each hair—my Saint, my Knight, my Playwright, and my Poet. And
here sat Mr. Brown. He seemed frozen in time, as if I'd painted a
picture of him, but then he turned and looked me in the eyes,
lifting his head.

  
"Good morning," he said, right to me. "What can I do for
you?"

  
I hoped he couldn't tell that I could hardly speak. I stepped in
but stayed close to the door, my only escape route.

  
"You were in my class last year," he said. "Jenny, right?"

  
I thought I would run from the room if I didn't move for
ward, so I walked up to the desk, stood in front of him, and spoke.
"I wrote something."

  
"Great," he smiled. "Whose class are you in now?"

  
"I don't have English this semester," I said, clearing my
throat, sounding like a mouse. "I thought if I could read you
what I wrote, you could give me some advice."

  
He was struck silent, rarely having heard these words from a
student's lips. "Of course." He motioned me to sit in the front
row. "Is it a poem?" he asked.

  
"No," I said, letting my bag clunk onto the floor beside the
chair as I sat. I cherished his attention so much, but now it was
difficult to bear. I kept my gaze on the paper in my hands. "Not
exactly."

  
"A short story?"

  
"Well, it's short."

  
Be bold,
I told myself. "A Letter from a Muse to Her Poet," I
read. He leaned back in his chair. "Dear sir, I was called away and
couldn't bring you, but now I feel haunted." He was staring at
me, which made my cheeks prickle. "I know that sometimes you felt I was a part of you and that losing me would leave a hole in
your heart, but that's not true." I looked up now, knowing the rest
by heart. "I liked to pretend I was the core of your talent, but it
wasn't me. Everything you do, the ideas you weave, the lines you
write, the words you choose, it was always only you." He was still as a statue. "Please forgive me," I said. "I'm sorry that I didn't say
goodbye."

  
We levitated in that fragile moment, then my tears came furi
ously and sudden. I sobbed into my hands. I heard his chair grate on the floor and felt his palm on the top of my head. But this did
n't stop me. Like the new well of weeping a child finds in her
mother's embrace, I dropped my head into my arms on the desk
and cried even harder.

  
I only half-heard his questions of concern. I couldn't answer.
He kept one firm hand on my arm. Finally I had emptied myself and gasped in a shuddering breath, lifting my head. He gave me
his handkerchief, white, clean, folded, still warm from his pocket.
I took it with perhaps too much familiarity and wiped my face.

  
"Please tell me what's wrong," he said. Now he was sitting in
the desk beside me, and his hand released my arm. "Or if you
can't tell me, I can take you to the counseling office. Have you
met Mr. Olsen?"

  
"It's all right," I said, still shaking. "I'll be fine."

  
"You don't seem fine," he told me.

  
"It was reading out loud," I tried to explain.
To you,
I
thought.

  
"Oh." He seemed uncertain. "It was beautiful."

  
"Thank you," I said, rubbing my eyes again, and then I
started laughing for some reason. "I've always wanted to talk to
you about writing." I handed him back the handkerchief.

  
"But that's not the only thing making you cry, is it?" he asked.

  
I wanted to lie, but, after all, it
was
Mr. Brown. "No," I said.
"But it's too difficult to explain." Oddly, I no longer felt as if I
needed to talk to him for hours about his novel. I felt strangely
free.

  
"Please try," he said.

  
He didn't understand that the quest was over. He had looked
at me, heard me, spoken to me. That was my grail.

  
"I have to figure out the rest on my own." Then I smiled at
him, calm and without shyness. "You're a wonderful teacher."

  
He looked doubtful. "I didn't teach you that."

  
"Yes, you did." I stood up, putting my bag over my shoulder
and handing him the paper. "I'll see you around," I said, which
made me laugh again. "Thank you, Mr. Brown." I left the room,
and I didn't feel any need to look back.

By 11:15 James was already at the parking lot curb. He took my
book bag and kissed me, then led me to the row of lockers outside
the cafeteria, opening number
11
with surprising speed and
grace. Although they would barely fit, he managed to pack both
our book bags into the small space and forced the door closed.

  
"Ever ridden on a bicycle?" he smiled.

  
"No."

  
Once back at the parking lot, James freed his bike from the rack. "Nothing to it." He stepped over the middle bar and bal
anced the apparatus between his legs. "Hop up." He put his
hands on my waist and lifted me as I gave a small jump. My heart
was pounding as I sat perched on the metal handlebars in front
of him.

  
"I'm scared." I was laughing, but I meant it.

  
"Trust me," said James. I gave a little cry as he pushed off,
stepping into the pedals with a runner's strength, and we rolled
toward the street.

  
"Just keep your balance," he coached.

  
We leaned to the right and curved into the roadway much
faster than I liked. I closed my eyes as we passed a row of parked
cars. But when I opened them again, a calm set into me. This was
familiar but not because I had ever been on a bicycle. It was the
way you travel invisibly when you're Light. I took a deep breath
of cool air, the wind fluttering my hair like ribbons. We were at
Amelia Street far too soon.

  
The garage was closed. James gave me a hand as I jumped
down and let the bike rest on its side on the lawn.

  
"Why are we here?" I asked innocently.

  
He took my hand and led me up the porch steps. "We're hav
ing lunch at my house today."

 
 
"Why?"

  
He laughed as he felt on the ledge over the door and brought
down a key. I couldn't hear the music yet, but James said, "Mitch
must've left the radio on."

  
When James pushed open the door, we froze in the doorway.
Libby, who was wearing nothing but a smile, sat astride Mitch, who was sitting on the couch, wearing nothing but his tattoos. I
ducked behind James, who just stood there, confounded.

  
"Oops," said Libby.